One Last Scream

calling me. You’ll get us both in trouble.”

Haley promised to stop calling if they could meet one more time. Karen reluctantly agreed to a dinner together at the Deluxe Bar and Grill, a cozy, trendy burger joint with an old-fashioned bar and a modern gas fireplace. She and Haley sat in a booth. After all those semi-hysterical phone calls, Haley was surprisingly calm and collected-almost at peace with the situation. She explained she wasn’t going to plead or argue with her over her dad’s decision. And she wasn’t going to Kurt-bash either. No, this was about having a nice last dinner together.

“Now, don’t make it sound so final,” Karen said. “We’ll be back in touch after you’re eighteen, which is in-what-less than a year? By then you’ll be in college and making a whole new batch of friends. You’ll be fine, Haley. So don’t cry in your Cobb salad about it.”

Haley just nodded, and gave her a strange, sad smile.

Karen was mostly concerned about her recent setbacks with the drinking, and her problems at school. “I know you’re not happy about this, but I understand why your dad thinks it’s for the best. Do me a favor, and don’t screw up your own life just because you’re mad at him. You were doing so well for a while there, honey. Don’t mess it up. If you’re pissed at your father and want to get even with him, do it some other way. Short sheet his bed, bust up that awful country-and-western CD collection of his, poop in his favorite shoes, I don’t care.”

Haley rolled her eyes and laughed.

“Just don’t ruin your own life to hurt him,” Karen whispered. “Promise me you won’t.”

“I promise.” Haley fiddled with a strand of her hair.

“And stop tugging at your hair.”

Obediently, she smiled and glanced down at her plate. She played with her fork instead. “Karen, you’re not going to forget me, are you?”

Karen reached across the table and took hold of her hand. “How could I? Every morning I have my coffee out of that tacky ‘Karen is a Cool Cat’ mug you gave me. I couldn’t start my day without it.”

They hugged good-bye alongside Haley’s father’s Toyota. Haley offered her a ride, but Karen decided to walk home. It was only a few blocks. She’d been keeping up a brave, everything-will-be-swell front with Haley, and needed time alone to have herself a good cry.

When she got home, she found her dad asleep in front of the TV. Jessie had fixed him fried chicken. Karen washed his dinner dishes, then woke him and got him into his bed. She was about to take a shower when the phone rang. She snatched up the receiver on the second ring, hoping her dad hadn’t awoken. “Hello?”

“This is the Seattle Police calling for Karen Carlisle,” said the man on the other end of the line.

“Yes, this is Karen.” Her grip tightened on the receiver.

“Your name and phone number are listed in Haley Lombard’s wallet as her emergency contact.”

Karen had no idea. For a moment, she almost couldn’t breathe.

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” he said.

“Where? Is Haley hurt?”

“She went off the freeway overpass at Lakeview and Belmont.”

Karen knew that overpass. It curved above Interstate 5, and had a low guardrail along the edge. At one point, the drop was several stories down to the freeway.

“Is she-is she going to be all right?”

“They’re taking her body to Harborview Medical Center,” he answered grimly. “I’m sorry. Were you her parent or legal guardian?”

Karen closed her eyes. “No,” she heard herself answer. “No, I was her friend.”

The rest of the night was a blur. She couldn’t get hold of Kurt, and there was no answer at Haley’s mother’s house, not even a machine. Karen didn’t want to leave her dad alone; he’d woken up in the middle of the night before, and not known where he was. But she had no choice. All she could do was quietly hurry out the door, and pray he’d sleep until morning.

In the car, she was so frazzled she passed Twelfth Avenue, probably the quickest way to the hospital. The next possible route, Broadway, was gridlocked. Flustered, she headed downhill to Belmont and the overpass where Haley had had her accident. That overpass eventually led to the highway on-ramp, and once on the interstate she could be at the hospital within two minutes.

But her thinking was muddled. Of course, they were rerouting traffic at the accident site. Cars lined up bumper to bumper as she approached the overpass. A detour sign had been placed at the last turn before the overpass, and a cop waved at her to make a left, where traffic seemed to move at a crawl. Ahead, Karen could see cones lined up, emergency flares sizzling on the concrete, and swirling red strobes from police cars parked at the start of the overpass. She saw something else, too: Kurt’s Toyota.

“My God, they made a mistake,” she whispered to herself. The cop had told her on the phone that Haley had gone off the overpass, yet there was Kurt’s car, all in one piece. The front door was open, and someone shined a flashlight around inside the car. All she could think was Maybe Haley’s okay after all, maybe they got it wrong….

“Keep moving!” yelled the cop in front of the detour sign. He waved at her impatiently.

Karen rolled down her window. “The police called me fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “They told me to go to Harborview. I’m a friend of Haley Lombard. But I think they made a mistake-”

“Okay, you can go ahead,” he grumbled, motioning her forward.

Karen slowly continued down the hill, where the police kept onlookers at bay. She caught another look at Kurt’s Toyota. The man inside with the flashlight was inspecting the glove compartment.

“You need to turn your car back around!” another cop screamed at her.

She shook her head and called out the window to him, repeating what she’d told the first patrolman. “I think there was some kind of mistake about the victim’s identity.” She nodded toward the Toyota. “That’s Haley Lombard’s father’s car over there.”

The cop had her pull over to a small lot by a chain-link fence overlooking the freeway. “Lemme get someone to clear this up with you,” he grunted.

Karen parked her car and climbed out. For a moment, her legs were unsteady. She kept looking for a mangled section of the overpass’s guardrail, some indication that another vehicle had plowed through it and careened down to the freeway. But she didn’t see any damage at all. She wandered toward the railing edge and peered over it. About five stories below, on the interstate, a line of emergency flares cordoned off two lanes, and traffic was at a near standstill. Several squad cars, their flashers going, surrounded a smashed-up SUV. A tow truck was backing up toward it. From the skid marks on the pavement, it looked as if the SUV had swerved to avoid hitting something, and then crashed into the concrete divider. The tire markings on the pavement veered in front of a pool of blood. It almost looked black in the night.

Confused, Karen glanced to her right and tapped a young policewoman on the shoulder. “Excuse me. I’m a friend of Haley Lombard’s, and they called me. They said she went off the overpass. But her father’s car is right there, and I don’t see where anyone could have driven off-”

“Haley Lombard, yes,” the policewoman said, nodding. She seemed distracted by a voice crackling over the walkie-talkie on her belt. “Hell of a mess down there. An SUV almost hit the body. Thank God no one in the vehicle was seriously injured. Your friend didn’t drive off the overpass. She jumped. It looks like she was drinking. They found a bottle of bourbon in her car. She was DOA at Harborview ten minutes ago. You need to talk to somebody there.” She turned away and started barking a bunch of police code numbers on her radio.

Karen couldn’t hear what she was saying. She just stood there by the overpass’s guardrail, with the wind whipping at her. She was thinking that it all made sense now. She should have seen the signs. Some people about to commit suicide can appear very calm. After a period of torment, they can suddenly seem at peace, because they have come up with a solution for their problems. That had been Haley only two hours ago. She’d taken control of her situation and made up her mind about what to do.

“Karen, you’re not going to forget me, are you?”

A loud beep, beep, beep from below made her turn toward the guardrail again and gaze down at the freeway. A cleanup truck had backed up toward the dark puddle. Its hoses went on and started to wash the blood away. Pink swirls formed in the water that rippled across the pavement to the highway’s shoulder.