Diverse Voices Quarterly Issue 1 & 2

Then she grew beyond steady contact, into worlds of school and Brownies and
sleepovers. And, suddenly, she was a teenager, revolving in a constellation of new
friends, close-mouthed at home. Some of the guiding stars in her life were only names
to me. What did I really know about Kate? Lena? Samantha? I tried to be sure their
parents were home for parties. (“Oh, Mom! Nobody else’s mother calls…”) My old
techniques of vigilance were frayed now. More and more I had to rely on trust, the
fragile faith that good judgment would prevail over adolescent bravado. Month after
month of safe returns home lulled me into an uneasy peace of mind.
I remember all the details of that morning. It was a Saturday, not a school day,
which is why Janna had been allowed to have Holly stay overnight. Holly had been a
best friend since fourth grade, and I always felt relieved when they were together. Dick,
my husband, had left for the library early that morning, deep into research for his
current writing project. I was alone downstairs, the radio tuned to NPR as I cleaned up
the breakfast dishes, when the doorbell rang.
“I’m Sergeant Palmieri. Chicago Police Department. Is your husband home?”
The car. Something about the car. Street cleaning day? Or someone had hit it,
parked in front of the house… But Dick had driven to the library, he hadn’t walked…
“My husband isn’t here,” I said. In the next instant I realized that was a mistake.
What was I thinking, announcing that I was here without male protection? Anyone
could claim he was a cop!
We were talking through the screen door. I reached up and fastened the latch. It
was a flimsy defense, but I hoped the gesture would let him know I was no fool.
“Can you get hold of him?” he asked. He sounded tense, hurried.
“No. He hasn’t got a cell phone. What’s this about?”
He hesitated. “Listen, ma’am, is your daughter’s name Janna Stein?”
“Yes,” I said. A finger of dread slithered down my spine. He had no business
knowing Janna’s name.
“Ma’am, there’s been a bad accident. Her car—coming off the Expressway at
Harlem Avenue—”
”She doesn’t have a car,” I broke in. “She hasn’t even got her driver’s license.”
“She was the driver,” Sergeant Palmieri went on relentlessly. “It was a head-on
collision.”
“But she’s right here!” I insisted. “She’s upstairs asleep!” I couldn’t stop talking.
“Her friend slept over. They were giggling half the night, so I’m letting them sleep in.”
Diverse Voices Quarterly, Vol. 1, Issue 1 & 2
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