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<\/p>\nOfficer Mike Daniels had been with the county police for eleven years. He told me about that phone call months later, in a quiet room at the courthouse, while we waited for a hearing to start. \u201cMr. Walls?\u201d he said. \u201cThis is Officer Daniels with the County Police Department.\u201d Dad\u2019s voice was irritated, Officer Daniels said. Like he\u2019d been woken up. \u201cWhat is this about?\u201d \u201cSir, do you have a fifteen-year-old daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah.\u201d A pause. \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cWhen did you last see her?\u201d Dad hesitated. Officer Daniels said he could hear the hesitation, the way you hear a man deciding which version of the truth to tell. \u201cWe had an argument,\u201d Dad said. \u201cShe left.\u201d \u201cDid she leave wearing a coat, sir?\u201d Silence on the line. \u201cSir?\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d Dad said finally. \u201cDid she have a phone with her? Money?\u201d<\/p>\n
Another silence. Longer. Karen had come downstairs by then. She\u2019d heard the phone ring. According to Officer Daniels, he could hear a young woman\u2019s voice in the background asking, \u201cDad? Who is it? Dad?\u201d That\u2019s when Dad\u2019s voice changed. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d he said. \u201cDid she do something? Is she in trouble?\u201d \u201cMr. Walls,\u201d Officer Daniels said, \u201cyour daughter was located off County Road 9 about four miles east of your residence.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dad grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter. Karen told me that part. She said she watched his knuckles go white.<\/p>\n
\u201cLocated?\u201d he said. \u201cWhat does that mean, located?\u201d<\/p>\n
Officer Daniels paused.<\/p>\n
\u201cSir, a passing driver spotted her near a drainage ditch. She was lying in the freezing rain. Completely unresponsive.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dad swallowed. Karen said it was so loud she could hear it across the kitchen.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs she okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
And then Officer Daniels said the words that made my father reach for the wall.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Walls, when that driver found your daughter, she wasn\u2019t breathing.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chapter Five: Waking Up<\/p>\n
I woke up three days later.<\/p>\n
The first thing I remember is the sound. A steady beep, beep, beep, somewhere above my head. And a hissing sound, like air going in and out of a tire.<\/p>\n
The second thing I remember is the pain. Everywhere. My chest felt like someone had parked a car on it. My hands burned, a deep throbbing burn, like they\u2019d been stuck in an oven. My throat was raw.<\/p>\n
The third thing I remember is a woman\u2019s face leaning over me. Dark skin, gray curls, reading glasses on a beaded chain. She was smiling, and she was crying at the same time.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere she is,\u201d the woman said softly. \u201cThere\u2019s my girl. Welcome back, baby.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had no idea who she was.<\/p>\n
I was in the pediatric ICU at Mercy General. They told me that later, when I could stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time.<\/p>\n
I had severe hypothermia. My heart had stopped on the side of the road. The doctors called it a cardiac arrest from the cold. They had to warm my blood slowly, through tubes, over hours, because if they did it too fast my heart could stop again.<\/p>\n
I had pneumonia from breathing in rainwater. I had two cracked ribs from the CPR. I had frostbite on three fingers of my left hand and two on my right. They didn\u2019t know yet if I\u2019d lose any of them.<\/p>\n
I had a breathing tube for the first two days. It was out by the time I woke up, but my throat still felt like I\u2019d swallowed sandpaper.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou died for a little while,\u201d the ICU doctor told me on the fourth day. Her name was Dr. Feldman. She said it gently, sitting on the edge of my bed. \u201cAbout fourteen minutes. You\u2019re very lucky. Cold can do that sometimes. It slows everything down. It protects the brain. If you\u2019d been found any later, or if that woman hadn\u2019t known CPR\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t finish. She didn\u2019t need to.<\/p>\n
The woman with the gray curls was Roz.<\/p>\n
She\u2019d come to the hospital every single day. She sat by my bed after her shifts, in her scrubs, reading her Bible and doing word search puzzles. The nurses told me she\u2019d been there when I first opened my eyes, and that she\u2019d cried so hard the charge nurse brought her a whole box of tissues.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho are you?\u201d I croaked the first time I could talk.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m the lady who broke your ribs,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry about that, baby.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then she told me the whole story. The garbage bag. The white sneaker. The fourteen minutes of counting.<\/p>\n
I lay there listening, and tears ran out of the corners of my eyes and into my ears, and I couldn\u2019t wipe them because my hands were wrapped up like boxing gloves.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy did you stop?\u201d I whispered. \u201cNobody else stopped.\u201d<\/p>\n
Roz thought about that.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I saw you,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd once you see somebody, you can\u2019t unsee them. That\u2019s the whole thing, baby. That\u2019s all of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father was there too.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t see him at first. Roz told me he\u2019d been there since the first night. He\u2019d been sitting in the family waiting room down the hall, because the hospital social worker hadn\u2019t allowed him into my room until she\u2019d talked to the police.<\/p>\n
When I finally saw him, it was the fifth day.<\/p>\n
He was standing in the doorway of my room. He was wearing the same gray sweatshirt I\u2019d seen him in that Tuesday night. He hadn\u2019t shaved. His eyes were red and swollen and there were deep purple circles under them.<\/p>\n
He looked about twenty years older than he had five days ago.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t come in. He just stood there, holding onto the doorframe with one hand, the way he must have held onto the kitchen wall.<\/p>\n
I looked at him. He looked at me.<\/p>\n
Neither of us said anything for a long time.<\/p>\n
Then I turned my face toward the window. I didn\u2019t decide to. I just did it.<\/p>\n
When I looked back, he was gone.<\/p>\n
Chapter Six: The Label<\/p>\n
On the sixth day, a woman named Angela Reyes came into my room with a clipboard.<\/p>\n
She was the hospital\u2019s pediatric social worker. She was young, maybe thirty, with braids pulled back into a bun and a soft voice. She sat down in the chair Roz usually used and pulled it close to my bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to ask you some questions,\u201d she said. \u201cSome of them might be hard. You can stop anytime. Okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen a child comes into the hospital the way you did,\u201d she said carefully, \u201cwe\u2019re required by law to report it. To Children\u2019s Services. There\u2019s a caseworker assigned to you now. Her name is Mrs. Bell. And the police have an officer looking into what happened.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOfficer Daniels,\u201d I said. Roz had told me his name.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right.\u201d<\/p>\n
She asked me to tell her what happened that night. Everything. From the beginning.<\/p>\n
So I did. I told her about the algebra homework. About Karen coming down the stairs. About the orange bottle and the label turned toward Karen\u2019s palm. About Dad not asking to see it.<\/p>\n
I told her about the phone call on Sunday. Dad saying, She\u2019s not available to discuss a prescription. Dad saying it was an insurance mix-up.<\/p>\n
Angela Reyes wrote it all down. When I got to the part about the phone call, she stopped writing and looked up at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe pharmacy called your house,\u201d she said slowly. \u201cAbout a prescription in your name.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess so. I don\u2019t know. I\u2019ve never taken anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
She wrote something down and underlined it twice.<\/p>\n
Officer Daniels came that afternoon. He was a tall man with a shaved head and a quiet, deep voice that made you want to tell him the truth. He stood at the foot of my bed with his hat in his hands, the way police officers do in movies when someone has died.<\/p>\n
\u201cI talked to your dad,\u201d he said. \u201cThe night you came in. I asked him about the pills. The ones your sister said she found.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe believed her,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI asked him to show me the bottle.\u201d Officer Daniels paused. \u201cHe went home and got it. Brought it to the station the next morning. He hadn\u2019t read the label until I asked him to.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me steadily.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe name on the bottle was yours.\u201d<\/p>\n
My heart did something funny in my chest. The monitor above my bed beeped faster. A nurse looked in from the hallway.<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d he said, holding up a hand. \u201cListen to me. I know.\u201d<\/p>\n
He pulled a chair over and sat down.<\/p>\n
\u201cOxycodone. Ten milligrams. Sixty tablets,\u201d he said. \u201cPrescribed through an online telehealth clinic. A company out of Florida that the state attorney general has been looking at for about a year. They write pain prescriptions after a five-minute video call. The patient fills out a form online. Name, birthday, insurance card.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI never did that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSomebody did. Using your name, your birthday, and your insurance information off your father\u2019s family policy.\u201d He paused. \u201cThe prescription was filled at the CVS on Main Street. Twice. Once in August and once in October.\u201d<\/p>\n
He took a folded paper out of his jacket pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cHere\u2019s the thing about oxycodone,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s a controlled substance. When somebody picks it up at the pharmacy, the pharmacist has to check ID. Every time. And it gets logged in the state\u2019s prescription monitoring program. The name on the prescription and the name and ID number of the person who picked it up.\u201d<\/p>\n
He unfolded the paper. He didn\u2019t hand it to me. He just held it so I could see.<\/p>\n
It was a printout. Two lines highlighted in yellow. Two dates. Under Patient, my name. Under Picked Up By, a different name, and a driver\u2019s license number.<\/p>\n
Karen Elizabeth Walls.<\/p>\n
I looked at that printout for a long time.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe pharmacist flagged it the second time,\u201d Officer Daniels said. \u201cIn October. She thought it was strange that a fifteen-year-old was getting a high-dose opioid from an online clinic, and that the person picking it up wasn\u2019t a parent. So she called the house to check.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSunday,\u201d I whispered. \u201cThat was the call.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour father told<\/p>\n
her you weren\u2019t available,\u201d Officer Daniels said. \u201cAnd he hung up. And he didn\u2019t ask anybody anything.\u201d He folded the paper back up. \u201cMaybe he suspected. Maybe he didn\u2019t want to know. That\u2019s something you\u2019ll have to ask him.\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
Two lines on a graph. Find the point where they cross.<\/p>\n
The pharmacy call. Karen\u2019s bottle. Karen\u2019s knee surgery. Karen floating. Karen locking her door every night.<\/p>\n
They\u2019d crossed right in front of him. And he\u2019d looked away.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happens to Karen?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat depends,\u201d Officer Daniels said. \u201cUsing somebody else\u2019s identity to get a controlled substance is a felony in this state. Obtaining by fraud. But she\u2019s nineteen. No record. If she\u2019s honest, and if she gets help, there\u2019s a drug court program here. Treatment instead of jail.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n
He was quiet for a moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve referred it to the prosecutor,\u201d he said. \u201cChild endangerment. Putting a minor out of the house without shelter in dangerous weather. What happens next isn\u2019t up to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stood up and put his hat back on.<\/p>\n
\u201cFor what it\u2019s worth,\u201d he said at the door, \u201cyour father hasn\u2019t left this hospital in six days. He sleeps in the waiting room. He asks the nurses about you every hour. They\u2019re getting sick of him.\u201d<\/p>\n
He almost smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not telling you to forgive him,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m just telling you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chapter Seven: Karen<\/p>\n
Karen came on the seventh day.<\/p>\n
She came alone. Angela Reyes brought her to the door and asked me if it was okay. I said yes before I really thought about it.<\/p>\n
My sister walked into my room like she was walking into a church. Slow. Careful. Looking at the floor.<\/p>\n
She looked terrible. Her auburn hair was greasy and tangled. She\u2019d lost weight; her jeans were hanging off her hips. Her skin had a yellowish gray color to it, and there were dark rings under her eyes like bruises. She was wearing an old hoodie of Mom\u2019s, the purple Ohio State one, the sleeves pulled down over her hands.<\/p>\n
She stopped at the foot of my bed. She looked at my wrapped hands. At the oxygen tube in my nose. At the bruises on my chest where they\u2019d done CPR, which you could see above the neck of my hospital gown.<\/p>\n
Then she started crying.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t quiet crying. It was the kind that bends you in half. She put her hands over her face and her shoulders shook and she made a sound I had never heard a human being make, a high, thin, broken sound, like something tearing.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t say anything. I let her cry.<\/p>\n
After a while, she sat down in Roz\u2019s chair. She wiped her face on the purple sleeve.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou said that already,\u201d I said. \u201cThat night. You said I\u2019m sorry. And then you let him lock the door.\u201d<\/p>\n
She flinched like I\u2019d slapped her.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy, Karen?\u201d<\/p>\n
She told me everything.<\/p>\n
She told me about the pills after her knee surgery. About how they made her feel, for the first time since Mom died, like the world wasn\u2019t crushing her. She said it was like somebody had finally taken a heavy coat off her shoulders.<\/p>\n
When the prescription ran out, she called the surgeon\u2019s office and asked for more. They gave her one refill. Then they said no.<\/p>\n
She bought them from a guy at the community college for a while. Then he got arrested. Then she found the telehealth website.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey wanted an insurance card and a name,\u201d she said, staring at the blanket. \u201cI couldn\u2019t use my name. My name was already in the system from the surgery. They\u2019d see I\u2019d had them before. They\u2019d flag me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you used mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were fifteen,\u201d she whispered. \u201cYou\u2019d never had anything. You were clean. Nobody would look.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t think about it,\u201d she said. \u201cI swear to God, I didn\u2019t think about what it meant. I just needed them. You don\u2019t understand what it\u2019s like when you need them. It\u2019s like your whole body is screaming.\u201d<\/p>\n
She took a long breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen the pharmacy called. On Sunday. I heard Dad on the phone. I heard him say your name and prescription, and I knew. I knew it was over. I knew he was going to figure it out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you got there first.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded. Tears were dripping off her chin.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought if I told him first,\u201d she said, \u201cif I said I found them in your bag, then when he looked into it, he\u2019d think it was you. He\u2019d ground you. Take your phone. Make you go to some counselor. You\u2019d be in trouble for a couple of months, and you\u2019d be okay, because you\u2019re always okay. You\u2019re the good one.\u201d Her voice cracked in half. \u201cI never thought he\u2019d throw you out. I never, never thought that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut when he did,\u201d I said, \u201cyou didn\u2019t say anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
She was quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was going to,\u201d she said finally. \u201cAfter the door closed. I stood there in the hallway. I said, Dad. And he turned around and looked at me. And he said, Not now, Karen. Go to bed.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pressed her sleeves against her eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I went,\u201d she said. \u201cI went upstairs and I took two of them and I lay down on my bed and I let the floating come. And I thought, she\u2019ll go to the Hendersons\u2019. She\u2019ll go to a neighbor. She\u2019ll be back in an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked at me. Her face was wet and red and swollen.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was floating,\u201d she said. \u201cWhile you were dying on the side of the road. I was lying on my bed, floating.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t know what to say. There isn\u2019t anything to say to that.<\/p>\n
I looked at my sister. My sister who used to braid my hair so tight it made my eyes water. My sister who let me sleep in her bed during thunderstorms. Who stood at Mom\u2019s funeral with her arms crossed and never cried.<\/p>\n
I realized, looking at her, that she hadn\u2019t stopped being that sister. She\u2019d just been drowning. For three years. Right in front of us. And nobody had seen it, because Dad was drowning too, and I was too busy being good.<\/p>\n
\u201cKaren,\u201d I said. \u201cAre you still taking them?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked down.<\/p>\n
\u201cOfficer Daniels took the bottle,\u201d she said. \u201cI haven\u2019t had any in four days. I\u2019m so sick. I\u2019ve been throwing up. I can\u2019t sleep. My legs won\u2019t stop moving.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you need help.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReal help, Karen. A doctor. A program.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d She nodded and nodded. \u201cThere\u2019s a place. The drug court thing. Officer Daniels told me about it. It\u2019s ninety days in a residential program in Dayton, and then outpatient, and if I finish, they drop the felony.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you going to go?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked up at me. For the first time since she walked in, she looked me straight in the eye.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m going on Monday.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chapter Eight: Aunt Diane<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s younger sister, Diane, drove in from Columbus that night.<\/p>\n
I hadn\u2019t seen her in almost two years. Not since Mom\u2019s second anniversary, when she and Dad had a fight in the driveway about something I wasn\u2019t allowed to hear, and she drove off without saying goodbye.<\/p>\n
She came through the door of my room at nine-thirty at night like a hurricane in a puffy coat. She was a high school vice principal, short and fierce, with Mom\u2019s same green eyes and Mom\u2019s same laugh.<\/p>\n
She took one look at me and burst into tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, Bean,\u201d she said. \u201cOh, my Bean.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nobody had called me Bean since Mom died. Mom gave me that name when I was a baby because I was so small. Aunt Diane was the only other person who ever used it.<\/p>\n
She sat down on the edge of my bed and held my bandaged hands very, very carefully in hers. She held them like they were made of glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Bell called me,\u201d she said, after she\u2019d stopped crying. \u201cFrom Children\u2019s Services. They need a safe place for you to go when you get out of here. I said I\u2019d take you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTake me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTo Columbus. To my house. For a while.\u201d She looked at me. \u201cIf you want. Nobody\u2019s going to make you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her face changed. She looked toward the hallway. Toward the waiting room, where my father was probably sitting, staring at the wall.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour father,\u201d she said carefully, \u201cis going to have to show a judge that he can keep you safe. That\u2019s how it works now. There\u2019s going to be a hearing. They call it a dependency hearing. A judge will decide where you live while all this gets sorted out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA judge,\u201d I repeated.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll get your own lawyer,\u201d she said. \u201cA guardian ad litem. Somebody whose whole job is to speak for you. Just you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t know what to think. My whole world had flipped upside down in a week. I\u2019d lived in that house on Linden Street my entire life. Mom\u2019s sewing machine was still in the dining room. My bedroom still had glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling that Karen helped me stick up when I was seven.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know what I want,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s okay,\u201d Aunt Diane said. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to know yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
Later that night, after Aunt Diane went to her hotel, I couldn\u2019t sleep. The beeping machines kept me awake. My hands throbbed. My ribs ached every time I breathed.<\/p>\n
At two in the morning, I heard voices in the hallway.<\/p>\n
One of them was Aunt Diane. She must have come back. The other was Dad.<\/p>\n
They were trying to whisper, but they were both too angry to do it right.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou locked her out,\u201d Aunt Diane was saying. \u201cIn an ice storm. Fifteen years old. No coat, no phone. Do you know what Jenny would have done to you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Officer Mike Daniels had been with the county police for eleven years. He told me about that phone call months later, in a quiet room at the courthouse, while we … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3333,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[23,21,22,1,5,20],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7937","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aita","category-daily-article","category-reddit-stories","category-story","category-story-daily","category-viral-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7937","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7937"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7937\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7940,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7937\/revisions\/7940"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3333"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7937"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7937"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7937"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}