ALSO BY GAIL SCHIMMEL: Marriage Vows Whatever Happened to the Cowley Twins? The Park Two Months This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2019, 2021 by Gail Schimmel All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle First published as The Accident by Pan Macmillan in South Africa in 2019. This edition contains editorial revisions. www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542029209 ISBN-10: 1542029201 Cover design by Sarah Whittaker To Thomas and Megan, my children, my world. CONTENTS Prologue PART 1 MONDAY Helen Julia Helen Julia Claire Julia Helen Julia Helen TUESDAY Claire Julia Daniel Julia WEDNESDAY Claire Helen Daniel Julia Helen Daniel Julia Helen Julia THURSDAY Claire Daniel Julia Helen FRIDAY Julia Claire Daniel Julia Claire Julia PART 2 MONDAY Helen Julia Claire TUESDAY Helen Claire Julia Claire Julia Daniel WEDNESDAY Claire Julia Helen Claire Julia Claire THURSDAY Helen Claire Julia Claire Julia FRIDAY Claire Helen Julia Daniel SATURDAY Claire Julia Helen Claire SUNDAY Julia Claire Helen Claire PART 3 MONDAY Helen Julia Claire Daniel Julia Claire TUESDAY Julia Claire Helen WEDNESDAY Julia Claire Helen Julia Helen Claire Daniel Helen Julia Helen PART 4 Dear Mike . . . ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR Did you enjoy . . . Prologue We had to stop a few times, and soon it was dark . . . dark like it can only be on a narrow highway in the middle of nowhere with no street lights. There was almost no traffic, but cows or even buck could step into the road at any point, and we both knew stories about accidents like this. A cow, hit at the right speed, is surprisingly lethal. ‘Drive carefully,’ I said. ‘There’s no rush.’ ‘I am driving carefully,’ Mike snapped. ‘It’s hard.’ We saw the truck approaching from a long way away. It was barely of any interest, except that we hadn’t seen much traffic on that road for a while. Suddenly, out of the blue, as the truck drew level with us, the driver swerved. Nobody ever knew why. The truck swerved on to our side of the road; everything became loud and black and hard, and I didn’t know what was happening – it was all lights and noise and the screaming of brakes. The truck hit the driver’s side, almost ploughing through us. And then I looked over at Mike, and he was very still, and there was blood trickling out of his nose. PART 1 FEBRUARY MONDAY Helen I’m filling in a questionnaire on depression. It popped up while I was searching for a local plumber, and something about it caught my attention. ‘Are You Suicidal?’ screamed the headline. Well, I know the answer to that, obviously, but I still find myself clicking through to the test. It’s multiple choice, and I have to click on the answer that best describes me. I feel depressed Always Often Sometimes Seldom Never I click on ‘Always’. It feels good to own it; I spend so much time keeping up a facade, pretending to be a normal person. But I can tell this anonymous internet quiz how I feel, and nobody will be hurt by it. I think about suicide Always Often Sometimes Seldom Never This one is trickier. On one hand, I very seldom actually think about suicide. It’s just that I know that it’s my long-term plan, and has been since The Accident. So, while I seldom think about it, I also always think about it. I click on ‘Always’. I feel anxious Always Often Sometimes Seldom Never I smile. This one will confuse the algorithm. I never feel anxious. The only good thing about the very worst thing in the world happening to you is that you never feel anxious again. I click on ‘Never’. I’m not anxious because there’s only one thing left that could hurt me, and even if that happened – if something happened to Julia – in a way it would release me and I could kill myself. So, I don’t worry about anything. Worry is behind me. It feels so good to tell the truth for once, even though it’s just to a random internet quiz, that I momentarily feel alive, but it’s just a flicker. Still, flickers are the best I get, and I try to enjoy them. When I started feeling little flickers of pleasure, about five years after The Accident, I was hopeful. Everybody had told me that all it takes to heal is time. For five years I had been in a deep, dark hole, getting up each day, functioning, pretending, and counting the minutes till I could take a sleeping pill and go back to sleep. But then, slowly, I started noticing small things – the sunlight on Julia’s hair, the taste of my food, a pleasing bird-song – and I thought that maybe I was getting better, that I might be like everybody else and be healed by time. But it never became more than those brief glimpses of pleasure. Most of the time I act like a person, but I am empty inside. Occasionally, something touches me and I remember who I used to be, before The Accident. I finish the other questions, and then click on ‘Submit’, and wait while the computer screen says ‘Calibrating results’. ‘Suicidal,’ says the outcome. ‘Please seek professional help immediately.’ Links appear to a whole lot of resources that would be useless to me anyway, because none of them are South African. Well, it’s official then, I think. I’m officially suicidal. At least it shows the test works. Maybe it will help somebody else. As I go back to googling plumbers, my phone rings. The caller ID says ‘Julia’. I consider not answering it. But Julia is the reason that I stay alive, so ignoring her calls doesn’t make sense. I work very hard to behave in a way that makes sense to other people. I’ve devoted the last twenty-six years to it, and I think most people are fooled. ‘Hello darling,’ I answer. ‘Hi Mum,’ says Julia. She doesn’t bother
