Chapter 8
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“There’s really nothing you could’ve done to prevent this,” Officer Shonda Jones from the Gadsley, South Carolina, Police Department reassures me for the third time in the last five minutes.
“Nothing at all. Just remember: The deer hit you . You didn’t hit it .
” She pats my shoulder through the Mylar blanket that isn’t keeping me warm so much as making me look like a baked potato that could feed a family of eight.
The police arrived within minutes of the accident.
So did the local veterinarian, who hastily introduced himself as Dr. Gupta before injecting the deer in its hindquarters with a sedative.
With a bit of help from Hollis and Officer Jones’s burly partner, Deputy Anders, Dr. Gupta oh so carefully removed the deer from where it was trapped inside the car and laid its conked-out form in the bed of his pickup truck.
“We havin’ venison steaks for dinner tomorrow?” Officer Jones jokes when Dr. Gupta approaches us.
He scratches his graying temple. “Well, I won’t know for sure till I can check her out at the office, but I don’t see anything obviously fatal. I’m a bit shocked, considering the damage to the car, but I think she’s likely to make it.”
“Great news. Thanks for coming out this time of night, Dev,” Officer Jones says. “Really saved us the hassle of trying to get someone from Nat Resources on the phone.”
“Always happy to help. After all, I am an animal doc, all ’round the clock.
” Dr. Gupta chuckles and holds up both hands in farewell as he climbs into his truck.
I adjust the cold pack Officer Jones gave me for my forehead, pull the Mylar blanket tighter around my shoulders, and watch as the veterinarian and the unconscious deer disappear into the darkness.
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I ready myself for Officer Jones to repeat the script. Nothing I could have done to prevent this, yadda yadda. But then my leather backpack dangles in front of my face.
“Found this in the back seat,” Hollis says.
I drop the cold pack and grab for my bag. Inside, the wooden box that holds the baggie of Mrs. Nash’s ashes as well as the bundle of letters nestled beside it appear undamaged. “Thank you,” I say.
“How’s your head?” His fingers brush against the giant lump above my right eyebrow. The pleasure of his touch almost makes me forget the throbbing pain.
“I haven’t had any complaints yet,” I quote dutifully, even though my heart’s not really in it.
“Huh?” Hollis pauses as he drops to sit beside me on the police car’s hood. I can almost see his mind rewinding and replaying the exchange, trying to make sense of it. He runs his hand through his hair, not out of exasperation this time, but to shake some of the glass pebbles from it. “Oh. Cute.”
I dip my chin toward my chest and whine, “I can’t believe a deer punched me in the face.”
“It could have done a lot worse. I felt its hoof while I was helping haul it out of the car. Sharp as a knife. Surprised you’re only bruised and not sliced and diced.”
“Maybe she didn’t punch me then. Maybe she like... elbowed me. Do deer have elbows?”
Hollis doesn’t answer—and, I mean, I doubt he knows much about deer anatomy, so that’s fair.
He stares at his car, pulled off to the side of the road.
It’s definitely not drivable. Shattered windshield and a cracked window.
Side mirror dangling from its wires. Broken headlight.
And a massive dent on the hood that makes it unable to fully close.
“I’m really sorry about your car,” I say softly.
Hollis shrugs.
“I think this is where you’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, it’s not your fault, Millicent.’ ‘There’s nothing you could have done, Millicent.’ Maybe even ‘I’m just glad you’re okay, Millicent.’?”
To my surprise, an arm wraps around my shoulder and eases me closer, the Mylar blanket crinkling a little with the movement.
Hollis’s cheek rests on the crown of my head, and it makes his voice sound strange and echoey inside my skull.
“It’s not your fault, Millicent. There’s nothing you could have done. And I’m just really glad you’re okay.”
“Oh,” I whisper. “Really glad?”
“Really, really,” he whispers back.
I tilt my head to look at him, and I know it’s a mistake as soon as our eyes meet. Our faces are too close, our mouths especially are too close, and it’s turned this moment up to eleven; eleven intimacies, which is at least seven too many, and—
And then he’s gone. Not gone gone, obviously. But he’s standing and much farther away from me than before. “Tow truck just arrived. I better go talk to them. Probably stuff for me to sign.”
I salute him with two fingers. His eyes narrow in confusion as he turns and walks away.
I consider informing Officer Jones that I might be concussed and need her to call the ambulance from two towns over after all, but let’s be real: None of this is exactly outside the realm of ordinary behavior for me.
So I’ll just sit here on the hood, awaiting further instructions, trying not to read into that really, really .
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“This is the first time I’ve been in a police car,” I say to Hollis beside me.
As a former child star, any misstep automatically becomes tabloid fodder—just ask Justin LaRue, who played Penelope’s little brother on the show but is now best known for his appearances on “15 Celeb Mugshots That Could Double as Headshots” internet listicles—so it’s always been an easy decision for me to stay on the straight and narrow.
And, again, being an almost-famous, small, redheaded bag of milk, no one’s exactly champing at the bit to find reasons to arrest me.
“Congratulations.” Hollis folds his arms across his chest.
Sure, he’s bummed for the obvious reasons—primarily that his car is busted up and has deer fluids smeared all over the upholstery—but I’m not exactly pleased about this unscheduled layover either.
Chip Autobody (probably not his real last name, but the one my brain has helpfully assigned him) told Hollis he’d work as quickly as possible to get us back on the road but said to plan to be in town for at least three days.
I don’t know if Elsie has three days. Plus, a deer elbowed me in the skull.
If anyone has reason to be grumpy right now, it’s me.
Officer Jones and Deputy Anders are taking us to a bed-and-breakfast. It was either that or a one-star motel on the other side of Gadsley.
Considering the motel’s latest review on Tripadvisor mentioned that the “roach situation is somewhat better than last year,” we were beyond relieved when Deputy Anders called the B&B and confirmed they have a room available.
Just one, though. Probably with only one bed.
I’m trying not to think too much about it.
As we reach the center of the tiny town, Hollis frowns more deeply at me.
“What now?” I ask.
“It’s just... You’ve got some...” He points to his right cheek.
I try for what feels like forever to wipe away the problem with my finger but make no progress. Hollis’s “no”s and “not quite”s sound increasingly impatient.
“You do it then,” I say, my voice a frustrated screech.
He licks his thumb and drags it across my cheek. “Blood,” he says, holding it up for my inspection in case I didn’t believe him, I guess.
“Did you just—I can’t believe you put your spit on my face. That’s so gross, dude.” I rub at the spot with the back of my hand, but somehow it only feels wetter and cooler.
“Doesn’t look like you have a cut there, so it must be the deer’s.”
“Great,” I say as the police car comes to a stop in front of a large Victorian house just off the town’s Main Street. “Try to keep your DNA to yourself from now on.”
“Weird way to say that,” he says as he gets out of the car.
“It was weirder to do , Hollis.”
“Well, look at y’all, bless your hearts,” the gray-haired white woman who answers the door says as soon as she sees us on the wraparound porch.
Based on my limited knowledge of southern turns of phrase, I assume Hollis and I are looking a little worse for wear.
At least I’m no longer streaked with deer blood.
Presumably. “Please, come in, come in. Welcome to Gadsley Manor Bed-and-Breakfast.”
I wave goodbye to Officer Jones and Deputy Anders to let them know we’re good.
The police car drives away as we step into a cozy, wood-paneled foyer.
A staircase takes up the entire left side, and I’m suddenly desperate to climb it and fall into a bed.
Any bed. Just the first one I encounter.
Don’t even care if it’s occupied by another guest.
“My name’s Connie,” the woman says. “I run this place with my husband, Bud. You’ll meet him at breakfast in the mornin’, I’m sure.”
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes once. God, it’s late. And Connie is wearing slippers and a robe. “We’re so sorry to wake you,” I say.
“Oh, no apologies necessary. I’m just glad we could help.
We were supposed to be completely booked tonight—the festival this weekend, you know—but we had a last-minute cancelation because of this business with the airlines.
So when Drew Anders called and told me what happened, well, I was pleased as punch to have something available for you.
God sure does work in wonderful ways,” she says.
“And it’s such a gift when we get such a clear reminder that He always has a plan. ”
Hollis and I exchange glances.
“Um,” he says. “Yeah. Definitely. So, we’ll be staying only for tonight—”
“Huh? Chip Autobody said it would take at least three days to fix the car,” I remind him.
“I did a quick search on the way over here, and there’s a rental car place the next town over. I’ll call them first thing in the mornin’.” Hollis turns back to our host. “So just the one night, ma’am, thank you.”