Soul Fire by Nancy Allan

mishandled the whole situation and had gone the wrong way—I don’t think he got the double entendre. “I won’t be doing that again any time soon,” I assured him. He didn’t look like he believed a word of it, but being overloaded with other, more pressing cases he said, “Well then, take my card and if you get in trouble again, give my assistant a call.”
    Humph. So much for support systems.
    It was Saturday, so our house was quiet. The daycare was closed for the weekend, my grandmother was resting in her room, thank goodness, and Dad had taken Anika with him on errands. Mom made tea for the two of us. I suspected one of those mother-daughter talks looming, and I was eyeing an escape route.
    “I’ve been wanting to ask you about last Wednesday,” Mom began, motioning me to join her at the table. When I was seated on the edge of the chair, she asked, “How well do you know the Anderson boy?”
    “Who?”
    “Dell Anderson, the boy you were with.”
    “You mean, Delta? His real name is Dell?”
    “I gather you don’t know him very well.”
    I shook my head. “Seen him around. He hangs with the Tarantulas.” I shuddered, thinking about them, their drugs, and my foray into their grim world. Mom interrupted my reverie.
    “Are you listening, Ashla?”
    “Sorry, Mom, what did you say?”
    “I asked if you knew how badly Dell felt about everything?”
    Again, I shook my head. I hadn’t seen Delta since Wednesday, the ill-fated day of my near demise.
    Mom curled her hands around her teacup and took a sip. “He seems a nice enough kid even though I wanted to throttle him for what he did. To his credit, he hung out at the hospital with us and didn’t leave in spite of the fact that my claws were showing. Poor fellow paced the floor worse than I did. Kept saying how sorry he was. Anyway, about two in the morning, when the doctor told us you were going to be okay, Dell went home saying he’d left his mom alone much too long.”
    “I didn’t know any of that,” I replied, realizing I had totally misjudged Delta.
    Mom put her teacup down thoughtfully. “I was thinking . . . you might want to stop by his house and say a few words to his mom. Perhaps apologize.”
    Ahh, that’s where this conversation was going. She was right, of course. I should probably dig up enough courage to do that. I could hear how it would go: ‘Hi, Mrs. Anderson, I dropped by to apologize for having a drug induced medical emergency in your back yard.’
    The trouble with screwing up was that it seems to come back and hit you in the face again and again. Whatever happened to the old idiom, let bygones be bygones? I got up from the table anxious to end the tête-à-tête.
    “You didn’t drink your tea.”
    “Later, Mom.”
    I sat alone in my upper bedroom window watching wind-driven rain pelt the road. Rivers of water rushed into the storm drains. Our oak trees were bent in misery. For the millionth time, I wondered about Justin. I had found a photo of him online, printed it out, and then tucked it away in my drawer. Every once in a while I pulled it out, like now. The paper was so worn I’d soon need to print another photo. It was likely taken outside his home. Nice place. He wore jeans and a t-shirt. What a bod—tall, slim, powerful shoulders and upper arms. He was so off the chart good-looking. A guy like Justin could have any girl he wanted. I ran my finger over his face. Strong angular jaw, square chin, straight nose, and an off the cuff smile. He was a real hottie before I plowed into him. Literally.
    Where was he now, I wondered. Still in Harborside Medical Center? Or was he home? On impulse, I googled the phone number for Harborside and reached for my cordless, as I still had no cell. The woman I spoke with searched her records and told me Justin was no longer listed as a patient. I went online and looking through recent news stories, I learned that he was receiving care on an outpatient basis.
    So, he had gone home. I