Night Blindness (38 page)

A thank-you to my closest high school friends, Helen Chandler Smith and Andy Cober. You made high school more fun than it should have been. I'm so lucky that twenty-five years later you're still in my life. And to my nearby friends, Erika Celentano, Paulette Rider, Sarah Rector, Sarah Waterhouse, Rae Wyrebek, Sarah Whitney, and Marta Collins who always ask about my books, thank you! A thank-you to John McDonough for your knowledge of flowers. And to Howard Paris, my Sunshine Man, thank you for keeping me from losing my mind during the years when I was sure that was a given. I hope that my eighth-grade English teacher, Mr. Hershnik, knows that I still have a copy of his Hernickian Rules of Writing. To my riding trainer, Peter Leone, who has given me a haven for the last fifteen years that has kept me sane enough to write, thank you. And to Alison Finger, Brittain Ezzes and all my other Lionshare girls, thank you for sharing the magic of the horse world with me.

And now for one of the three great loves of my life—my husband, Kurt Strecker. When Kurt and I met, I was just a girl in a bar (isn't that how all great love stories begin?) working on my master's degree. I was three careers and a lifetime away from becoming a novelist. Throughout the years spent working on this book, Kurt hunkered down with a glass of wine for each of us and answered endless questions about football and head trauma. He gave his opinion on which phrase, word, or sentence sounded best. By the way, he was always right. The list of what Kurt has given me is limitless, one of his greatest gifts being confidence. He has this amazing ability to never be surprised by my accomplishments, but to expect them. Kurtie—thank you for being my sounding board and the best part of my life. I love you now and forever.

Finally, my two other great loves: my children, Cooper and Ainsley. These awesome kids went through all thirty-two NFL team rosters while we were thinking of a name for Jenny's hometown. Coop also shared his love of
Star Wars
when he named Luke. Ainsley gave me the idea for Ryder's name. They regularly ask when they can read
Night Blindness
, and I truly believe they want to. My kids are the light and love of my life. They are patient when I burn dinner because I'm writing, they bring me snacks when I haven't come out of my office for a while, and they ask me all the time how my new book is going. Cooper and Ainsley—you make me proud every day to be your mom and I love you more than life.

 

Discussion Questions

  1.
Night Blindness
begins with Jensen, the narrator, talking about her medical condition, nyctalopia, that began shortly after her brother's death and prevents her from driving after dark. In what other ways do you think Jensen's life has been restricted since Will died?

  2. Jensen keeps a secret from her parents that quite possibly alters the course of her life. How do you think her life could have been different if she'd told her parents the truth about Will's accident? Have you ever kept a secret that could have profoundly changed your life if others knew it?

  3. Throughout the book, Jensen believes her mother is keeping a secret from her. It turns out it was a good secret, so why do you think Jamie didn't tell Jensen that she was selling her business?

  4. It's been thirteen years since Ryder and Jensen have seen each other. Jensen is taken aback by how much Ryder has changed. He no longer appears to be that long-haired, easygoing teenager that she knew. Now he wears stiff penny loafers, monogrammed shirts and has very short hair. Through flashbacks, we see Ryder as the laid-back boy that he was. Which version do you think is the real Ryder? And why do you think he changed so much?

  5. Jensen has always been very close to her father. But, until he got sick, she rarely came home. What do you think kept Jensen from one of the people she loved the most? And do you think it was difficult for her to stay away?

  6. Jensen's best friend, Mandy, has a reputation for being wild and carefree. She's never had a serious relationship. What is it about Fred that made her settle down?

  7. Near the end of the book, Jensen finally confesses to her father what really happened to Will. He dies having forgiven her. What would it have been like if he hadn't been able to forgive her?

  8. After Sterling dies, Jensen learns that what she thought was the truth about Will's death, isn't what really happened. How do you think it weighs on her knowing her father died thinking she was responsible for her brother's death?

  9. The entire book takes place in the fictional Connecticut shoreline town of Colston. How do you think the book would be different if it had been set in a different location?

10. Jensen has been angry with her mother for her infidelity since Will died. But throughout the book, she learns from Luke and Jamie that her parents' relationship was more complicated than she had believed it to be when she was in high school. Why do you think Jamie never corrected Jensen's belief about the marriage?

11. Was it fair for Jensen to be so angry at her mother when Jensen had never gotten over Ryder and still found herself being attracted to him even though she'd been with Nic for more than a decade?

12. Throughout the book, Jensen is torn between her first love and her husband. What are your thoughts on her thinking about Ryder while she's still married to Nic?

13. Nic is painted as not always being kind to Jensen. Is it ironic that he seems to have finally given Jensen what she needed by divorcing her?

 

 

St. Martin's Griffin

Read on for a preview of Susan Strecker's next novel,
Nowhere Girl
, coming in March 2016 from Thomas Dunne Books wherever books are sold.

 

1

The day Savannah was killed, she was fifteen minutes late to meet me. I was cold, standing in the November wind outside our school. Because she'd told me to wait for her, I'd missed the bus, and now I'd have to walk home in the dark. Mrs. Wilcox's red Honda was the only car in the front parking lot. It was just me and a stone cherub above the entrance, giving me the creeps. Finally, I pushed back through the glass doors and plopped down in a leather recliner, furniture meant to make Kingswood Academy's waiting area feel like a living room rather than a school.

I knew I should have been out looking for Savannah, but I'd been a little pissed at her lately, coming home smelling like the cigarettes she'd smoked behind the carved oak trees out back with the upperclassmen girls. She was the one with the older, cooler friends; the secret boy crushes. She was the one who'd been getting high and having sex since we were fourteen. Somehow, she was also where she was supposed to be all the time. Which is how she fooled our parents, never giving them reason to suspect that their identical twin daughters were only the same on the outside.

Kingswood had been renovated the year before, thanks to a generous and wealthy alum. The skylights above me brought a constant brightness like the manufactured cheerfulness of a hospital's children's ward. Somewhere in the office, I heard Mrs. Wilcox typing on her computer. When I closed my eyes, I felt a vague sensual pleasure, as though someone had his warm hands all over me—a feeling rather than a thought. I'd only kissed one boy, barely touched our lips together, so I understood it was Savannah's experience I was feeling. As different as we were, I knew her the way a newborn knows to nurse and birds know to fly in a V.

That morning while she was flat-ironing her hair, INXS turned up too loud on the CD player in the bathroom, she told me to cover for her at the dance planning meeting after school.

“I'll ride the late bus home with you, and we'll just tell Mom and Dad I went.”

I'd stood in the doorway of the bathroom watching her, wondering what had been making her smile so much lately.

“Where are you going?” I'd asked. But our brother, David, called us for breakfast, and she disappeared down the stairs.

She was probably off with Scarlet and Camilla, securing her place in that coveted inner circle of senior girls where no other underclassmen were allowed. Maybe my friend Gabby was right. Savannah was too cool for us; she only wanted to hang out with older girls now. There were so many days she'd asked me to take her backpack home and do her homework. Afterward, she'd come traipsing in the front door as I was setting the table for dinner, making up a lie about being at some school meeting that would look good on the college applications we wouldn't be writing for another two years. As I listened to Mrs. Wilcox type, I thought about something I'd been asking myself lately whenever resentment about Savannah began to creep in:
What if I said no? What if I walked home alone and told my mother I didn't know where she was?

Of course, I knew from the second she didn't meet me outside the glass doors for the late bus that something was wrong. Still, when that hazy sensuality gave way to anxiety, I fought it. Panic crept into my stomach, my throat. If I'd allowed myself to hear Savannah, to listen to the message she was trying to send me, I would have known that, not more than a thousand yards away, she was dying.

I tried to tell myself that I was having an asthma attack, but it didn't feel like they usually did. It was more of a choking feeling in my throat than a tightness in my chest. When it got so bad I could barely breathe, I fumbled in my backpack for the cell phone my parents had given me for emergencies only. I'd never used it before.

“It's my sister,” I told the 911 dispatcher frantically. “She's hurt.”

“The nature of her injuries, please,” the operator said in a robotic voice.

“I don't know. I think she can't breathe.”

“Is the victim with you?”

“No, no. I don't know where she is, but she's hurt.”

“Miss.” The operator's monotone turned to impatience. “If you don't know where she is, how do you know she's injured? Did she call you?”

“She's my twin.” I was sobbing, not from the pain in my throat but because I knew even as I was on the phone with the police that it was too late.

I could tell the dispatcher didn't believe me, but she asked where I was and my name, and then she clicked off.

By the time I hung up, I felt weak, so weak I thought my knees might give if I got up. Somewhere far off, I heard sirens. And then suddenly, something left me. I felt washed out, empty. The wind could have blown right through me. Something ineffable and bright, a ball of light I'd been carrying since birth, exited my body.

All my life, I'd remember that moment. But it was only in my thirty-third year that Savannah decided to finally return to save my life by leading me to her killer.

 

2

2015

It was Valentine's Day, and as usual, Greg and I were lying in bed, working. “How can you not like this holiday?” I asked him. He handed me a stack of letters three inches thick bound by a wide, green rubber band. “It celebrates love.”

“It perpetuates mental illness and loneliness”—Greg pushed his glasses up his nose—“and its only purpose is to sell cheesy cards and chocolate.” He put the letters on my lap and then picked up a case file. “Anyhow, if you're going to respond to all your fan mail, like your website says you will, you'd better get going.”

I held up the elastic. “Is this from the broccoli?”

He gave me a half smile. “I had to use something. The ones in the junk drawer kept breaking.”

I aimed it at his face. “Maybe someone in this stack will ask me to be his Valentine.” I swerved at the last minute, and the rubber band headed toward our wedding photo. That picture could turn my mood nostalgic. We'd been so happy.

“Really, Cady.” He set his file aside, got out of bed, and retrieved the elastic. “Grow up.”

I watched him walk to the bathroom and shut the door. I listened for him to lift the toilet seat. The name on the file he'd been reading, gibberish to anyone else, was clear to me. Greg took his HIPAA laws seriously, but it hadn't taken me long to crack his code. Each letter was the one to the right of the actual letter on the keyboard. I'd spent so many years deciphering his files that I could do it almost instantly now.

I glanced at it while I slid the letter opener across the first envelope. What was this patient's problem? With the metal tip, I flipped open the file and got as far as “PP: Complains …” before Greg came back in the room.

“Hey.” He grabbed the file.

PP—presenting problem. Complains about what? His wife? Thoughts of doing unspeakable things to children? Not being able to get a hard-on?

“If you need material for the new book, you could just ask. You don't have to snoop.” He climbed in bed again.

“I might.” I sighed. “My new friends at the pokey aren't cooperating.”

“I really wish you wouldn't go there alone.”

“Why?” The envelope in my hands was smudged with greasy fingerprints and smelled faintly of hot dogs. This one probably wasn't fan mail, but I opened it, anyway.