Luna couldn’t be further removed from our family. She couldn’t wait to leave home and took college-preparation courses in high school so that she could graduate early. These are the first nights she’s slept here since she moved out a year ago. I couldn’t even get her to stay overnight at Christmas. Her disdain for me started when she was fourteen. Everyone assured me that it was only hormones and I’d get her back in a couple of years after they had leveled out, but she turns nineteen next month, and she’s never been more impenetrable.
He scoffs at me. “Of course she needs to be prepared. We’re not going to let this incident ruin any of our lives.”
My insides recoil like they’ve slammed into a wall. Incident? That’s what he’s calling this? One of Caleb’s best friends is dead, and the other one is in a coma. We step around their imaginary bodies in our family room. Caleb’s life will never be the same. Ever.
“You’re right,” I say and plaster the good-wife smile on my face. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
NINE
KENDRA
“Can you at least come downstairs and try?” Paul asks as he stands in Sawyer’s doorway, unable to walk through it. He hates Sawyer’s bedroom and avoids it at all costs. I tried going downstairs and throwing something together for Reese to eat, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The police station visit drained all my energy. I buried myself in Sawyer’s bed instead. That’s how Paul found me a few minutes ago.
I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I already tried.”
Please go. Why won’t he just leave?
“Try again.” His voice is strained, pinched.
Last night he hinted that I don’t think his grief is comparable to mine, as if we’re in some disgusting competition about whose pain is the greatest. I’ve never wanted to choke him as much as I did in that moment. I’ve barely cooled off. Clearly, he’s in the same boat.
“Just fix him toast. It’s way too late for him to be eating anything heavy anyway.” I roll over, turning my back to him.
“That’s not the point. He needs you. He needs to spend time with you.” He shuffles back and forth. He’s reached his limit. Too much time surrounded by Sawyer’s things suffocates him.
“I know that,” I say, not trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.
He doesn’t bother turning around as he grabs the door and shuts it behind him.
Finally.
I pull out Sawyer’s phone from underneath the covers and type in his pass code. The detectives took it for evidence the night of the accident and only gave it back to us three days ago. I’ve been carrying it with me ever since. I won’t even let Paul hang on to it just in case he misplaces it or loses it somehow.
There were 817 unread text messages from after his death, and I answered them all. Even the broken-hearted emoji ones that made me want to slam the phone against the wall. Nobody texts anymore. I miss the notification sounds.
I’ve started going through his videos, but there are so many it’s going to take forever. His goofy, crooked smile illuminates each one. Sometimes I watch to be near him, and other times I watch for clues about what happened. Lindsey and Dani are convinced it was a horrible accident, but I’m not so sure. A gun that accidentally went off? Not just once but twice? You can accidentally shoot yourself in the head—it wouldn’t be the first time a kid has done something stupid like that—but how do you shoot yourself in the stomach? That’s where they shot Sawyer, or where he shot himself, depending on whose story you believe, but none of it makes sense.
So far, there’s not much I haven’t seen before, since I go through his phone on a regular basis. Girls were my biggest concern three weeks ago. His athletic scholarship was so close to being finalized, and I’ve been paranoid about him getting someone pregnant his senior year and ruining it all. It’s a pointless worry, but it happens all the time. It happened to Jimmy Krueger, and everyone thought he was bound for the pros. Girls have been after Sawyer since ninth grade, and their attention only increased once the college scouts started showing up at his soccer games.
Sawyer and Jacob were an amazing team on the soccer field. Jacob played center forward, and Sawyer was a striker. They functioned as a pair. A beautifully choreographed pair—that’s what the Post Tribune called them in the article they did earlier this year. Their competitive streak was clear from their first practice, when they got into my Voyager ruffled and upset after learning the referees didn’t keep score at their games. They were appalled at the coach’s suggestion that there weren’t any winners or losers.
“Mommy, why do we play if nobody wins?” Sawyer’s small voice called out from the third row. I always made him ride back there whenever we had friends in the car.
“Because then it’s just for fun,” I said, sounding like the pamphlet they’d sent home with all the kids before practice. Their website stressed noncompetitive play. It seemed a bit much, and I tended to agree with Sawyer, but it was best to always maintain a united front with the other adults in his life. I learned that the hard way.
“That’s dumb,” he said.
“Yeah, so stupid,” Jacob said, slurring all his s’s. He’d start speech therapy next week. Lindsey’s pediatrician had made her wait until he was four—stressing lots of kids caught up by then. Lindsey made the appointment the day after his fourth birthday, when nothing had changed.
“Dumb. Dumb. Dumb,” Sawyer piped up.
“Hey, you guys, settle down,” I said. In another thirty seconds, they’d be shrieking at the top of their lungs, and I couldn’t handle it. Not when I had a throbbing headache.
My eyes mist at the memory. I force myself to focus. Recenter.
“Sawyer, talk to me,” I whisper to his phone. I hold his world in my hand. There’s got to be a clue in it, and I won’t stop until I find it. I just wish I knew what to look for.
Detective Locke said it’d be easier for the kids and make them feel less intimidated if he interviewed them at their homes. I jumped at the opportunity because I can’t stand leaving the house. I don’t know about Lindsey and Dani. I’ve been ignoring their texts and calls. Doubt creeps into my decision as I watch technicians wheel more audiovisual equipment into our living room. It feels so invasive. Reese grinned at me like he was about to go on TV while they hooked a microphone to his shirt, and he’s been sitting in the same position on the couch, looking starstruck, while Detective Locke drills him with questions.
He isn’t getting anywhere with Reese, but that’s what I expected. Reese has no clue what’s going on in Sawyer’s life or in any of his friends’. Sawyer, Jacob, and Caleb don’t have any room for Reese in their trio. There’s only a two-year gap between the oldest, Jacob, and Reese, but it never mattered. It might as well have been decades separating them. The boys used to take turns paying Reese not to play with them.
I wanted to be angry with them, but I didn’t blame them for excluding Reese. I love him, but he doesn’t play well with others, even me, and I’m his mother. Things always have to be his way, and he gets mad if they’re not, which doesn’t make him an easy person to deal with. It doesn’t help that he’s socially awkward and blurts out whatever comes to his mind at any given moment.