“Has Ryan come home?” my mom asks, just like she asks every time they call. I can hear the anxiousness in her voice. It’s vibrating in that way she can’t hide from me, even though she almost chirps the words out like she is asking me about the weather or something else less uncomfortable.
“As a matter of fact, he has,” I say with a deep sigh.
“Really?” she says, and I know she is looking at my dad, smiling and relieved. I also know he is nodding reassuringly, like he is saying, told you he’d come home. It’s been rough on my dad since he loves Ryan like a son. Growing up, there was only my sister and me, and she’s not married. He and Ryan used to bond and talk for hours. He has more than once asked me if he should have a talk with him and try to convince him to come back home, which I have, of course, told him not to. It would only embarrass Ryan, and he doesn’t need that right now.
“But then he left again,” I say with an exhale. I can just see their disappointed eyes as they hear the words. “He…it’s just too difficult right now.”
They’re silent for a few seconds. I can hear my mother’s heavy breathing and know they’re still there.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” my dad finally says. “He’ll be back. He’ll come around. He just needs time, is all.”
“Yes, he needs…time,” my mom repeats. I know she doesn’t mean it. She thinks he’s a wimp for running away from his family and that he needs to act more like a man and take care of us. My mom is old-fashioned like that, and she doesn’t understand. She’s also the one who told me just to stop thinking sad thoughts when I went through a period of post-partum depression after having Damian. She doesn’t understand why depressed people don’t just stop, why they don’t just not think about the things that make them sad. So hearing her say this, I know she’s at least trying to be understanding.
I close my eyes and rub them tiredly. “Listen…Mom…Dad…”
“I’m sure it’ll get better,” my dad says. “Put your faith in God. Put Ryan in God’s hands. He’ll help you both get through this.”
“I will, and I am,” I say.
“We’ll pray for him,” my dad says, and I smile warmly. I want him to come over and hug me in his bear-arms so badly. I miss him terribly. I just can’t really deal with their sad and concerned expressions right now, so I’ve been avoiding them. Also, my house is an utter mess, and I don’t want my mom to see that. I can’t take her worried looks and the disapproving shaking of the head.
“Let’s have lunch soon,” I say, hoping they’ll want to meet somewhere else, so I won’t have to clean. I don’t want the kids to be there either. I’ll just end up having to excuse them constantly.
He’s going through some stuff right now… She’s in a bad mood; you know how it is with teenagers… He doesn’t normally act like this… Maybe she’s coming down with something.
“Sounds good, sweetie,” my mom says. “You know I like that lobster place. Maybe we should go there? Maybe Tuesday next week?”
I nod, knowing I won’t have the energy and will probably cancel. Still, I play along for now.
“Let’s do that.”
I have barely hung up and gathered myself before I hear my son scream.
Chapter 4
I drop the phone and run outside, heart in my throat, worry nagging in the pit of my stomach. Has he hurt himself on his bike? Did he fall from that magnolia tree in Joe’s yard again, even though I told him to stay out of it? I sure hope nothing is broken. I can’t spend the rest of the day at the ER again. I simply can’t do it.
“M-O-O-M!”
“Damian?”
He is running toward me. He doesn’t seem hurt; I am relieved to see. There are no visible bruises, no blood, and no limping or grasping of the arm.
“What’s going on, Damian?”
The boy stops. I feel confused and scared, yet strangely calm now that I can see he is physically alright.
“Damian, what happened?”
He stares at me.
“Where’s Joe, Jr.? Did he do something?”
Damian shakes his head. He looks determinedly at me, then pulls at my hand.
“Come.”
I sigh. “Damian, if nothing is wrong, then can’t I please go back to the house? I have so much laundry I need…”
“No,” he says. “Come.”
I stare into his eyes. Something in them makes me decide to follow him. Plus, I can’t take another argument right now. He’s dragging me inside Sandra’s house. I hope she won’t be angry with me for walking in like this without knocking.
“Hello?” I say. “Sandra?”
Damian pulls me toward the stairs. “Come.”
“Damian, Joe, Jr.’s mother needs to know I’m here. I can’t just…”
“Come!”
I walk up the stairs, feeling more and more worried as I take each step. Something seems to be strangely off here. Where is Sandra? Why isn’t she answering when I call her name? Isn’t she here? Has she left her kid home alone? No, that wouldn’t be like her; she wouldn’t do that.
Maybe she’s in the backyard? Or could she be asleep?
“Damian, maybe we should…”
“Come, Mom. Come,” he insists.
I follow him into the master bedroom, protesting, telling him we can’t just walk into people’s bedrooms. It’s not right. Yet, we do it anyway.
He stops in front of a closed door. I know it leads to the master bathroom since the house is exactly the same as ours. Damian grabs the handle and turns it. I pause, thinking this is odd. Why is he taking me to Sandra’s bathroom?
“What’s in there?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer but opens the door. Inside, I see Joe, Jr. He’s standing, bare feet on the floor, staring at the bathtub. The water is overflowing, and he’s getting soaked on his feet and the bottom of his pants. But that’s not the worst part. It is what he’s looking at that makes my blood run cold. Inside of the tub lies a person. Inside of the tub, half-sunken into the water lies his mother.
“I don’t think the boy even realized she was dead,” I tell Investigator Rick Thibodeau from the Special Investigations Office, who arrives along with the ambulance after I called for help. After realizing what had happened, I grabbed both boys, and I took them to our house, where they are now playing on the floor with their toy cars. I am struggling to keep it together, but I do it anyway. My hands are shaking, but I hide them behind my back. I speak slowly to sound normal. I don’t want to frighten the kids.
“I’m not even sure he understands it now,” I add. My breath is ragged, and the words kind of jumble out of me. I’m not even sure it makes any sense, but by the look on the investigator’s face, I think it does. “He was just staring at her in the bathroom like he expected her to get up at any moment.”
“But you were certain she was dead?” he asks.
I nod. I keep seeing Sandra in front of my eyes, images of her in that water, her skin blue, almost purple, her eyes staring dead into the air in front of her. When I touched her, she felt so cold; it made me shiver. I tremble again just from thinking about it. I keep seeing her face, over and over again, and her arms.