Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Flynn
“Notice anything?” Callie asks as we spend another boring afternoon in silence on her covered balcony.
“I notice everything. There’s nothing to do but notice stuff.
You have a wasp building a nest in that corner.
The tree over there”—I point to the right—“has two bird nests. There’s not a cloud in the sky beyond the jet stream.
Two different hummingbirds take turns at the feeder.
One is smaller than the other. When we first came out here, all I could smell was coconut, something I assume you put on your skin or hair, but now all I smell is meat smoking somewhere.
There’s a button missing on the red cushion over there.
And the wind chime is no longer soft and relaxing.
Since the wind picked up, it’s harsh and, frankly, a little unnerving. ”
I roll my head to look at her.
She keeps her eyes closed and grins. “You don’t fidget.”
“Huh?”
“You used to fidget nonstop. Now you don’t fidget. Practicing being present, in the moment, has helped your nervous system. You’re much calmer. Do you feel calmer?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“I’m ready,” she says.
“For what?” I rack my brain. Did we have plans to go somewhere? Was there something I was supposed to do for her? Get for her?
“Let’s open our doors,” she says.
I take a slow breath.
“My grandson’s name was Linus. He had the most infectious giggle.
Blue eyes that were just like mine. Curly blond hair.
Chubby cheeks. And so much energy. We always got our exercise when he was here.
Up and down the hallways, chasing Sally.
Up and down the stairs at a frightening pace, gripping the spindles until his knuckles turned white.
And he loved to sit on the park bench by the lake and feed the ducks. ”
The painting from the gallery was her grandson.
“He was …” she trails off.
I glance at her as she wipes a tear running down the side of her face.
She swallows hard. “He was everywhere. His laughter. The pitter-patter of his bare feet. The scent of peanut butter because he dipped everything in it—bananas, berries …” She laughs.
“His fingers.” Her hands press to her cheeks.
“He used to grab my face and say, ‘fishy kissy.’” Her lips quiver as more tears go unchecked.
“He developed a cough and started vomiting after they picked him up from our house. I told them to take him to his pediatrician. He was diagnosed with croup and given medication, but it got worse over the following week. So I told them to bring him into the emergency room. My colleague felt it was a bad virus or food poisoning. I requested an X-ray. And we discovered he had swallowed a button battery that had eroded his trachea and larynx.”
Callie presses her lips together to suppress her emotions, but her body shakes, eyes screwed shut. I’m way out of my emotional depth, but after a few seconds of hesitation, I kneel beside her lounger and pull her into my arms.
“I knew th-the battery was m-mine.” She wraps her arms around my neck and sobs. “Oh g-god … it was a-all m-my fault …”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say a word. There’s nothing I can say to convince her otherwise. Nothing I can say that will bring her grandson back.
“A …” she releases me, sniffling while wiping the never-ending trail of tears.
“A battery fell out of a fake tea light, and I knew it was on the floor somewhere, but I never found it. And …” she swallows and shakes her head, teeth clenched, “I thought he had something in his mouth, and when I chased him to look at it, he stuck his tongue out at me, and nothing was there. So I just thought it was”—she continues to shake her head—“nothing,” she whispers.
I sit on the edge of my lounger, hands folded between my spread legs.
“So”—she shrugs, using her shirt to wipe her face—“I’m a little dead inside. And I will be for the rest of my life.”
“Your son and his wife have to know it was an accident. Tragic. But still, just an accident,” I say.
Callie’s face fills with tension, and then it relaxes, leaving a distant, almost lifeless look in her eyes. “His wife,” she whispers, “took her life a week later.”
Jesus.
“I think my son is alive.” A new round of tears well in her eyes. “But”—she shakes her head—“I don’t know.”
I stand, resting my hand on her shoulder for a few seconds, before heading into the house.
“Flynn?”
I stop.
“You have to tell me what’s behind your closed door.”
I slowly shake my head because it’s not a competition, and even if it were, she would win. It feels like an insult to even pretend I’ve experienced the level of emotional pain she’s feeling.
“Just … a sick fucker who liked to touch me and make me touch him. I was with him and his wife for three months. But nobody died.”
“Flynn …”
I don’t face her. I just bow my head and murmur, “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry that you’ll carry it with you forever. I’m sorry there is nothing I can do to inspire you.”
“Flynn,” she says again. “It’s not a contest. And some things feel as traumatic as death. I’m so sorry that happened to you. And if you want to talk, I’m always here for you. Okay?”
After a beat, I nod.