Chapter Seven #2
She shakes her head but I see the fear in her eyes. “For what? Being human enough to let your guard down for a couple of seconds? Anyone who knows you can vouch for the fact that you’re a loving and capable father. Their primary caretaker.”
“Mom, he died under my care.”
She steeples her hands and places them against her mouth. I count the number of times I inhale and exhale as I wait for her response. “Do you think you need a lawyer?” she finally says.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I have to go down to the police station tomorrow afternoon. They want to ask me more questions.”
She goes over to the counter. Her back is to me, but I can tell from the way her shoulders are shaking that she’s crying.
After she’s composed herself, she comes back and sits.
“Do you remember thar horrible story in the news a few summers ago? About the mother who forgot her baby in the back seat of her hot car for hours because she’d gotten mixed up about what day it was?
They didn’t charge her with anything because they said she was only guilty of human error and that the death of her child was punishment enough. ”
“Yeah, I remember that,” I say. “And I also remember everyone’s outrage because they thought she’d gotten away with murder. Emily had her suspicions, too, I remember. And Jesus, they crucified that woman on social media.”
“You know what?” she says. “I think I’d better just keep my mouth shut.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Mom. It’s helpful to have you to talk to.”
She smiles sadly, then gets up and starts clearing the table.
I grab our plates and go to scrape the uneaten food into the garbage.
Sitting at the top is the French toast I burned that morning.
Without warning, that sensation I experienced earlier comes back.
I’m falling in space, hurtling toward an inevitable crash.
As I grab on to the counter to steady myself, the plates slip out of my hands and smash against the tile floor. “I’ll get it,” Mom says.
She grabs some paper towels, gets down on her knees, and starts scooping lasagna off the floor and stacking broken pieces of pottery. I crouch down beside her to help with the mess, but instead, a choking sob rises up from my throat and I burst into tears again.
She grasps my hands. “I know you’re in unbearable pain, Corby. Time will help it become less intense, I promise, but for now all you can do is be there for your wife and daughter and keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“I love him so much, Mom. How can we not have him anymore?” She strokes my head and quiets my sobs. “And how is Emily ever going to forgive me?”
“She’ll find a way because you need each other, Corby, and Maisie needs you both. You’re a family.”
Once the kitchen is cleaned up and the sofa bed is made, Mom says she’s going to go home.
At the door, she hands me a baggie with two pieces of candy inside.
I look at her, puzzled. “Pot gummies,” she says.
She’s always relied on weed, but years of waitressing have given her the back spasms that made her eligible for a medical marijuana card.
“I’d rather you used these instead of drinking yourself to sleep,” she says.
“Don’t forget, alcohol is a depressant and that’s the last thing you need right now.
I’ll check with you tomorrow after the breakfast shift to see what you guys need.
Just remember: you’re going to get through this and you don’t have to do it alone.
Good night. Get some sleep. I’ll call your father when I get home.
He may already have heard, but if not, I’ll let him know. ”
Standing at the front door, I watch her drive away.
Across the street, there’s an upstairs light on.
Their downstairs is dark, except for a flickering light from a TV.
I close my eyes and see a soundless movie of that morning: Shawn and Linda in my rearview mirror, running toward me, waving frantically.
Why did I keep backing up? Why didn’t I stop?
I close the door and lock it. Go into the bathroom and flush my mother’s gummies down the toilet.
What if Maisie somehow got ahold of one and put it in her mouth?
Or what if I took one and they did another tox screen at the police station tomorrow?
They probably already have me pegged as some kind of substance abuser.
Having THC in my bloodstream won’t do me any favors.
If I have trouble getting back to sleep, I’ll take a couple of my Ativan.
How could they fault me for that when I have a fucking prescription?
As quietly as I can, I walk down the hall to our bedroom and stare at the light beneath the closed door.
I hear Emily murmuring. Has Maisie woken up?
Is Emily trying to soothe her? Emily’s voice is just barely audible, but it suddenly dawns on me that she’s singing.
“ The wheels on the bus go round and round… ”
I knock softly. The singing stops. I hold my breath, waiting. I guess she’s waiting, too—for me to go away. Then the song resumes. “ The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish all through the town .”
Back in the living room, I flop down on the sofa bed, thinking I’ll just rest my eyes before I get up and…
What the…? What time is it? Why is my cell phone still ringing after I answered it? Oh, the landline. Someone’s calling on the landline.
“Hullo?”
“Terrible. Just terrible, Corby. Natalie and I can’t even imagine.”
It’s Dad, offering his version of condolences.
He sounds drunk or on his way. “Your mother says the police questioned you and they want to talk to you some more. I hope you didn’t say too much, but do not agree to any more questioning without your lawyer being present.
” When I tell him I don’t have a lawyer, he says yes, I do.
“You got a pencil? Take this name and number down. Rachel Dixon, eight-six-o-seven-seven-nine-four-six-eight-nine.” He repeats the number, spells the name.
“Her father, Bob, runs a charity golf tournament at our club and we write him a pretty nice check every year. Natalie knows him better than I do from Rotary, so she called him and he called her right back. Got you an appointment for eight a.m. tomorrow morning before she goes to court. Her dad says she’s such a ballbuster in court that the prosecutors are practically in tears by the time she’s through with them.
Course, that’s her father talking, so he’s going to crow about his own kid. ”
Some do and some don’t, I think. And some sons don’t give their fathers anything to crow about. “Yeah, but hold on, Dad. How much is this going to cost?”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure it out.
First things first. Her office is downtown, across from the post office.
Upstairs from some bakery,” he says. “You got all this? Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.
And don’t be late. She’s doing us a favor by squeezing you in.
She told her father she’s got a heavy docket tomorrow. ”
I know we have that appointment at the funeral home but can’t remember what time of day, so I don’t mention it.
Plus, I’m supposed to go to the police station at three o’clock.
I feel ambivalent about accepting his help but thank him anyway.
“Least I could do. Hang in there, Corbin. Get some sleep.”
He hangs up.
Now that I’m awake again, I’m good and awake.
I look out the front window. No lights on across the street now.
I go down the hall to our bedroom. I can still see the light beneath the door, but it’s quiet in there.
I go to knock but change my mind. If she’s gotten to sleep, I don’t want to wake her.
Or Maisie. Niko sleeps— slept —through thunderstorms, but his sister will sometimes wake up scared, needing reassurance that we’ll keep her safe.
Needing to have us put on the light to show her that her brother is safe, too—asleep in their crib.
How the hell will either of us be able to reassure her now?
I walk back down the hall and pace, from the kitchen to the living room, back and forth, back and forth until I stop to look at that framed photo of the twins in the bookcase—one of the gifts I’d given Emily for her thirty-fifth birthday.
JC Penney was running a special at their portrait studio.
I dressed the kids in their matching Carter’s overalls that Betsy had bought them and bundled them up against the cold.
We were early for our appointment, so I wheeled them to the food court to kill some time.
Got myself a coffee and opened the bag of Pirate’s Booty I’d brought along.
A woman saw the double stroller and came over to have a look.
“Twins?” she asked. I nodded, smiling. This happened a lot when we were out in public; strangers who otherwise would have walked right past would stop because they were twins.
“Boys or girls?” she asked.
“One of each. Girl on the left, boy on the right.”
“Well, they certainly aren’t identical.” She leaned in and spoke directly to the kids, addressing Maisie first. “Sweetie, you must take after your mommy with that dark hair and those big brown eyes.” Maisie watched her warily as she continued eating her Pirate’s Booty.
Turning to Niko, the woman said, “And you, young man, look just like your daddy. And I bet when you grow up, you’re going to be just as handsome.
” I scoffed and said I wouldn’t wish that on the poor kid.
“Aha, handsome and modest,” she said. “You tell your wife she’s a lucky gal.
” Silvery gray hair, midfifties maybe. Compliments always fluster me so I was grateful when Niko started shouting “Bah! Bah! Bah!” and grabbed the Pirate’s Booty bag, upending it.
As I squatted down to scoop the mess off the floor, the woman said, “Daddy’s got a nice behind, too.
” I didn’t look up until I could feel my blush subsiding.
By then, she’d walked two or three stores down and was looking in the window of Godiva Chocolates.
Holding the photo that was taken that day, I study Maisie’s expression first. The photographer and I got a half-smile out of her, but I’m struck by the sadness in those big brown eyes. It’s almost as if, at that instant, she foresaw her future as the surviving sibling, the solitary twin.
It takes me another couple of seconds before I can look directly at Niko.
Other than our chestnut-colored hair, I’ve never been able to see that my son looks much like me, but now the resemblance is obvious.
Despite the fact that I have no belief in an afterlife, I indulge myself with a little magical thinking.
Imagine that when he died, his spirit rose from his broken body and escaped into the ether.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper to his image. Choking back sobs, I tell him it’s Daddy.
“Where are you, silly head? Where did you go?”
Holding on to that framed photograph, I pace some more.
Later, face down on the sofa bed, I twist, turn, and try to fall back to sleep.
It’s no use. As exhausted as my body feels, my mind is still wide-awake, replaying the events of the day just past and imagining all the shit that will be happening in the days to come: the appointment with that “ballbuster” lawyer, the continuing investigation, the dreaded decision about whether to bury or cremate his body, and how much everything is going to cost. I meant to avoid taking something to get to sleep, but I have to get free of the spinning hamster wheel in my head.
A couple of those Ativan will knock me out for several hours.
I can set the alarm on my phone so that I wake up in time to get to that lawyer’s office.
The SUV isn’t here, so I’ll have to take Emily’s car.
She’s left her purse on the kitchen counter, so I get up, grab it, and fish around until I feel her keys.
The problem is that my prescription bottle is in the nightstand on my side of the bed.
When I go back down the hall, there’s no light seeping out from under the door.
Good. I’ll tiptoe in, grab my prescription, and tiptoe out again.
But the knob won’t turn. She’s locked me out.
I go back to the kitchen. I hadn’t put the rum back yet.
I fill my mug half-full. Take a couple of long gulps.
Pour some more and drink that. I pull out my phone and set the alarm for quarter to seven.
That will give me enough time to get cleaned up and dressed and drive to the lawyer’s office.
I’m already beginning to feel the booze’s soothing embrace—the opening of the escape hatch that sleep will give me.
As I begin to doze, I wonder what Mom thought when she saw that I’m hiding my liquor.
She’s in on my secret now, I figure, but I’m glad she didn’t say anything.