Chapter 1
I work to catch my breath. The sobs come fast and hard. My nose is clogged and I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Aches. I take a shallow breath. Then another. It takes a minute but as I gift my lungs with air I settle down.
I almost wish I didn’t. I’m empty. Broken. Destroyed.
The crying stopped but a fresh wave of tears streams down my cheeks. How much longer can I go on like this? Faking it, going through the motions? I take another long look into his blue eyes. No matter how hard I search them, they’re flat. Devoid of what I’m looking for.
A spark. Recognition. Life.
I miss the way his face lit up when he looked at me. The playful twinkle in his eyes when we spotted each other across a crowded room.
I clutch the framed picture to my chest wishing it was him, warm and in the flesh instead of just a moment in time, an image captured and encapsulated in cold, hard glass. What I wouldn’t give for one more touch. One more kiss. One more chance to say I love you.
Missing him hurts. The pain slices through every cell of my body. It destroys me. Everything I do, everywhere I look, reminders of him tease and torment me. Memories bombard and overwhelm me.
I glance at the oven clock. Shit. Dinner ’ s late. I ’ m making Keith ’ s favorite, roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes and brussel sprouts. It’s a simple meal, but my husband loves it. He ’ s been so attentive lately, sneaking in sexy time when we can and helping around the house. I want him to know how much I appreciate it.
I thought I had all the ingredients, but as I started prepping I remembered I used all the lemons. It ’ s no big deal, nothing a quick run to the supermarket couldn’t fix. I just didn’t expect to hit so much traffic on the way home.
Something ’ s going on in town. Police barricades closed streets off and sirens rang out loud and ugly. Emergency vehicles raced by me. When I have a minute, I’ll hop on social media and see what ’ s going on. Maybe Keith knows. He took the day off, and after spending a morning together in bed, he ran errands for me.
Keith dropped by the library to return some books, picked clothes up from the dry cleaners and ran to the post office for stamps. Come to think of it, he should’ve been home by now. The craziness in town seems to have delayed him, too. If I ’ m lucky I’ll finish cooking dinner before he gets home.
The ringing doorbell startles me I drop the spoon in my hand on the floor. The clanking of metal on the tile echoes through the room. Bumps cover my skin. For some reason the bell chime sounds five times louder than normal. My arms cover in goose flesh.
It’s a rare moment when my eleven year old isn’t raising hell. He ’ s not blasting his music. Doesn’t have the television or gaming system turned up to deafening levels. Everything feels off kilter, starting with the bell breaking the unnatural silence around me.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the two officers on the other side of the door.
“ Mrs, Collins?” The taller officer asks.
No! No, no, no! I want to slam the door in their faces. If I don ’ t let them speak it isn’t real. I’ve seen this on television and in movies. I’ve read about it. No way! NO!
Neither man looks comfortable, or happy. Both officers remove their hats from their heads.
“ May we come inside.”
NO! My brain screams. I shake my head back and forth. I don ’ t want them on my porch or in my house. I want to run and hide.
“ Mom,” Logan calls, coming to stand beside me. “ What ’ s going on?”
Tears fill my eyes as a thickness forms in the back of my throat. I open my mouth to speak, but I can ’ t. I can ’ t breathe. I need to hold it together and stay strong for my son. I don ’ t know if I can with my legs turning to rubber.
“ Mom!” Logan’s scared voice rises an octave or ten. “ What ’ s wrong, why are they here?”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back. I need to let the cops in, and listen to what they have to say. It happens in slow motion, as if I ’ m watching the scene from somewhere else in the room.
My brain can ’ t process their words. My heart is about to explode. My lungs don ’ t want to take in air. I pull my son in my arms. I clutch him to my chest. Hold on to him tight. Tears stream down Logan ’ s face and he sobs with his whole body, I know I need to find my way forward for him. Today. Tomorrow. Indefinitely.
Two years have passed, but it isn’t any easier. The pain is fresh. Sharp. His loss devastates me as much today as it did when I first found out Keith had been crushed by a car that crashed into the dry cleaners.
A previously convicted drunk driver lost control of his car when he turned into the strip mall. In an attempt to avoid pedestrians, he accidentally hit the gas and turned the wheel hard, crashing through the storefront and right over my husband.
“Mom,” Logan calls from the other side of my bedroom door. “Are you okay?”
I sniffle and try to pull myself together. The key word is try.
“Yes, sweetheart. Just tired.”
I hate lying to him, but he's taken his father's death so hard, I don't want to stir up any pain.
“Can I come in?”
“Um.” I clear my throat, blow my nose and wipe my eyes. “Sure.”
The door creaks open. My son doesn’t move. He stands at the entrance to my bedroom, and evaluates me.
“You're not tired, you've been crying.”
“I'm fine, Logan. Really. I'm just a little emotional.”
He nods as he approaches the bed and sits at the edge.
“I'm going to find a way to kill that fucker.”
“Logan! Your language!” I scold.
“Fuck my language. That asshole should’ve been in jail. Instead he was out on the streets, doing exactly what he was arrested for in the first place. Only this time he killed my father. When I'm old enough I'm going to hunt him down and destroy him and his family.”
Maybe I should be grateful that my son wants to avenge his father’s wrongful death. Maybe it will motivate him to do something great with his future. Perhaps he’ll want to become a doctor to deal with addiction and save lives. Or a lawyer to prosecute criminals. I should be proud.
I’m not. I’m terrified. I’m scared to death of him doing something out of anger and then I’ll lose him, too.
“Sweetheart, I know you miss your father. I do too. But he wouldn't want you to sacrifice all the good things you have yet to come in your life for revenge. He'd want you to become all you can be.”
“Dad taught me to stand up for what’s right. He said I should never be afraid as long as I’m on the right side of the issue.”
I nod. “Yes. But you're talking about destroying potentially innocent people. There’s nothing right about that.”
“There is, if it saves lives. If he has a family they might all be like him.”
Logan says it so matter of fact and emotionless. His words send shivers down my spine. I understand my son’s position. I'd like nothing more than to run my car over the bastard that stole my husband and crush him the way he crushed Keith, but I can't. Logan is the only thing that keeps me from doing something dumb and makes life bearable. I have to trust in the system.
“He's behind bars. He's not coming out this time. Let him rot there like the piece of garbage he is.”
“That isn't enough. I want him to suffer. We do. Besides, you don’t know how long he’ll be in there or if he’ll get paroled. And then what? Huh? Dad will still be dead and he’ll be able to live. To have a life like nothing happened because alcoholism is a disease. “
Logan doesn’t talk much about his feelings. He doesn’t show that the pain of losing his father is like an open chest wound. Wearing emotions on the sleeve, that’s my specialty, and I see firsthand the effect it’s having on my son.
“Get over here.”
I sit back, lean against the headboard, and stretch my arms open for my son.
He shakes his head. “I’m not a baby, Mom. A hug isn’t going to fix what’s wrong with me.”
Not what I needed to hear right now. He’s right. He’s not a baby. But he’ll always be my baby. I’ll always want to mother him. Love him. Protect him. Hugs are just a natural consequence of those other things.