Chapter 8
“Come out here,” I called a few minutes later from the kitchen, confident Benjamin had been listening at his bedroom door.
A small load of dishes from earlier in the day was sitting in the drainer.
I put each clean plate and glass away slowly, trying to feel like a person who felt safe in her home, safe in her life, not standing on the edge of a cliff about to do something she could never take back.
He hadn’t done the latest few dishes, still in the sink, or taken out the garbage, either. Tonight of all nights, it wasn’t a battle worth fighting.
Izzy. Sidney. A stolen diary. And a week earlier—I could ignore it no longer—the underwear I’d come across. Maybe there were other things I’d missed. Maybe there were things I didn’t understand—like Chandra’s comment about Izzy being a bully to boys, and something about a photo.
Anyone who assumes you think your kid is either a perfect angel or a perfect devil has never had a kid. And yet.
Please tell me why you’d steal a dead girl’s diary.
I walked to Benjamin’s doorway. Whether or not he’d been eavesdropping before, he was wearing earphones now, staring at his laptop. Loudly, I said, “We’re going to talk after dinner. I’m taking out the garbage first.”
He nodded. I nodded back. Small wins.
Just as I was backing out of his room, I spotted a thin, shiny hardcover book on the floor, next to where he’d dropped his school backpack.
It was the newest Summit yearbook, released a few days ahead of graduation so kids could collect signatures.
Benjamin hadn’t wanted me to pay for it, but I’d insisted.
“Your yearbook. Can I see it?”
He tugged off his headphones. “I’ll bring it to you in the living room.”
I took a step forward. “It’s just right there. I’ll get it.”
“Mom.”
“Fine. Bring it to me in the living room.”
A few minutes later, he did as promised.
The binding was still fresh enough to crack when I opened it.
I scanned the inside covers, looking for signs of friendly last-week-of-school notes from schoolmates, but there were none.
No “enjoy your summer” or “see you next year.” Not a single signature.
I flipped to the student portraits. Summit was small enough that every student got a page—Benjamin, too, though his was sparer than most, because he hadn’t bothered to submit extra photos or add anything special to his page design.
There was only his formal school photo—the same unsmiling mug shot that appeared on his school ID.
“Done looking?” he asked.
I could tell there was something he didn’t want me to see, but the only thing I noted was the fact that he’d dog-eared about a third of the student pages.
He’d smoothed out the corners before letting me see the yearbook, but he couldn’t erase the faint creases.
Most of the marked pages were for girls, a few for boys.
Maybe these were kids he liked. Or actively disliked.
When he put out his hand for me to return the book, I hastened my search, flipping through the juniors until I found Izzy’s page.
He studied me, looking more uneasy the longer I stared at the yearbook.
I pulled out my phone and opened to the photo I’d taken just before picking up our pizza.
“Do you think this girl looks like Izzy?”
He squinted. “No way. That girl’s hotter.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Look at her.”
Where he saw “hot,” I saw a girl who looked anxious and miserable, with messy hair and a red wrist.
“Never mind.”
I looked back to Izzy’s yearbook page. In one corner, she’d included a family photo: parents plus Izzy and an older girl who must have been Talia, all of them standing in front of the Chicago lakefront, with the Sears Tower—I’d never get used to calling it the Willis Tower—in the background.
I asked, “Does Izzy have two sisters?”
“No.”
Benjamin stuck his hand out again. I relented, returning the yearbook.
“You’re being weird,” he said.
Maybe he was right. Once I had the photos side by side, the barefoot girl didn’t look like a Scarlatti. She just looked like a slim, scared girl. A girl who was back home now, hopefully.
“Forward it to me,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ll show you. But first you’ll have to give me back my phone.”
“Okay.”
A moment later, he opened the photo and moved it directly into the Google search bar. The image-based results showed a bunch of girls who looked nothing like the girl I’d seen.
“The search engine is focusing on her shirt, which you can evidently buy from some place called Zara. It can’t get a read on her face. Anyway, Google basically wants to sell you shit.”
“I didn’t realize you could search for a person that way.”
He shrugged. “We’re basically living in a totalitarian state.”
He slid his phone into his back pocket.
“Pizza,” I said, remembering. “It’ll taste better if you microwave it. I’ll join you in a minute.”
The garbage cans were located near the entrance to the basement, with its shared laundry room, next to our downstairs neighbor’s door. He was just coming out as I deposited my bag. Skunky smoke trailed behind him.
“Hey. Abby, right? You guys settling in okay?”
I tried not to make any rash judgments about his stringy hair or the egg yolk–colored stain on his dark Led Zeppelin shirt.
“Sort of.”
“Cool.”
I couldn’t tell how old he was, but if he was using a word like “cool” it meant he was probably closer to my age than Benjamin’s.
“I’m David, by the way.”
“You told me. The first time we met. When you apologized in advance for playing your music loud.” I heard my own tone—the voice of a mom who wasn’t going to be fun to live underneath.
“Well, come down and say hi anytime. And tell Benjamin I’ll show him another chord if he comes over again.”
“Benjamin’s come by?”
“Yeah, couple of times since you moved in.”
Couple of times? Another sign I couldn’t keep perfect tabs on my son’s location at every time, day or night.
I returned with a stack of shiny mail in my hand and set it on the counter.
At this point, it should have been junk mail only, because our forwarding order would take a few more days, and yet I was cautious, and rightly so.
A small white envelope slipped out from between two electronics store flyers.
My heart sped up, as it always did when I saw an envelope like this.
Name and prisoner number in small, neat capitals in the upper left-hand corner.
American flag in the right. I ripped it open and read the message, expecting some variation on what I’d received about every six months for years: I could use some help, you know.
Most guys get visitors. Or: So I’ve got some new ideas about an appeal.
Or: Never thought it was fair you inherited money from Dad and I only got a fraction.
What Ewan didn’t realize was that our father had left him zilch.
I’d taken $5,000 from my $18,000 inheritance and moved it into an account for him back in 2014, because I hated to see him getting nothing.
It was Ewan’s fault he was still locked up.
Regardless of what he’d done as a violent and remorseless eighteenyear-old, only the minor charges had stuck.
With good behavior, he might have been out within a few years.
But Ewan had never been good. His first prison fights were with fellow convicts.
Then he broke a guard’s rib. A year later, he gave another guard a concussion.
Most infuriating to me was the time he attacked the prison dentist, who’d made the mistake of turning his back halfway through a routine exam.
Ewan’s requests for money were galling. But his new focus, over the last three years, was worse.
Must be about thirteen now.
Must be getting taller.
Must be almost ready to drive.
You won’t be able to keep an eye on him forever.
Today’s letter was a short one.
You’re not being fair, keeping me from getting to know my nephew. There’s a punishment for that.
I shoved the single small sheet into the envelope and started to rip them both when I stopped. That envelope, missing something. A forwarding sticker.
I looked again, heart sinking. Our current address was on the envelope. Impossible. Unless someone had told him we’d moved.
Benjamin was back on the living room couch, wearing cutoff sweatpants and an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt, already working on his second pizza slice.
“It’s really hot in here, Mom,” he said between mouthfuls.
“You already told me. Long summer ahead. You didn’t bother with a plate?”
“Would you get me one?”
Reluctantly, I did, to give my mind another moment to settle.
The letter from Ewan—that was bad enough.
Benjamin stealing a diary? That was worse.
Robert was withholding information—and he had a right to, but it made me nervous.
Izzy. Sidney. Bad things come in threes, Willa liked to say, but we were way past three.
From the kitchen, I heard the couch creak, like Benjamin was getting up to get his own pop or a glass of water, something he did a dozen times every evening, less because of thirst than because of an innate restlessness.
Sometimes I told myself it was the reason he had no friends.
Not because of the things he said or did or didn’t do.
Not because of the stony look on his face when he was annoyed with anyone he deemed inferior.
Not because of incidents like the time when he was eight years old and went sledding behind the local elementary school with a neighbor kid named Jacob.
Benjamin came back an hour later, took off his coat and boots, and started reading a book.
Jacob’s mom called two hours later to say Jacob had broken his arm on the sledding hill.
He’d been crying and screaming, but Benjamin just walked away.
His mom said the bone was practically sticking out of his coat sleeve. You didn’t notice?
He wouldn’t stop making noise. It was giving me a headache.