The Perfect Plan

by Bryan Reardon

  “What, when you were sleeping with him?” I say.

  She scoffs. “So what? Why do you care?”

  “Patsy doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Oh . . .” She laughs. “He told me that, too. I didn’t really believe it, though. I mean, how typical. Being in love with your sister-in-law. But now that I know you better, I can see it. Kind of fits you.”

  I just need to get to the office and leave the truck. It’s not far now. But she won’t shut up.

  “He said Patsy can’t stand you. She thinks you’re worse than I do. I’m not surprised, though. She’s pretty stuck-up. She thinks because her daddy was someone, she is, too. But she’s never done a goddamn thing.”

  “She’s done more than you have.”

  Lauren pauses. I feel her getting closer to me.

  “You really hate Drew, don’t you? I get it. He can be pretty awful. I’ve seen it. I have.” Her hand comes to rest on the console, inches from my thigh. “I hate him, actually. I was just afraid to tell you that. I was using him. Because all those fat old politicians are like an all boys’ club. I didn’t have a choice. It was the only way in. But I’m there now. They know my work. They know how important it is. I could get a job with any one of them. Bethany calls me all the time.

  “Look, maybe we’re on the same team. What if we go to the police and I tell them that he’s been hurting me. And that I came to you for help. Look . . .”

  I turn. She pulls up her sleeve and I can see the bruises on her arm. They look like the dark outline of my brother’s hand. Or mine.

  “I did that to you,” I say quietly.

  “So what?” She laughs. “They won’t know any difference. This could be good. I’ll call Bethany. Get her ready. She can step in. Take over the campaign. Do it for the ladies. Right?”

  I don’t say anything. I see the line of squat concrete office buildings up ahead. When I turn into the lot, I roll slowly past a white sign with thick brown lettering. It reads:

  SIMMONS PSYCHOLOGY SERVICES

  When I see it, I feel strange, like I’m suddenly thrust backwards in time again. Like I am a little kid, barely able to see the sign over the dash of my truck. I slow, pulling lengthwise into a line of open spaces across from the building. There is another sign by the office entrance. I see three plaques with names. The top one is for Marci Simmons, PhD. I picture her thick wool sweater and her long skirt. I see her eyes, large and soft, the way they somehow attracted words like a magnet attracts iron.

  As I sit there, staring and fighting the memories that flood back to the surface again, the door to the office opens. The second stretches out to a lifetime of torture until I see a woman, not Marci Simmons, and a teenage boy exit onto the sidewalk. Her eyes are swollen and red. The boy looks like he might have just been run over by a large truck full of raw emotion. They walk toward a black Volvo without saying a word.

  The boy is what gets me. He is probably thirteen or fourteen. His clothes look well cared for and expensive. His hair is blond, not dark like mine. But in his eyes, I see it. I see myself.

  I am mesmerized. I think about my mother, my father . . . Drew. The years of my childhood. Watching everything decay and die while I knelt on the once pricey carpets watching reruns of Taxi and M*A*S*H.

  This kid knows. He’s seen it. I swear he turns and our eyes meet, and I am sitting there looking at my younger self. I try to remember a day back then. Maybe I was here. Maybe I saw Marci. And maybe a man in a beat-up white pickup watched me from behind the glass of his windshield. Maybe our eyes met and I knew, even then, where it would all end up, the full circle that would spiral ever downward. Am I him or is he me? Time is an endless loop, eating its own tail, and we are both stuck in this moment.

  16

  My mother had still not returned home from rehab. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the open refrigerator. It was virtually empty but for a new case of Drew’s Muscle Milk protein shakes. I thought about ripping open the box and taking one, but I knew he’d kill me, eventually. Not that I expected him to come home. At school, I heard he was seeing some girl. He’d been staying nights there, a lot. For a couple of weeks.

  During that time, I had developed an uneasy relationship with loneliness. I went days by myself in that house, punctuated by hours behind the closed door of my room, hoping the soft voices I heard would not approach.

  When I closed the refrigerator, I started talking to myself, something of a new habit.

  “Today’s Tuesday. Even if he’s coming home, it won’t be until after lacrosse. Maybe it won’t be late. It hasn’t been as bad, lately . . . when he’s home. Not that he’s around much.”

  My conversation abruptly ended when I heard the front door open. For a second, I thought it was Drew. And I think I was happy about that. I even started to move toward the foyer. But then my father appeared. When he looked at me, I lowered my eyes.

  “Your mother is home,” he said.

  That moment was so weird. I should have heard his words and understood them immediately. Mom had been gone for over a month. I needed her home. But for some reason I remember being lost in the sound of his voice, like I hadn’t heard it in years. I wanted more but he just passed through the room on his way to the basement.

  “Liam?”

  Her call floated into the house and my heart fluttered. I moved so slowly across the tile, afraid that it was all a dream. That I was still alone. Then I saw her, and the truth was I barely recognized my mother. She stood in the doorway, her back straight, her eyes clear and bright, and her hair perfectly done in shining black waves that fell around her shoulders.

  “Baby,” she said.

  I didn’t run to her. I wasn’t a little child anymore. But that urge was difficult to fight. Instead, I moved carefully, as if at any minute some bend of light would reveal her as a cruel mirage.

  I stopped a few feet from her. My mother’s smile broadened. She put her arms out and I let her hug me. I remained stiff, however, and she sighed.

  “It’s going to be different, baby,” she whispered near my ear. “I promise. I’m good. Really good. And your father’s changed. You’ll see.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  The truth is, I wanted more than anything to believe her.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, I came home from school to find the refrigerator filled with food. Not just condiments and old milk. We had fresh fruit and vegetables. Meat. Bread from the bakery downtown. I didn’t know what to eat first.

  “Liam?” she called from upstairs.

  I froze, my chest tightening and the hairs on my arms standing on edge. I waited, expecting her call to come again. Picturing myself slinking up the stairs to her bedroom door. Finding her in bed, that smell filling my nose, and her new red nail polish chipped and flaking like dried blood.

  As I stood there, holding my breath, I heard footsteps. I let the air out when I realized they were too light to be my father’s or Drew’s. When my mom walked into the kitchen, all my fears vanished. She was dressed. She stood up and walked without the hint of a sway. And when she spoke, I heard no slur to her words.

  “How was school today?” she asked.

  “Good,” I said.

  “Anything new?”

  I blinked. For some reason, I thought about my painting, the one I destroyed when she was still in the hospital. Part of me wished she could see it. But then I thought about the lines of that work, the way she appeared on the canvas, like the haunting instant between life and death, and I felt embarrassed by what I had done. This woman looked nothing like that. She looked alive. And healthy. Like everyone else’s mom. Better, even.

  With all that on my mind, I just shook my head.

  “Let me make you something to eat,” she said, so happy. “How about . . . ?”

  She paused, looking confused for a
n instant. At first, I got worried again. But then I realized she just had no idea what to fix. She didn’t know what I liked, or what I didn’t. I was her son, and yet she knew almost nothing about me. The realization was crushing.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  “Oh,” my mom said, disappointed. “Okay. Sit down with me.”

  She sat at the kitchen table and patted the seat beside her. I took it, looking away at the window by the sink. I could feel her fidgeting.

  “Liam, do you trust me?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “No, really.”

  “Yeah.”

  She nodded. “I think I am going to get a job. I need to do something for myself.”

  “Did you ever work?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, laughing. “I was a middle school teacher when I met your father. We met at the school, actually. He ran a robotics seminar.”

  She paused. I waited, desperately needing more. It was like the smallest corner of some veil that hung between me and my reality had been suddenly peeled up. I got just a peek of the truth. At the same time, though, I didn’t want to think about my father. I didn’t want to hear about it. The hatred that grew inside me kept my mouth shut. It kept me from asking my mother more questions.

  Our stillness hung between us. It made me nervous. So when I finally spoke, my words meant nothing.

  “You should get a job . . . if you want.”

  “I’d have to ask your father,” she said.

  The silence that followed felt even heavier. Even more dangerous. That time, she broke it, though.

  “Drew loves you,” she said. “You know that, right?”

  I laughed nervously.

  “Seriously,” she said. “I know it might not seem like that all the time. But he does. He just thinks about himself too much sometimes. He’ll grow out of that. You’ll see.”

  I nodded.

  “You two need each other. You need to be close. Family’s the only thing you can count on in life. The only people you can really trust.” She fidgeted again. I looked at her and saw the tears in my mother’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  Sitting right beside me, my mother sobbed. She kept apologizing and apologizing. It made me vibrate, but I finally turned in my chair and put my arms around her.

  “It’s okay,” I said, over and over again.

  Her breath caught. “Oh, Liam.”

  “Mom, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

  “It is,” she said, her crying suddenly sounding like a laugh. “I promise, it is.”

  As I held her, I heard the garage door open. I heard my father’s car pulling in. It was a little after 3:00 P.M., way before he would ever get home. Immediately, I let go of my mother and stood up. She watched me with sadness in her eyes. But before she could say anything, the door to the garage opened. My father walked into the kitchen.

  “We have to go,” he said. “You have a meeting.”

  The worry left my mother’s face. She smiled so broadly that I thought her face might split right in half.

  “I do,” she said. “Thanks for coming home.”

  He glanced at me before answering. “Sure. I told you I would.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  My mom rose from the table and gave me a hug. When she pulled back, I saw the look in her eyes. It seemed to tell me that she was right. That things would be different. And this small act of my father keeping his word proved it. Despite myself, I nodded. No matter what, hope and childhood are never too far apart.

  17

  I wait for the mother and her son to drive away before I can move. Slowly, I take my wallet out. I pull out a tattered old business card, one I have carried for so many years. Her name, Marci Simmons, has faded but can still be read. I place it on the dashboard, carefully, before turning to Lauren. I pull the gun out from behind my back as I speak to her.

  “I’m going to get out first. If you do anything stupid, I’ll kill you. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Jesus, Liam,” she says, looking at me like I’m a child. “Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “Just do what I tell you to do and everything will be fine.”

  I get out of the truck and drop the key onto the pavement. Then I walk around and open her door. She gets right out, like she’s on my team.

  “Where are we going?”

  I nod toward a worn path that crosses to the parking lot of the next office complex. We cross it and I head to the farthest building and lead her around the corner. A silver Mazda is parked all by itself in the last spot.

  “Get in,” I tell her.

  She looks at me, her eyes clear and raised. All the fear and uncertainty I saw during the chase with the police seems to have vanished. It unnerves me. So once she is in the seat, I hurry around and get into the driver’s side. The keys are under the visor, just as I knew they would be.

  “You have this all figured out, don’t you?” she asks.

  I ignore her, backing out of the spot. It’s time to return to the cabin. To face our demons.

  “Seriously?”

  I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Then hear paper crinkling. I turn and see she is holding a rental agreement. Slamming on the brakes, I rip it from her hands.

  “You rented the car in your name? Are you kidding?”

  “No,” I say, the word sounding lame even to me.

  “I saw it on the agreement.”

  “You did not.”

  “I saw ‘Brennan.’” She laughs. “And I doubt Drew would rent the car for you.”

  I just look at her. For a second, I see the uncertainty. She’s wondering if Drew would. If there is more to all of this. Finally, she might be starting to get it. I jam the agreement into my front pocket and drive. But I know she’s not done. She has more talking to do.

  “Why go see him? Why take that chance?”

  Back to Drew. Like she can get into my head. She doesn’t understand the game. I wanted him to see me. It was my idea. I was in charge. I wanted him to wonder how I had the guts to show up after all of that. And I knew he couldn’t do anything. Not without knowing he could get his hands on Lauren before anyone else.

  But then Bob showed up and mentioned the girl in my truck. That was enough of a clue. Drew knows something is up. He thinks I’ve gone rogue. Although him finding that out has always been a part of the plan, it’s too early. Drew has decided he can cut bait. He pushed all in, getting the police on our tail. I’m surprised he released the description of my truck. I hadn’t expected that, not yet. That decision hinted at things being off-balance. The thought gave me just a sliver of hope.

  For the moment at least, I am still one step ahead of him. That has to be enough. But it doesn’t help her. Lauren can’t understand what’s happening. Why her charms aren’t working on me. She can’t know how deep this runs. But there’s not much I can do about that.

  “Talk to me!” she suddenly screams.

  I startle. When she punches my shoulder, I can barely believe it. She does it again, though.

  “Talk to me!”

  I don’t acknowledge her. Instead, I merge back onto the highway leading to the apartment complex. When I speak, my answer is simple and clear.

  “No.”

  18

  Liam,” my mother called from downstairs.

  I startled, my pencil skidding across the page as a picture flashed behind my closed eyes, my mother lying on the kitchen floor with blood pooling around her head. It had been over a month since she had gotten home from rehab, but the sense that the other shoe was about to drop never truly left me.

  “Yeah?” I called back from my bed.

  Without realizing it, I had started to draw. I still wouldn’t paint, not since the night I brought the picture of my m
other home. Not even in art class. But my constant doodling had expanded, taking over entire notebooks.

  “Come down,” she answered.

  I heard something playful in her tone. I think I even smiled as I moved off my bed and headed toward the hall. As I stepped out, I almost walked into my brother.

  “What does she want?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Mom,” he said.

  I looked at him. It is hard to explain those days. Mostly, he just wasn’t around, spending the majority of his time at his girlfriend’s house. She didn’t go to our school, so I hadn’t met her yet. I remember being fascinated by the entire thing. In fact, I had wanted more than anything to talk to him about it, see what it was like to have a serious girlfriend, but I never had the chance. He seemed to be avoiding me.

  For his part, he had avoided Mom in the same way. And she him. They spoke. We’d had two sit-down dinners, which were totally awkward. Even Dad joined us for those. Drew had answered questions about school and lacrosse. But after, he slipped away and the house returned to an expectant silence.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  He shook his head and walked into his room. I watched him go, that feeling of unease crawling up my back.

  “Baby,” my mother called.

  I cringed. As her eyes grew clearer and clearer, my mother had started calling me that more and more. It made me uncomfortable when no one else was around. With Drew just down the hall, the sound made me want to jump off a building. Instead, I hurried down the stairs and found her by the door to the garage. She had a jacket on and I saw car keys dangling from her long finger. I stopped, staring at her.

  “Are you going out?” I asked.

  “So are you,” she said with a smile.

  “Uh, is it okay if you drive?”

  She laughed. “As long as your father doesn’t find out.”

  She reached a hand out to me. Her shining red nail polish beckoned me forward. Her skin felt cool and dry. And she smelled of flowers, and only flowers.