“Come on, Mr. Edwards. Whatever’s going on here, you and your wife are behind it. You proved that much just by calling me here today.”
And that quickly, their roles had been reversed. Allison was the one pressing, Edwards the one pulling back.
“I’m not taking your money,” she said. “Even though you’re right—I could use it. So if that’s all you’ve got to offer me. . . .”
* * *
“Wait,” Michael said.
Hope had stood up and started off toward the parking lot.
This wasn’t the fragile woman he had thought he’d be dealing with. Hope certainly looked the part—her hair was a mess and her eyes were trimmed in red, and if she hadn’t slept in the clothes she was wearing, she must have pulled them from a pile of unwashed laundry—but that was where her resemblance to the hack Michael had taken her for came to an end. This woman had backbone, and if she didn’t also possess principles, she had the next best thing: too much self-respect to be bought without a fight.
Hope stopped and turned around but kept her distance.
“What do you want?” Michael asked.
“What do I want?”
“To let this go. To walk away forever and never look back. Before—”
Michael pulled up short.
“Before what?” She came back to retake her seat beside him. “What will happen if I don’t walk away?”
“I’ve already told you. Laura Carrillo—”
“No. This isn’t about Laura Carrillo. You didn’t come out here to bribe me with sixty thousand dollars just to save Laura Carrillo. And you sure as hell didn’t do it to save me. This is about you. You and your wife and your son. Adrian.”
Her use of his son’s name threw Michael further off balance. He wanted to leave Adrian out of this. Adrian was the very thing he was here to protect. But if he had a choice in the matter, a way to leave the park with Hope’s silence assured that wouldn’t cost him something far more precious than money, it evaded him.
“What do you believe in, Ms. Hope?”
“Excuse me?”
“I need to know what you believe in. If I tell you what you want to know, if I tell you what’s real, you’re either going to consider the possibility or reject it outright, and I’d just as soon not waste my time if it’s going to be the latter.”
Hope shook her head. “I don’t—”
“Do you believe in God? Do you believe in miracles? Do you believe in things you can neither see nor touch, things science can neither prove nor disprove? How about prayer? Do you believe in the power of prayer?”
Hope grinned nervously. “Wait a minute. . . .”
“I don’t have a minute. I need your answer now. What do you believe in?”
He was trying to tell her in no uncertain terms: This conversation was over if she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know.
“I believe that something created all this, yes,” Hope said. “God, Allah, the Great Spirit—call it what you like. And that, for the most part, assuming it’s a conscious being at all, it’s benevolent.” She shook her head. “But beyond that, I’m just not sure. To be honest with you, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.”
“Until you need something.”
This gave Hope pause. “Yes.”
She was telling him exactly what he had expected to hear, but he still had his doubts about her. Her milquetoast excuse for faith would only make what he was about to do that much more terrifying. Before he could lose what little courage he had left, he said, “Where is your phone?”
“My phone? It’s in the car. Why—” She answered her own question. “Oh. This conversation isn’t being recorded, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Michael had to trust she wasn’t lying. It was either that, or pat her down. He set himself, said, “It’s all true. What Laura says happened here. Every word of it.”
Hope let out a little chuckle. “Say again?”
“You heard me. Adrian died here last March. The accelerator stuck on Mr. Weisman’s car down there in the parking lot and he lost control, drove straight into the slide while Adrian was climbing the ladder.”
The same stupid smile remained on Hope’s face. She shook her head. “No. . . .”
“Come. I’ll show you.” Michael stood up, past any point of turning back. The lady had asked for the truth, and now she was going to hear it, in as much agonizing detail as he could stomach to relate.
Hope got to her feet and Michael led her down to the play structure, where only a single child now cavorted. It was a girl no more than four, kicking around in the sand as her mother sat cross-legged nearby, watching her with amusement. Michael pointed. “The car came across the grass this way. Hit the slide broadside and kept on going, dragging my son underneath the wheels until it slammed into that tree there and stopped.”
He was fighting with all he had to remain composed, but the memory of that day was not easily ignored and his vision began to blur. “It was all over by the time I arrived, of course, but I only had to hear Diane describe it once to have it feel like something I had witnessed myself.”
He paused to see if Hope had any questions, but she only stared back at him, no doubt unsure of what to make of what he was telling her. He forged ahead, turning to point at a spot in the parking lot. “Diane was sitting in the back of a patrol car there when I got here. She was in shock. White as a sheet and cold to the touch, even though they’d given her a blanket to wrap herself in. I had to get the details of the accident from the cop assigned to watch her. Adrian was already loaded into the ambulance, a sheet thrown over his face, just like in the movies. I didn’t want to see him, but I had to. I had to see for myself that it was really my son.”
He gave in and let the tears come, unable to do anything else. Hope still didn’t speak.
“A pair of plainclothes detectives were interviewing Mr. Weisman, who was sitting on that bench there.” He pointed again. “On the drive over, I had this picture in my mind of a drunken, shriveled up old fool, someone I could hate instantly without half trying. But he was nothing like that. He was just a frightened, pathetic old man. They wouldn’t let me near him, for obvious reasons, but they needn’t have worried. After viewing Adrian’s body, I didn’t have the strength to make a fist with one hand, let alone throw a punch at somebody.”
A small smile crossed his face. He walked over to a familiar spot on the grass and Hope followed. “They tore the whole play structure down rather than replace the slide. Parents wouldn’t let their kids on it anymore.” He turned and gestured. “They put up a new one there, where those trees are now.” He looked down at his feet. “And right here, they laid a plaque down in Adrian’s memory. They had a ceremony and everything, with dignitaries from the city and news crews from all over, but I didn’t come. Diane did, but I refused. There wasn’t any point in my coming.”
And that was as far as Michael could go. He was spent. If Hope wasn’t ready to believe him by now, she could go fuck herself.
* * *
Edwards fell silent, his exhaustion evident, and held Allison’s gaze with his own. Waiting for her reaction to determine what he would do next.
Allison sensed the weight of something much larger than the moment pressing down on her. She didn’t know how it had happened, but suddenly she wasn’t on the periphery of this maddening drama anymore. She was at the center of it, the player with the power to grind it all to a halt or keep it spinning, perhaps in perpetuity. Edwards didn’t say as much, but he didn’t have to. It was all right there in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” she said.
“I expect you to say what you believe.”
“I already did that.”
“And that’s still your answer?”
No. It wasn’t. What Allison believed now was something far mor
e absurd than what she had claimed to believe before. She believed him. Michael Edwards’s words hadn’t been that far removed from those of Laura Carrillo yesterday; in fact, they had aligned with the teacher’s account with uncanny precision. But whereas Carrillo’s telling of the tale had merely moved Allison to wonder, Edwards’s had left her with no more doubt. There was a difference between reality and a reality perceived, and Allison had always been able to recognize it. What she had just heard from Edwards was the truth. A truth that coincided with no provable law of the universe, but the truth, nonetheless, and her inability to refute that fact scared the living shit out of her.
“It’s not possible,” she said.
“Four days ago, I would have said the same thing. I thought Diane was crazy. On her knees every night, week in and week out, praying for something that could never happen.” He paused. “But it did happen.”
“How? Why? Why would such a thing happen?”
“You know my answer to the how. But the why? I don’t think we’ll ever know. And you know what? I’m fine with that.”
“Bullshit! There has to be a reason. Why would God do something as bizarre as all this without a fucking reason?”
She had forgotten where she was, in the middle of a playground with a small child and her mother within earshot, so infuriating did she find the man’s unshakable calm.
Chastened by the looks her outburst had earned her, she lowered her voice. “You know how many children die in the world every day? You know how many mothers have spent years on their knees, begging for their return? What makes your son and your wife any different from those people? Why would God or whoever pick them out from all the millions of others he could have chosen to bestow this miracle upon?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer, Mr. Edwards.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t know. That’s my answer.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine,” he said. “It’s bullshit. So write that. If that’s what you believe, write it.”
He walked away.
She ran after him, right hand extended to grab his arm, but he turned on her before she could. “I’ve got nothing else to offer you, Ms. Hope. I’ve tried all the magic I know to make you understand. Nothing I’ve told you is a lie, or a trick, or a game, or—to use your word for it—bullshit. It’s just the simple truth. If it’s not simple enough for you, that’s your problem, not mine.”
“Please! Think about what you’re asking me to do. What you’re asking me to believe.”
She was suddenly desperate to keep him from leaving, overcome by the vague notion that, if he made it to his car and drove away, he’d be taking something of far greater consequence with him than an interview for a story she wasn’t even sure anymore she could write.
Edwards must’ve seen the fear in her eyes. For a moment, she thought he was going to laugh, amused to have regained the upper hand. But he softened, instead.
“Maybe you need to talk to Diane,” he said.
THIRTY
GISELLE OTT HADN’T SEEN Laura coming until Laura was practically standing beside her. She was startled at first, then pleasantly surprised, because Laura hadn’t answered any of her phone calls since the breakdown and it was a relief to see she was fine and back at Yesler, where Giselle believed Laura belonged.
Giselle thought it was odd that no one had mentioned Laura’s return before now. It seemed like something Howard Alberts would have wanted everyone to know. But Giselle’s love for the younger teacher overruled her need to ask questions, and before any could take root, she had Laura in a big bear hug.
Friday morning recess had just started and, as was usually the case, Giselle was the sole sentry manning this quadrant of the yard. The children under Giselle’s charge spotted Laura immediately, particularly those from Laura’s class, and before Giselle could say more than three words to her, they greeted her with disparate levels of enthusiasm. A few approached her without hesitation, some eagerly, but the rest held back, likely recalling the terrified, hysterical woman she’d allegedly been the last time they’d seen her.
To Giselle’s mild surprise, Adrian was not among this latter group. The boy should have had more reason than most to avoid Laura, but there was nothing like fear in his demeanor. With time to think about it, Giselle might have stepped in to keep the two apart, but she just stood by and watched them, trusting Laura more than she probably should have.
Even when Laura leaned forward to whisper in Adrian’s ear and the boy nodded in return, each smiling at the other like a more wonderful secret had never been shared by two people, Giselle saw no need to intervene. Laura Carrillo was a friend, a lovely young woman and a wonderful teacher, and Giselle remained unconvinced that she was someone to be wary of. She hadn’t heard Laura’s side of all the crazy stories their coworkers were spreading about her, and until she did, Giselle was going to show Laura all the benefit of doubt.
It would be forty-seven minutes before she saw the gravity of her mistake. By then, Laura would be gone and the campus of Henry Yesler Elementary School would be in the throes of its second emergency in a week, this one far more terrifying than the first.
* * *
“I won’t talk to her,” Diane said.
“You have to talk to her. We have no choice now.”
“We do have a choice. I have a choice. And I’m not going to talk to her, Michael. I won’t.”
Diane still couldn’t believe what her husband had done. When she’d heard his car pull up out front a few moments ago, less than three hours after he’d left for work, she’d known instantly something was wrong, that all the reservations she’d had about sending Adrian to school today should have been heeded. But she could have never guessed what was coming. Not only had Michael talked to Allison Hope behind her back, telling her everything they had hoped the reporter would never come to learn on her own, he had brought her here to Diane, expecting her to treat Hope similarly.
“We can’t let her write her story, Diane. There’s no way to know how far it’ll spread if she does.”
They were in the bedroom, where Diane had insisted they confer in private as soon as Michael had brought Hope into their home. The writer was out in the living room, assuming she was still where they’d left her, waiting for Diane to decide her fate.
“But you’ve already told her the truth and she doesn’t believe you. Why should I tell her anything more if she’s not going to believe it anyway?”
“Because I’m not the one who brought Adrian back. You are. If she hears the truth from you, she’ll believe it. I’m sure of it.”
But he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t be. There was no way either of them could predict what Hope would do, once she’d heard Diane’s side of things, so Michael was only guessing. That, and asking Diane to trust him.
In the eight years they had been together, with only one very obvious exception, Michael had proven himself deserving of all Diane’s trust, and more.
“All right,” she said.
She led the way back to the living room. Hope rose from the couch, a convict watching the parole board file into the hearing room. Taking her first real look, Diane was struck by the writer’s resemblance to a drunk: mismanaged hair, red-rimmed eyes, unkempt clothing. What Michael had seen in this woman to make him think they’d be better off with her as an ally than an enemy, Diane could not yet fathom.
She stopped well out of Hope’s reach and said, “Before I tell you anything, I need to ask you one question.”
The reporter looked at Michael—What is this?—but of course Michael didn’t know what Diane was thinking any more than Hope did.
“All right.”
Diane paused, wanting to leave no room for doubt that Hope’s answer would decide whether Diane remained in the room or walked right back out.
“What’s the greatest pain you�
�ve ever known?” she asked.
* * *
Allison almost laughed. That’s an easy one, she thought.
Death came readily to mind. Her mother’s in 1990, when Allison was only sixteen; her brother Jack’s five years ago; and her father’s only a year later. They had all hit her hard, in different ways and varying degrees. But death was an inevitability one learned to accept; the sense of loss was its only lasting mark. Heartbreak, on the other hand, inflicted pain in multiple dimensions. In the twelve hours since Flo had told her they were done, Allison had passed through a head-spinning tumult of emotion: anger and guilt, shame and self-loathing. And fear. Fear as cold and black as the farthest corners of night. And all of it, every moment, had hurt like nothing Allison had ever known.
“I’ve never lost a child, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said, avoiding the question posed.
“But you’ve suffered the death of a loved one. Someone you cared for very much.”
“Yes.” Allison swallowed hard, getting angry now. “Of course.”
“Do you remember what it felt like?”
“I really don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
Diane Edwards waited for her to try again.
“Yes.” Allison had cried for weeks after her mother, only thirty-six years old, suffered a stroke and fell into a coma from which she would never emerge. Allison couldn’t keep an ounce of food down, and her eyes, swollen and bloodshot, had felt like stones in their sockets.
“Good. It’s good that you remember. Because that was nothing compared to what losing Adrian felt like to me,” Diane Edwards said.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Humor me all you want. But I’m telling you—you have no idea what real pain is. I saw that car run my little boy over and drag him through the grass. I saw the blood and the bones poking out of his skin, his left arm nearly torn from his body.”
“Diane—” Michael Edwards said. Allison saw that he’d turned pale.
His wife paid him no heed. “I held him in my arms until the paramedics pried me away. I chose the suit he wore and the casket he was buried in. Four hours after his funeral, I was still calling his name at the gravesite. Do you know why I’m telling you this?”
In Things Unseen Page 21
