by Judy Duarte
“Russell’s wife died of cancer a year or two before the accident, and he was left to raise their only child, a boy who’s about nine or ten now. I have no idea where he is or who’s taking care of him while his father is in prison, but according to Jake, Russell believes the boy is depressed and suffering from the loss of both parents.”
Claire didn’t want to see any child hurt, but what did Sam expect her to do? If the parole board released every incarcerated parent who’d left a grieving family at home, they’d have to free half the prison population—if not more.
“Maybe you should visit Russell,” Sam said. “Talk to him in person.”
“At the state prison?” How could he suggest such a thing?
He shrugged. “You could decide whether he’s truly sorry and if he’s paid his debt to society.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Maybe if you talked to him in person, you might be able to put the past behind you.”
Tears welled in her eyes, as Sam’s voice morphed into Ron’s: Dwelling in the past is making me crazy, Claire, not to mention what it’s doing to you.
The echo of her ex-husband’s accusations slammed into her, making it hard to breathe, let alone think. For some reason, Ron had insisted she was hanging onto Erik. He’d wanted her to “let go,” but she couldn’t. How was she supposed to pretend her happy, dark-haired son had never lived, never laughed? Never loved?
Erik’s death and their different coping mechanisms had strained a frayed marital bond until it could no longer hold two grieving parents together.
And now, Sam was implying the same things Ron had.
Emotions—too varied to name—swam in her eyes until she could barely see, and an ache the size of a boulder filled her chest.
If Claire didn’t keep Erik’s memory alive, who would?
And what about justice? Why shouldn’t the man responsible for Erik’s tragic and senseless death pay for his negligence?
Yet none of it would bring her son back. Or put her broken heart and spirit to rights. She was torn. Scattered. And she needed to pull herself together.
Pushing aside her wineglass, she blinked back the tears and stood. “I really need to go.”
“I’m sorry, Claire.” Sam slid his chair back and got to his feet. “I just don’t want to see you hurt anymore. The pain is going to kill you, if you let it. I’ve had to deal with guilt and anger, too. And now, even though I’d like to bury the hatchet and make things right, I can’t.”
She understood where he was coming from, yet she wanted to lash out at him. To ask where his father was right now. And ask whether Sam had ever gone to visit, whether the man was truly sorry and had paid his debt to society. It was a retort she might have unleashed on Ron, if it had fit. But she didn’t want to fight. Didn’t want to strain the fragile connection she and Sam had forged.
If she didn’t get out of this house, she was going to break down and cry, and she didn’t want to show him her pain, her weakness. Didn’t want to lose control in front of him.
Was she really as unbalanced as Ron had suggested?
Her heart threatened to explode, and she fought the urge to hurl the wineglass from the deck, to upend the table and throw it to the floor. To scream at the heavens and demand justice. Relief. Peace.
Anything other than pain.
“Did you hear me?” Sam slipped an arm around her waist and drew her to him. “I’m sorry, Claire.”
For a moment, she leaned into him, rested her cheek against his chest, gripped the lapel of his jacket and held on tight. She breathed in the faint scent of man and musk, accepting both Sam’s strength and support.
Then she rallied.
She didn’t want Sam to see her like this, which she feared would lead him to feel sorry for her. To see her as a victim.
You’re not the only one in the world who’s lost a child, Ron had said. Give me a break, okay? See a priest or a rabbi, go to a counselor, take some medication. Just get over it so we can get on with life.
She wasn’t sure what she wanted out of Sam. But not that. Not this.
She cleared her throat, drawing away. “I’ll call you later this evening—about tomorrow.” She would return to watch Analisa, if he still wanted her to.
But right now, she had to go.
Trevor lay on his back on the top of his bed, his hands tucked under his head. He stared at the ceiling, where somebody who used to live here had stuck a bunch of stars—little yellow ones. They were supposed to glow in the dark, but they really didn’t work very good anymore.
He wished he could go outside and look at the real stars, but he was grounded.
After Mrs. Harper had dropped him off this afternoon and driven away, he’d found a note that Katie had left for him on the kitchen counter. It said,
Trevor, you’re in BIG trouble! Call me at the diner as soon as you get home.
He did and found out that Katie had started feeling a little better around noon and had decided to go to work after all.
“We need the tip money for groceries,” she’d told him.
He’d felt bad knowing she was probably still sick and had to work anyway. But there wasn’t much he could do to help. Last month, he’d asked a guy at Paddy’s Pub if there was any work he could do, like sweeping and doing dishes and stuff. But the guy had only laughed. “Are you nuts, kid? Beat it.”
That left the job of earning money on Katie, so he couldn’t blame her for being mad at him when he called her at the diner.
“So where did you go?” she’d asked—and not very nicely. “I assumed you were either hanging out at our complex or at Mulberry Park, but when I went looking for you, I couldn’t find you.”
“I was at Analisa’s house.”
“We talked about that this morning, Trevor, but I didn’t give you permission to go anywhere.”
“Well, I thought you sort of did…”
“Your dad would shoot me if I turned you loose all day long. It’s bad enough I can’t afford a sitter and you have to spend the whole summer at home in front of the TV.”
Trevor didn’t say anything. Katie didn’t know he wasn’t home all that much.
“I’m supposed to be watching you while your father’s gone, and he’s worried sick about you. I don’t think he’d even like you going to the park for a little while each day, but I tried to be nice by letting you get out of the house some. Now I’m not sure I can trust you to follow the rules.”
“You can. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I just wanted to have a little fun. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I don’t?” Katie’s voice got loud, letting him know he’d blown it by saying the wrong thing. “I’m twenty-four years old, Trevor. And that may sound ancient to you, but I’m still young. Some would say I’m too young to take on the responsibility of a child your age, but I love your father—and you. So I don’t mind working my butt off to pay the rent, but keep in mind that I’ve given up a lot, too. My friends, my social life…”
“At least you got to go out last night.”
“I went out to dinner with a friend who just found out she has a ‘suspicious’ spot on her lung. And instead of eating a meal, which would have been nice, I chose the soup, okay? It’s not like I was wasting money. Or having a party.”
“That’s not what I meant.” And it wasn’t.
She didn’t say anything for a minute. Then she made a huffy sound. “Just go to your room, okay? And stay there until I get home. It shouldn’t be long. I’m really dragging. That food poisoning took a lot out of me.”
Trevor glanced at the clock on the dresser: 8:07. Katie had gotten home about an hour ago and let him come out to eat. She’d fixed chili beans, although she didn’t make herself a bowl.
“I’m kind of nervous,” she told him as she munched on a saltine.
“How come?”
“Because the parole board meets Thursday.”
He stuck his spoon into his bowl, but left it there. “Wh
at do you think will happen?”
“I have no idea.”
“Maybe we should…you know, pray about it.”
“It wouldn’t hurt.” But she made no move to take his hand or talk to God out loud like Analisa had done, which Trevor was kind of hoping she’d do. He wouldn’t suggest it, though. What if she thought he was dumb?
He finished his chili, and she picked up his bowl and put it in the sink.
“Can I watch TV?” he asked.
“No, not tonight. You’re still grounded.”
Still?
She was being all nice, like she’d gotten over being mad, but now here he was—back in his room again. He’d probably end up in here forever. And when his dad finally got out of prison and came home looking for Trevor, he’d find a shriveled-up corpse with big, black eyeholes just staring at the dumb glow-in-the-dark stars.
Life really sucked. And there was no one in the whole wide world who could do anything to make it better. No one.
His thoughts drifted to Analisa.
That’s when you should ask God to do something, she’d told him the other day. All you got to do is believe and ask.
Then today, while he and Analisa ate turkey sandwiches and orange slices for lunch, Mrs. Harper went looking for a game for them to play together, and Analisa had started in on him again. “Just like I did with my letters. You have to ask God to fix things, then believe He’s going to do it. Remember when you and I prayed for the bike?”
“Yeah, and I got a skateboard instead.”
Analisa had slapped her hands on her hips and frowned. “Sometimes you have to let Him do it His way, Trevor.”
“Okay, so maybe I believe He can help. What makes you think He will?”
“Because He loves you and doesn’t want you to be unhappy. But you have to believe in Him. That’s the way it works. You have to have faith, and if you don’t, you can’t expect miracles.”
He’d thought about that for a while.
“You know what faith is, don’t you?”
Not really. But he didn’t want her to think that she was smarter than him, so he didn’t answer, which was okay. She told him anyway.
“It’s when you see a new little baby that used to be inside its mommy’s tummy. And when you see a butterfly come out of a cocoon. And when you look up in the sky and see a shooting star. You don’t understand how God did it, but you know that He did. ’Cause stuff like that doesn’t happen by accident.”
He hadn’t wanted to keep talking about it, so he’d pointed to the swimming pool and asked if she ever went into the deep end.
But now that he was lying here, looking at dumb little stars some guy in Hong Kong probably made, Trevor realized that the real ones couldn’t be made in a factory. And he sort of got the idea.
He wished Analisa was here so she could pray for him, like she’d done the day at the park—the day God had given him the skateboard. He felt funny praying out loud.
Maybe he could just write it all down, just like she’d done. He could tell God how bad he hurt, how much he missed not having a mom and dad. And he could ask God to fix things for his dad.
Trevor rolled out of bed, went to his desk and pulled out a pen and paper. Then he sat down and wrote a letter to God. It took two whole pages. But leaving it out on his desk or shoving it in a drawer wasn’t going to work. He had to make sure God got it as soon as possible, or else it might be too late.
That meant he’d have to disobey Katie one more time.
So he tiptoed into the hall, where he saw that her bedroom door was open. The light was on and she was wearing her work clothes, even her restaurant vest, so it seemed like she was awake. But her head was drooped to the side, her eyes were closed, and her mouth was kind of open.
No wonder she hadn’t let him come out yet. She’d fallen asleep.
Cool. That would give him time to do what he had to do.
He returned to his bedroom and pulled his skateboard out from under the bed, where he kept it hidden so Katie wouldn’t know he even had it. For a moment, he thought about taking the helmet and pads, too, but it would take a while to put them on. And if Katie caught him…
No, he couldn’t risk it. He had to get to the park and back before Katie woke up and realized he was gone.
As he walked softly through the living room, he spotted the telephone. Uh-oh. That could be a problem. He picked it up and turned down the sound, just like he’d seen Katie do that day those dumb tele-sales guys kept calling and waking her up from a nap.
When he was sure he’d taken care of everything, he snuck out of the house like a Navy SEAL on a dangerous mission, making sure to lock the door behind him so Katie would be safe. Then he hurried to the sidewalk, where he kicked off, setting his board in motion.
It was a little scary being out after dark, but it seemed like someone was watching over him tonight. But not just anyone: God.
“See?” he whispered. “I believe in you.”
Trevor turned down Second Street and zipped along for a block or two. He didn’t usually go to the park this way, but he thought it might be faster. At the intersection, he turned left on Applewood. The cool thing about this road was that it sloped downward, right into the park.
As he picked up speed, the night air cooled his face. For once in his life, or at least for the first time since he was a little kid, he believed that everything was going to be okay. He was right where he needed to be, doing just what he needed to do.
And look at him now. He was bombing a hill, just like one of the Z-Boys.
As he neared the streetlight, he spotted something dark and jagged on the sidewalk ahead. A crack in the concrete maybe?
He probably ought to slow up and go around it. That’s what he would have done before. But tonight was different. So deciding to jump it, he stepped back to lift the front wheels. Just then, the trucks underneath the board began to wobble, and the next thing he knew, he was flying up in the air.
For a second, it seemed like he might zoom up to Heaven—until he fell back to earth and slammed into the street with a thud.
Then everything went dark.
Chapter 16
Claire managed to keep her tears at bay until she arrived at home, then allowed herself a good cry.
Yet this time, instead of falling into one of those prolonged jags that threw her into a blue funk for days, she actually felt better afterward.
Now, as she climbed from the bathtub, reached for a towel and began to dry off, she regretted running out on Sam, especially with dinner baking in the oven. She’d been worried about what he would think if she’d broken down in front of him, yet she suspected he probably thought worse of her for having left abruptly and teary-eyed.
Of course, she took personal responsibility for her knee-gut reaction, but she blamed Ron for it, too.
In the early months after Erik’s death, Ron had been brokenhearted, too, so her crying hadn’t bothered him. Then, as time went on and he moved through his grief, he’d wanted her to move along with him, but she hadn’t been able to. The smallest thing—a Lego she’d found under a sofa cushion, a Popsicle stick on the back porch, a baseball card in a drawer—would set her off and she’d fall apart all over again.
Ron hadn’t even needed to say anything. He’d just get that twitch near his eye and that crease between his brows, letting her know her sadness was dragging him down. So she’d hid her feelings the best she could.
As a result, this evening, when facing tears, she’d been afraid to let Sam see them. Afraid he’d think less of her.
During her lavender-scented soak in the tub—aromatherapy, they called it—she’d thought about the way Sam had slipped an arm around her and offered her comfort. Why hadn’t she been able to accept it?
Fear of getting too close to Sam? Of facing romantic yearnings again?
That must have been the case, since Sam’s presence had set her more on edge than what he’d said about Russell Meredith.
His comments
about Russell’s late wife and son had bothered her more than she cared to admit, though.
Claire had known the woman who’d supported Russell throughout the trial had been his girlfriend, Kathryn somebody. Jones or Johnson maybe?
Either way, the petite brunette, who couldn’t have been much more than twenty years old at the time of the trial, had testified for the defense, swearing under oath that Russell hadn’t been drinking before the accident. But Kathryn hadn’t been a credible witness. The assistant district attorney had brought her to tears on the stand, accusing her of lying to protect her rich lover and asking if she knew the penalty of perjury.
When she’d left the courthouse after her testimony, she’d been swarmed by cameras and the media. They’d quizzed her about her years in foster care, followed by a Cinderella relationship with Russell, and she’d broken down again. At that point, Russell’s attorney had to step in and help her get away from the reporters.
Claire had almost felt sorry for the woman, but at the time, grief and anger had been the only emotions she’d been able to process.
Sam had been right, though. She really did want to put all of that behind her. It was over, and nothing could bring Erik back.
“Oh, God,” Claire uttered more in exasperation than in prayer. “What should I do?”
Would it hurt to do nothing? an inner voice asked.
No, she supposed it wouldn’t.
Sam had suggested she talk to Russell, a thought too bizarre to contemplate. She would never make a drive to the state prison to see the man who’d killed her son, but neither did she need to fight his release.
Stepping back was a fair concession to make. That way, whatever the boy was going through would be his father’s own doing.
She glanced at the clock on her dresser. It wasn’t much after eight and certainly not too late to call Sam. So she took a seat on the side of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed his number.
He answered on the third ring.
