The events of the last week had changed him. Changed us all.
But Thomas wasn’t like the rest of us. He’d always seemed, certainly to me, incapable of change. He was a prisoner of his illness. And yet, he was not the same person he used to be.
A couple of days after Harry Peyton had taken his own life, I bought Thomas a new computer. We got it all set up at home, and he was right back onto Whirl360 as I went downstairs to open a beer.
Twenty minutes later, he was down in the kitchen. It wasn’t time for lunch, or dinner. He just needed a break. He took a Coke out of the fridge, sat at the table and drank it, and then went back upstairs. When I peeked in on him later, he was reading the Times online.
Wonders never ceased.
He’d been to see Dr. Grigorin, and when she spoke to me after his appointment, she said she’d noticed a change, too.
“Let’s just see,” she said, careful not to raise any expectations. “But I think he’s going to make the adjustment well. It’s possible, and I don’t want to read too much into this, but Harry Peyton’s death may have been, in some way, liberating. Maybe Harry was one of the reasons Thomas didn’t want to come out of the house.”
Thomas claimed to be looking forward to his new accommodations. “Staying in this house,” he’d said to me that morning, “reminds me too much of Mom and Dad. When it was me and Dad, that was okay, but with both of them gone, the place feels kind of strange.” He’d paused. “And I know you don’t want to live here with me.”
“Thomas, that’s—”
“You want to live with Julie. So you can have sex with her.”
“Yeah, well,” I’d said.
“I don’t want you to get me into any more trouble,” he’d said. A familiar refrain these days. Like I’d knocked over the first domino. Like it was me who saw Bridget Sawchuck online.
After breakfast, he’d asked to be driven to our father’s grave, so that he could finally pay his respects.
I’d told him what had happened at Peyton’s office, that I had figured out a few things. That Peyton had assaulted him back when he lived above a shop on Saratoga. That Dad, having seen the pictures on Peyton’s phone, had finally come to believe Thomas. Everyone was a believer now. The police, as part of the investigation into Peyton’s suicide, seized all his computers and found plenty of the kinds of images that made my stomach turn just to think of them.
I did not tell Thomas my belief that Harry Peyton was responsible for our father’s death. It was mostly conjecture on my part, but it made sense. I could imagine Harry coming out, trying to get my father to back off. The two of them arguing, the tractor flipping over.
I chose not to tell Thomas because I felt he’d been through enough. And since there weren’t going to be any charges leveled against Harry, this was never going to go to court. None of it would ever come out.
“They’re in the same plot, right?” Thomas said as I brought the car to a stop. “Mom and Dad?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you know you can see this cemetery on the computer? There’s a really good satellite view of it. I’ve looked at it lots of times. I know exactly where to go.”
And he did. He hopped out of the car with enthusiasm and strode off across the lawn. I came around the car and caught up with him.
As he approached the gravestone, he slowed, stood a respectful six feet away directly in front of it, and bowed his head ever so slightly, his hands clasped together in front of him.
I came up behind my brother and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Hi, Dad,” he said. “I would have gone to the funeral but I didn’t want to see Mr. Peyton. But I thought I should finally come and see you. Mr. Peyton is dead now, and I think that’s a good thing, even though you’re probably not supposed to say something like that.”
I squeezed his shoulder.
“Anyway, I miss you. Ray is teaching me to do more things. I’m making meals and learning how to look after myself more, which is another good thing, because I’m moving to this place where you have to help out.”
He stopped talking, but he showed no sign of wanting to walk away. I had the sense there was something else he wanted to tell our father. I gave his shoulder another squeeze.
“So, I also wanted to say I’m sorry. Not just about not going to the funeral, and not helping out more.” He swallowed. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about pushing you, on the stairs.” He paused. “And on the hill.”
My hand froze.
“I’m sorry I got so upset about maybe having to tell the police things about Mr. Peyton. I just had to come out and talk to you about it. I never meant to shove you. And I’m real sorry I didn’t call for help right away.” Another pause. “I was really scared.”
I took my hand off Thomas’s shoulder.
“So, I guess that’s all,” he said to our father. “I’ll come up and see you again soon.”
Then he turned to me and said, “Can we go see my new place now? I’d like to figure out where all my stuff is going to go.”
He stepped around me and started walking. I stood there, numb, and watched as Thomas made his way back to the car.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had help.
Thank you to Susan Lamb, Eva Kolcze, Danielle Perez, Juliet Ewers, Nick Storring, Kristin Cochrane, Spencer Barclay, Mark Rusher, Helen Heller, Bill Massey, Jeff Winch, Kara Welsh, Cathy Paine, Sophie Mitchell, Alex Kingsmill, Paige Barclay, Ali Karim, Brad Martin, Mark Streatfield and Elia Morrison.
And, of course, Neetha.
Trust Your Eyes Page 42
