The Weight of Night

by Christine Carbo

  She pulled away and said, “My husband went home with the kids so they could get some sleep. I stayed with Jeremy all night, and I was waiting for Ron to come this morning so I could come see you. I peeked in your room earlier, but you were sleeping. Come in, do you want to sit down?”

  “No, no, I just wanted to see Jeremy. To check on him.”

  “Yes, by all means, please, come in. He’s woken a few times already, but he dozes in and out now.”

  She walked me back into the dark room. The shades were pulled and Jeremy lay sleeping. I went and stood next to his bed, careful of the monitor and tubes and wires still connected to him. He looked very thin to me, especially under the blanket. Linda leaned against the wall, quiet, and the monitor chirped softly. I watched him with his eyes closed and his face still and peaceful until his eyes fluttered open. Even in the dim light, I could see his pupils were large and black. He stared at me without moving. Then his eyes filled with tears, and I was worried that the sight of me had brought back awful memories. “Hi, Jeremy,” I said. “It’s Gretchen, from the—”

  “I know,” he said before I finished. “I know.” He reached out and took my hand, this time gently, not frantically like the night before.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “I’m okay. Just tired,” he said.

  “I bet. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, this morning. I was hungry.”

  “I’m thinking you were probably very hungry,” I said, smiling. He nodded and smiled back. We stayed that way for a few moments, staring at each other until his eyes closed again. I reached out and swept his hair off his forehead, and he opened his eyes again for a moment. They glistened with moisture, and he whispered the words “thank you.”

  “No thank-yous necessary,” I said, and couldn’t resist. I leaned over, careful of his IV, and pressed my cheek against his frail neck. I could feel myself tremble with emotion, and I could feel a single hot, wet tear fall onto my cheek.

  38

  * * *

  Monty

  ONCE THE DOCTOR declared Jeremy fit for travel, three days after we’d found him, I saw the Coreys off at the airport. They were ready to leave the mountains, probably forever. After my last wave good-bye, I went back to Glacier, my home, my haven. Rain had finally come, and it had been coming down for eight hours straight so far. The mist hung low over the mountains, and we were thankful for the long-awaited downpour, which was helping to rapidly put an end to the fires.

  I sat in our conference room at headquarters with Ali and ­Herman. They had stopped in to fill Ken and me in on a few things. Combs had lasted another forty-eight hours in the ICU, then passed away the evening before Jeremy left the hospital. Of course, we had nothing substantial yet to connect the other crimes directly to him. The sermons we found tucked in the Bible weren’t themselves proof of anything.

  “The search of his house is complete,” Ali said, taking a sip of coffee from a mug that read I’d Rather Be Hiking—GNP. I told both her and Herman that they should keep their cups. “Souvenirs.” I smiled.

  “So what did they find?” I asked.

  “Ray found some trace with Luminol in the shed. It’s very old and degraded. He’s sending it in for DNA analysis, says we’ll be lucky if we get anything. But we’re keeping our fingers crossed that we’ll be able to make a match to either the DNA in the bones you found or to Samuel Erickson’s family. Any luck getting the Faraways to submit?”

  “No, not yet,” I said. “The sister, Molly Sands, called me, said she’d tried to persuade her parents, but they’re being stubborn. I’m not sure we should keep pushing them at this point. I mean, if they don’t want to know, we have to respect that.”

  Ali frowned. “How could they not want to know?”

  I thought about the Faraways’ sad faces. They had all been ripped apart by Nathan’s disappearance, just as the Coreys would have been if Gretchen hadn’t gone to the plant.

  “I don’t know. I keep wondering if having answers would give them unexpected comfort, or if uncertainty truly is better for them, because it means they can still hold on to some hope.”

  Ali didn’t respond. She thought about it, taking another sip of the bitter coffee I’d brewed an hour earlier. Her hair had frizzed and curled into ringlets from the rain.

  Herman nodded. “I think you’re right. We can’t be the judges of that.”

  “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep trying to solve this,” Ali said.

  “I agree. We just might not be able to do it by pestering that particular family for DNA,” I said.

  “What about the buckle? Are you going to show it to them?”

  I’d already thought about it. I knew the Essex grave belonged to Nathan, even though I couldn’t prove it yet, but I didn’t feel the need to push that onto the Faraways if they weren’t ready for it—especially if, after all these years, they’d come to the conclusion that it was better for them to not know. After the vanishing of a child, the web that family members build to sustain themselves is so fragile. It hangs precariously in the air on tentative structures, its thin, frail filament cast in an attempt to simply get through one day at a time. To tear that filament apart now without total certainty seemed like a cruel prospect. I thought of the ways in which I’d built my own webbing over the years—my job, my compulsions for tidiness and order, and my need to search for the truth. “Probably not,” I said. “Maybe I could tell Molly, since she feels differently, but I don’t know. I’d prefer it if we had more solid proof first. Let me know about the blood,” I said.

  Herman and Ali stood, both shook my hand, and told me they’d be talking to me soon.

  “Thanks for the cup,” Herman said.

  “Yeah,” Ali said, and held it up. “Maybe I’ll actually do it one of these days.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Go hiking.” She smiled and left, and I sat in my office alone. The birds outside chirped gleefully in spite of the downpour, perhaps because of it. I sighed, thinking I wasn’t sure how I felt. It had all happened so fast in a whirlwind of smoke, fear, and very little sleep. And I knew that in this business, it wouldn’t be long before another AMBER Alert was issued, or another child turned up hurt or dead, attacked by his or her own family or some stepdad or mother’s boyfriend. But for now this one was safe and sound on his way back to Ohio. And for that, I thanked the ground, the stars, and everything in between, including, of course, the rain.

  39

  * * *

  Gretchen

  SIX DAYS AFTER finding Jeremy in the aluminum plant, I woke up at dawn to the delicious smell of wet soil and foliage. I threw on some jeans, a T-shirt, and a fleece. The temperature had dropped considerably. Three days before, the wind had finally pushed in a large cold front. It brought heavy rain, and even snow to the higher elevations, finally snuffing out most of the fires and getting the larger ones to manageable states. Today was the first clear day.

  My shoulder and neck were healing from my tussle with Combs, and I felt like a kid again, giddy to see clear, blue skies. I turned on the radio in my kitchen as I made tea and listened to the local newscaster claiming that the two main fires in and near Glacier—Sheep and Trail Creek—and the most recent, Columbia Fire, were 90 percent under control, something they weren’t expecting until the fall. The scope of the cold front was unexpected but very much welcome.

  A pale, tangerine-colored light spread in a thin line over the eastern sky above the mountains, and I decided to take my steaming cup outside and watch the sun rise. I unlocked my front door and went out. The air smelled of tangy, freshly cut wet hay, and one of the neighbor horses whinnied in the distance. I walked over to the split-railed fence on the edge of my yard and leaned on the smoothly warped and weathered wood to stare out over the golden fields.

  The horses had their heads turned toward the eastern mountains, a
s if they were also watching the start of the new day. Thin clouds left behind by the storm front had stretched above like silver blankets and the rising sun began to bathe them and the mountaintops pale pink and orange. Emotions I couldn’t describe ran through me at the beautiful sight, and I felt a sensation that something askew inside me had been returned to its proper alignment.

  Not because I had become a hero. That’s what the papers had called me, but don’t think the irony wasn’t lost on me. The last time I was featured in a newspaper, I was Marerittjente—Nightmare Girl. And deep down, of course, I did not feel like a hero. In fact, I felt fraudulent even thinking of that. I still felt terrible for attacking Jeremy, adding insult to injury, even though I know it got the job done. I suppose when you’ve spent fifteen years beating yourself up—carrying a bleeding albatross around your neck—it doesn’t simply go away, even after such profound catharsis.

  I had spent some time with Jeremy in the hospital before he left. We played cards and watched a little TV, just sitting quietly together. We’ve agreed to stay in touch and exchanged email addresses. I think he’ll be happy to be home in Ohio, and to see his buddies again, but I’m not sure how that will all go. He fell silent when I asked him about his friends, and I could sense he was nervous about how he might be perceived.

  Linda said she also wants to stay in touch and has promised to keep me posted on Jeremy. She, Ron, and Jeremy had already spoken extensively with a psychiatrist during the first few days while Jeremy recuperated. They’ve been advised to watch him carefully, to avoid overloading him with schoolwork or simply assuming that everything should just return immediately back to normal. Linda said the doctor also warned her that Jeremy would probably exhibit erratic behavior for some time, as well as possibly reverting back to whiny, younger childlike conduct. Linda said she understood and even expected that.

  While still in the hospital, they’d already lined up a counselor for him in Ohio. They’re hopeful he’ll communicate and not shut down, which, according to the psychiatrist Ron and Linda spoke to, is the most important thing—that he doesn’t bury or bottle it up. Burying trauma, she claimed, does the most damage of all.

  It was a slow process, I imagined—helping your child to trust the world again—and I felt confident they would be very patient through it all. Linda and Ron planned on finding someone back home to talk to as well.

  In general, the details of the case still linger. I know Ken was upset with himself for not checking the hotel alibi and the conference more thoroughly. Monty, Ali, and Herman were kicking themselves for not checking the aluminum plant earlier, with that bumper sticker right in front of their faces. But I know they shouldn’t be so hard on themselves. With the plant shut down and the sticker being so old, it hardly seemed relevant. They did what any detectives would do—they checked the names of former employees.

  I’ve concluded that Monty knows about my history now—that he looked into it and put the pieces together. He won’t say it directly, but I could see it in his eyes, in the way they swam with empathy at the hospital when he looked at me, how he told me not to blame myself and that I’d already carried a load long enough. When he said he’d make sure the nurses attended me while I slept, that clinched it for me. It wasn’t pity Monty expressed, though, and that was important. I couldn’t bear pity. I didn’t come all the way to America, to the mountains and expansive skies of Montana to live under the weight of shame or even sympathy. I know that my secret remains safe with him. I’ve always trusted Monty.

  In a way, I’ve buried trauma myself by keeping secrets. But I didn’t bury anything at fifteen when it happened. I railed, moaned, cried, threw up, went numb, got angry, became inconsolable, and ran through a million other emotions. I remain thankful for the help I received in Norway from both my sleep doctor and my counselors. They helped me process what I could of the ordeal and helped me hang on enough to take things one day at a time. Which is exactly what the Coreys are now forced to do. Wendy and Kyle too.

  They visited me, Wendy and Kyle. They came to my house two days ago, after I returned from the hospital. I slept most of the first day: deep, peaceful sleep with no sleepwalking symptoms. I moved slowly at first. But by the afternoon, I felt better and I answered her call and invited them over. The three of us sat inside drinking tea and watching the horses huddling under a distant tree in the adjacent field through my living room window. Wendy could hardly look me in the face when I told her I was sorry that her father hadn’t come out of his coma. I could tell she was not only reeling from grief, that she felt deeply crushed and responsible in some way for what happened to Jeremy and to me, even though she didn’t say it. She could hardly speak at all, and Kyle actually tried to make conversation in her silence.

  Because I wanted to offer her some solace, I told her that what happened to me in that plant paled in comparison to what happened to Jeremy, and that I was simply glad I could get the boy out before he ended up like the others. When I mentioned them—the other possible victims—her face went white like a snow goose, and she put her face into her hands and began to weep.

  I wasn’t sure how she would ever get over what her father had done, but then again you’d be surprised what the human spirit can endure. I didn’t tell her that I thought she’d get through it. She’d have to figure that one out on her own. For now her life would remain a mess, with reporters hassling her and the eyes of a small community forever on her, questioning how she couldn’t have known, judging her for being related to a monster. I felt her pain deeply, and all I could do to help was remind her that I was there for her if she needed anything. I couldn’t share with her what I knew: the world doesn’t need permission to create disaster and devastation, but that the same world will also produce limitless beauty and good.

  The silver lining in the whole thing was that when they left, I watched Kyle open the car door for his mother even in the pouring rain before he walked around to his side to drive her home. To see him rising to the occasion, being strong when his mother couldn’t, made all the difference. Incremental changes, baby steps. Progress.

  So no, there’s no heroism in any of this, and there’s certainly no releasing of the albatross. There’s no taking away what I did, ever. Over and over, I will see Per’s blood across his pillow. I will never stop missing my older brother, never stop feeling profound sorrow not only for ending his life but for ripping him away from my parents.

  I’ve never shared the blame with them. They couldn’t have known my sleepwalking would get so serious. My counselor back then pointed out how ultimately it was their job to keep both of their children safe, including me from my own self, if they knew I had sleep issues. But ultimately I didn’t buy that. They tried to forgive me, to continue being good parents to me, but in the end, the pain reflected in their eyes became a mirror too clear to view. Some wrongs from the past don’t ever release their grip on the present, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still fight for the future.

  In the meantime, I wouldn’t do anything differently, really. I intended to follow my usual routines: locking myself properly in at night, taking my meds, and watching my caffeine intake. I planned to continue my jogging, enjoying the scenery of the beautiful place where I lived. I intended on getting back to work quickly, continuing to help others behind the scenes in whatever small ways I could, enjoying my coworkers, and trying to be a friend to Wendy.

  I have felt a little lighter, a little happier, in the past days, as if a dam has been released, expelling a great load of powerful water. I’ve felt a smile on my face more often than usual and, once in a while, I’ve even caught myself singing to some carefree, meaningless song on the radio. I couldn’t tell you the last time I did that—maybe when I was fourteen. I’ve also felt my emotions much closer to the surface over the past week—a common occurrence after trauma, I was told by the trauma specialist who also visited me in the hospital. Tears have suddenly welled up and betrayed me at unexpect
ed moments, and sometimes I’ve felt as if they’d never stop—that I’d create a river of them that would sweep me away and carry me all the way back to the sapphire blue of the North Sea.

  I guess Jeremy vicariously helped me to accept that I needed to appreciate myself more and life in general, that it’s not enough simply to survive—you have to live too. I’m not sure how he helped me see that. It wasn’t anything in particular that he said. It just hit me in the days following that night. Perhaps it was the way he smiled back at the nurses and squeezed their hands when they held his. Perhaps it was how he slipped his fingers around mine so unself-consciously in the hospital room and simply held them—how he understood the importance of the human connection even when he felt broken, weary in his body, his mind, and his soul.

  As for Monty, I’m not going to shut him out, but I don’t intend to invite trouble either. Like I said, we’re all still dealing with what happened. My sleep disorder is real and must be reckoned with. I’m not going to give up living, but I’m not ready to pretend I’m normal when I’m not. I don’t expect everyone to understand that, but if anyone can, it’s Monty.

  The sun had come up fully, returning the sky to its rightful color of clear blue and painting the fields yellow. The horses had lowered their heads and begun to graze. Just four months before, on a cool, misty spring morning, I’d seen an entire herd of elk grazing in the early dawn, steam erupting from the nostrils of the two bulls, and the reedy cries from the harem of cows reaching me before they began to head back to the higher elevations. Now the air hung crisp and still, and the grass stayed perfectly motionless.

  I stood, listening to the noise of nature stirring, the groundhogs and field mice scurrying through the hay and long grass at its edges. Freshly rolled bales of hay stood in the field like golden treasure chests. A skein of geese honked in the distance and flew above, perfecting their chevron before the days of fall arrived. From a maple tree closer to my house, a flock of chickadees stirred, rising as one unit and making erratic sharp turns until they settled onto a tree on the other side of the field.