(what kind of mother are you?)
As a rule, Lisa hated driving at night. The streetlights outlined the deep shadows more than banished them. The deejays grew hushed, playing tracks that never played in sunlight, warbling from her speakers into the nothingness. Night was a time when your worst ideas came to you, when your worst feelings seemed plausible.
No wonder this fucking cult meets then, she thought, turning into the Arsenal Lanes parking lot. She pulled in behind Karen’s Sundance, killed the engine. She glanced at the folder on the passenger seat, stuffed with Xeroxed copies of stories from The Los Angeles Times and The Arizona Republic.
She got out and walked to the glass doors. Fellowship, Karen said. Discussion with like-minded people.
What was the topic for tonight, kids?
She entered, being careful not to let the door thump back. She heard a man talking around the corner. The lobby opened up onto the lanes. She could not have imagined a less-appropriate place for a church.
The man’s voice came from the right.
She kept close to the check-in counter, stopping before she would’ve been visible to anyone.
“—and I couldn’t help it,” this man was saying, his voice thick with emotion. “I—I just would look at him and everything I feared or hated would just pour out of me. And then the one time he—” The man’s voice cracked. “This one time he left the door open, when he let our cat out and it ran … I … I just lost it. I just started punching.”
Lisa hunched, covering her mouth. Her stomach had been replaced by a clenching gloved fist.
“And how did that feel?” another man said. “Did you feel good about that?”
“Christ, no,” the first man said. “I hated myself more, which just made me hit harder.”
“You weren’t hitting your son,” the second man said. “You wished you could hit yourself, but couldn’t. Your failure wasn’t just in the assault on your child, but your inability to get at what really drove you—your own anxiety, your own fear.”
The first man made a sound like a choked sob.
“And that’s what makes you feel awful now,” the second man said. “And you should feel awful about that. That wounding is nowhere close to what your son endured, but you’ll never forget it.” A pause. “Right now, being fully honest with yourself, would you be able to hold yourself back?”
Lisa didn’t wait for an answer, bolting back outside. She reached Karen’s car and puked, her guts flexing and flexing and flexing. She leaned her head against Karen’s cool hood, her eyes gushing hot tears.
Jesus, kiddo, she thought. Jesus.
“You struggle to exist with your pain in a world that tries to tell you your pain doesn’t exist,” Roberts said.
He looked at them. “But you know your pain’s not going anywhere, and you struggle to balance it. How do you exist in such a world? How can you be honest with yourself and face the constant hurdles of being forced to pretend?”
He shook his head. “It’s even worse for parents, who are supposed to be guides. They have to exist with their pain, while teaching their children about their world. I can’t imagine the pressure to find that balance. How does one do it? With violence? Of course not, but I can understand it. With ignoring? But who’s being most disserved there—you or the child? And aren’t you just exacerbating yourself?”
He shrugged. “I have no answers. That’s on the individual and their pain.” He nodded. “Drive safe, everyone. Thank you for being honest with yourselves.”
The congregation rose, gathered their jackets, threw away their trash. As a group—that didn’t interact—they moved towards the doors.
Karen walked with them, her head down, stepped out into the chilly night.
And then Lisa said, “Earth to Karen.”
Karen’s head snapped up and there Lisa stood, between Karen’s Sundance and her own Toyota.
“Got a minute?” Lisa asked. She cast a glance around, at the people leaving. A few glanced back, but not with much interest.
Karen’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out. Of all things she could’ve expected, seeing Lisa here had not been one of them.
Lisa uncrossed her arms, stood straight. “We need to talk, hon.”
Karen stood beside her car. The thought came to her that she could bolt; just jump into her Sundance and peel out. What would Lisa do, chase her? She looked at Lisa’s face. The anger and disgust she’d seen on Tuesday was gone, replaced with a grim kind of thoughtfulness, as if she knew what Karen was thinking.
Karen nodded. “Okay.”
Lisa slid in on the driver’s side and picked up a folder off the passenger seat. “Hop in, kiddo.”
Karen got in and Lisa started the engine. Warm air came out the dash. “That was fucked up on Tuesday, kiddo,” she said.
Karen looked down at her hands.
“I’ve gone over and gone over and I can’t make heads or tails,” Lisa said. “I’m sorry I said that about your ex-husband, but I …” She shook her head. “None of it makes sense to me.”
Karen opened her mouth, and Lisa cut in, “Even after listening tonight.”
“You were listening?”
Lisa nodded. “Uh-huh.” She glanced at Karen. “You have no idea how you look, kiddo. You still look like a skeleton. Are you sleeping?”
“Yes,” Karen said.
Lisa pointed at her eyes. “Those bags say different, though.” She sighed. “What I’m saying is, you look as bad as you did when you were cutting—” She gestured to Karen’s bare arms. “—which you clearly aren’t, anymore. So what’s keeping you this way?”
Karen opened her mouth again, and Lisa said, “I think it’s this place. You blew off your own kid to come here, without even a phone call. You look like shit. And what happened on Tuesday …” She shook her head, then shrugged. “So I checked out your Darren Roberts.”
“You what?”
“I researched him. And don’t go all high and mighty on me, hon. Of all the times when you need to listen to someone, now’s that time.”
She’d placed the folder in Karen’s lap. “Five years ago, your Roberts was implicated in the suicide of three parishioners.”
Everyone around Karen got turned down to zero, like someone turning off the stereo just as the rock anthem hit its final chorus. “What?”
“He was running an evangelical outfit out in Arizona. Three of the members hung themselves from a tree across from the plaza where Roberts had set up shop. Their suicide notes referenced the church or Roberts. He hadn’t helped them, was the gist.”
Lisa settled back in her seat. “He was never charged, of course. The other members, plus Roberts’s partners, all confirmed the three were ill, but you got the feeling, from quotes, that officials would’ve charged Roberts if they’d had a smoking gun instead of just smoke. What went on in that church wasn’t exactly normal.”
Karen looked down at the folder, but didn’t open it.
“I’m worried about you, kiddo,” Lisa said. “I’m worried a lot. You’re not better—”
“You can’t get better,” Karen murmured.
“What?” Lisa asked. “Jesus.” She leaned forward, grabbed Karen’s hands so Karen would look at her. “Honey, I don’t know who put that shit in your head—whether it’s Roberts or something else—but you have to get it out. Roberts isn’t helping you and this is affecting your son. Not just you, but your son. Don’t you see that?”
Karen stared into Lisa’s face, at the earnestness there, and her heart broke.
(jesus she’s almost crying)
And with that came shame. Shame at making Lisa feel this way. Shame at being unable to explain it.
“Your husband’s trying to take your son,” Lisa said. “You’ve just started working again. There’s so much going on that you need to be here for. If you need help, I will and can help you. Do you understand that?”
Numbly, Karen nodded.
Lisa sat back, eyes flicking about her face. �
�I guess you do.” She looked off, at the bowling alley. “Listen, I don’t wanna hold you up. It’s late. I just couldn’t think of another way of getting to you.”
“I understand,” Karen said. Her voice shook.
Lisa continued not to look at her. “Call me tomorrow or Sunday, okay?” A glance over. “Please?”
“Sure,” she said and it was like speaking through a straw made of phlegm. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, kiddo,” Lisa said, and lit a cigarette.
The doorbell rang the next afternoon. Karen came down the front stairs, bent around to see through the glass upper portion of the front door. The shadow of a large man huddled in the entryway.
She opened the door to reveal the mailman, the bag on his shoulder as large as her torso. “Karen Dempsey?”
“Yes?” she asked.
The mailman thrust out a clipboard. “Certified mail. You have to sign for it.”
She signed off, brow furrowed. “What is it?”
The mailman offered a look, then traded the clipboard with a thick envelope from his bag. He handed it to her. “Have a nice day,” he said, and let himself out onto the porch.
Karen held the envelope with numb fingers.
Stockton County Family Court, the return address read.
(oh no)
The envelope torn open, shreds of the fold falling from her fingers, she pulled out the thick folded carbons and official letterhead. Phrases jumped out at her, meaningless to her eyes, punching hard nonetheless.
—KEVIN MATTHEW DEMPSEY—
(oh no oh no oh no)
—petition for the custody—
(nick not looking at her as he went through the ritual: “same time on sunday then?” knowing something was missing something wasn’t being said)
—hearing set for October 22, 1991—
Karen leaned against the door; if it hadn’t been there, she would’ve fallen.
(we’re only doing this for kevin)
“Oh no,” she said and her vision blurred.
She was back in the kitchen, phone screwed to her ear, with no memory of getting there.
The phone rang in her ear.
(i will and can help you)
(how can you be honest with yourself?)
Lisa’s voice: “Hello?”
“He’s doing it,” Karen said and didn’t even recognize the cracking, wet voice as her own. “He’s suing for custody.”
“What? What, Karen?”
But Karen dropped the phone.
4
Broken
Lisa drove. Karen sat in the passenger seat and directed her out of the city and into the eastern suburbs. The past twenty-four hours existed as a blur, with only random cohesion around certain objects—a coffee cup, Lisa spreading spare blankets over the couch, her own hollowed reflection in the bathroom mirror—marking out the time passed.
Lisa turned down Nick’s street, passed his house. She turned around to face the way she came and coasted to a stop across the mouth of his driveway. The porch light came on.
“Should’ve gotten Kevin yesterday,” Lisa muttered, eyeballing the house through the backseat side window.
Karen unbuckled. “Leave it, Lisa.”
“You going to be okay?”
She let herself out instead of answering, and the cool night air was like a dash of cold water on her foggy brain.
Nick and Kevin stood on the porch, backlit by the light. She watched them come down the concrete steps and willed herself to stand still, not give anything away, for Kevin’s sake.
(isn’t that what got you into trouble in the first place,)
Roberts asked in her head. She shut the voice out.
They reached the bottom. She glanced at Nick, his face invisible in the shadows, and hunkered down, opening her arms. Kevin glanced up at his dad, then came forward and Karen reeled him in, kissing the top of his head.
“Hey, boy,” she said, breathing in his smell. “Get your bag and climb in.”
He retrieved his bag from Nick while she opened the backseat door. Lisa’s voice boomed from within, “Hey, King Kick-Ass! Climb on in here! I made some room for you.”
Kevin tossed his bag in and followed. Karen closed the door and then stood in front of it to face her ex-husband.
Nick hadn’t moved. “Ran into a door at school, huh.” His voice was a low, hard purr, like a fist wrapped in velvet. “Did you tell him to say that?”
“I didn’t tell him to say anything.”
“That fits,” Nick said, “since you didn’t tell me anything. Not a phone call, not an aside on Friday. I knew that door story was horseshit. Why didn’t you tell me he was being bullied?”
“Because he didn’t tell me,” Karen said, an edge in her voice. “I didn’t know about it until I came across the fight.”
“Which happened because you were late,” Nick replied. “Your friend Lisa just happened to stop it.”
Karen grasped the tail-ends of her anger. Anything better than the lethargy, than feeling like a stone stuck deep in the sand as the tide washed over her. “And what would’ve been different if he’d been here, Nick? You wouldn’t have known about it until four or five hours after the fact, when you finally got home from work.”
Nick’s outline stiffened. “The schools here—”
“—are the same as anywhere else,” Karen said. “They have bullies. Don’t try to pawn off that ‘suburbia is so much better’ bullshit with me, okay?”
“You still should’ve told me.”
“I would’ve,” Karen said, “if Kevin had told me. He doesn’t talk to me.”
“He talks to me,” Nick said. “I asked him and he told me.”
“How hard did you ask him, Nick?” she asked. “I know how you get.” With the briefest pause, she said. “I got the letter, Nick.”
Nick’s shoulders hunched, as if anticipating a blow.
“You decided not to listen to what I said at the meeting,” Karen went on.
“We listened,” Nick said. “We just agreed it didn’t mean much. You’re thinking about the past, Karen, and we’re concerned about Kevin’s future.”
“Do you really want to drag Kevin through this?” Karen said, “Jesus, the divorce was bad enough.”
“Better than how you’ve been dragging him through for the past four years,” Nick said, then stopped. He lowered his head and hissed out an exhale, hands on his hips. Behind him, Moira stepped out onto the porch, arms crossed and hands cupping her elbows. “I’m not doing this because of you, although you’ve been pissing me the fuck off.”
“Making you happy isn’t one of my concerns, anymore,” she replied.
“About fucking Kevin! Jesus, this isn’t about me and you.” He gestured towards the car. “I’m angry at you over Kevin.”
She heard a car door open behind her, but didn’t immediately acknowledge it. “Over what, Nick? You were apparently easy like Sunday morning the past few years.”
“The bullying,” Nick said. “The school. The neighborhood. Not being there to pick him up. The fact that he won’t say shit if he has a mouthful. The fact that you decided to stop talking to me about how we raised our son when you lost your job. What, since you could be around twenty-four-seven, you decided you didn’t need to include me, anymore? And everything wrong with Kevin—”
“There is nothing wrong with Kevin,” Karen snapped.
Nick lowered his head, bore this out. “And everything wrong with Kevin can be traced to you. Everything.” He shook himself. “Look, before, you were fine—”
“Thanks for the compliment. I really decided to be a parent to earn your approval.”
“—but this past year has lit up the sign blaring INTERVENE NOW. You just started working again—and a temp job at that. It can’t be easy to raise a child alone. Moira and I can provide—”
“—what, Nick?” Karen asked, stepping forward. “What can you provide? A beautiful home that will be empty most of the day? A sc
hool with all the latest funding that will still have bullies? Parenting by phone call because you’re always away? Tell me. Tell me exactly what it is that you can provide that I can’t.”
A beat.
“A normal life,” Nick said, the anger gone from his voice and, because of that, his words struck harder and deeper. Karen felt her anger slip through mental fingers and leave the exhaustion, confusion, and shame. “A life where his mother isn’t trying to fill the hours because the economy sucks and took her job. A parent that doesn’t have to balance the checkbook in increasingly interesting ways. A parent that, because he doesn’t have to worry about those things, can introduce our son to hobbies, sports, friends. Our kid doesn’t even have any fucking friends, Karen. Didn’t you even notice that?”
She hadn’t, but she didn’t let that realization show on her face, any more than she let any of the other things show.
“Kevin deserves a normal life,” Nick said, “and I can provide it.”
“Oh what horseshit,” Lisa said and Karen spun to see the smaller woman round the front of her car.
“Very eloquent, Nick,” she said. “Very nice. Of course you forget to mention how all this concern stems from some serious fucking ego-bruising.”
She stepped up to him and Nick stepped back. “I mean, we’re being honest here, right? You say all this stuff about what Kevin is and what Kevin needs—not that you would fucking know because you spend six days out of every fucking month with him—but what’s at the core? Kevin started having these ‘problems’ and, all of a sudden, it was ‘holy shit, I really fucked up here,’ wasn’t it?”
Lisa kept approaching and Nick kept retreating, Lisa followed him deeper into the driveway. Now Karen could see half his face and he just looked flabbergasted.
“You dumped your son on your ex-wife so you could go play house,” Lisa went on, “and—surprise, surprise—she does a pretty good fucking job of it!”
“I never—”
“Shut the fuck up a minute, will ya?” Lisa interrupted. “Kevin’s actually doing okay, and being raised right. Pat yourself on the back, absentee father! Good work!”
Bones are Made to be Broken Page 34
