by Beck, Jamie
Sam tucked the cop’s card in his jeans pocket and reached for me. Normally, his tenderness brought me pleasure, but I remained numb. Would I feel happiness again?
Sam thumbed a stray tear from my cheek.
I pulled away, ashamed and confused by my conflicting emotions.
We sat in silence, my thoughts a slideshow of our life together. Our first date—dinner at Antonio’s followed by Erin Brockovich. The first time he’d met my mother and Margot, on my twenty-first birthday, which we’d celebrated at the Royal Sonesta Harbor Court Baltimore, much to Margot’s chagrin, who would’ve preferred a weekend in Vegas. Our first anniversary, when he’d filled our bedroom with peonies and peppered me with kisses. Carter’s brilliant grin when he’d taken first place in the fifth-grade science fair, and Kim’s failed attempt at ballet. Everything had seemed to be plugging along.
We’d had a plan that kept us in sync and protected our children. It’d helped us create a happy, healthy, loving family. We had strayed from the plan, and now faced a real crisis. How could I live with this guilt? How could Sam? And who else was responsible?
Tomorrow I’d follow up with the police.
My phone buzzed, so I checked it in case it was my mother. No. Mimi again. My muscles constricted—the opposite of how I normally reacted to her calls. We always supported each other, but this time felt different. As with the budget debate, our interests in the aftermath of Rowan’s party were not aligned, which drew a line straight through the middle of everything.
Laden with sorrow for all of us, I hung my head and prayed for the strength and wisdom to get my family through the crisis.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MIMI
Sunday, January 10, 3:30 a.m.
The Gillette home
A raccoon hissed as I unloaded another bag of empty beer cans into the recycle bin beside the garage. My backward stumble caused the critter to scurry beneath a bush, thereby leaving me blessedly alone in the darkness. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me—the tip of my nose already cold—and stared toward heaven for a sign of God’s mercy.
Rowan’s postarrest meltdown while we were cleaning up had broken something in me. His emotional breakdown proved he wasn’t nearly as tough as he pretended to be. My guilty conscience made me shoo him to bed rather than force him to finish the task. I’d never had Grace’s parenting discipline, largely because my parents’ looser style had made me happier than my uncle’s. Now it looked like I’d been too soft.
Thinking of Grace made me edgy. What news had the doctors given her family? Her silence was suffocating.
Overhead, the moon played hide-and-seek behind sweeping gray clouds. The universe’s mysteries made me wish I’d paid more attention in science classes. My life might be better had I been more studious. But longing for a different life erased my son, my salon, and other bright spots, so I backed away from that and wished only for Carter to be okay.
When no sign of mercy or other message revealed itself, I headed inside, where I leaned with my back against the kitchen door and hung my head.
Cleaning up hadn’t quieted the recurring images of Carter splayed on the basement floor in utter shock and agony. Grace had freaked out when Kim cut her own bangs, so she probably wasn’t coping well tonight. Their family’s misery rooted me in place as if wet sand filled my limbs.
I dragged myself to the counter to check my phone for a message. Still nothing. I’d lost track of how many times hot tears had coated my eyes tonight. Honestly, my eyeballs might melt at this rate. But whenever I closed them, a sickening mantra played on an endless loop: What would become of us all?
As I shucked out of my coat and tossed it on a kitchen chair, Rowan reappeared wearing plaid pajama pants and a Tigers football T-shirt, his arms hugging his waist. His ashen face looked years younger than fifteen, which I guessed made sense, considering he’d been fingerprinted and processed mere hours ago. “Mom?”
I set one hand on the counter to steady myself, but all I wanted right then was to fall into bed. In my fantasy, I’d slip into a peaceful sleep and wake up to good news. “I thought you went to bed?”
“My texts keep going off. Word is spreading that I ratted everyone out.” Color flooded his pale face as he choked on despair. “I didn’t want to, but you made me give that cop my phone even though I told you I didn’t see what happened. I swear, no one wanted Carter to get hurt like that. Now they’re probably getting arrested. How will I go to school when everyone hates me?”
Unfortunately, I knew that kind of dread, having long suffered as an outcast for reasons I’d never fully understood. Grace had been a rare exception: a friend from the beginning despite our opposite personalities. Because of them, perhaps.
She’d been the one who’d encouraged me to open my own shop, and on its first day, she’d arrived with champagne and let me give her any haircut I wanted—so unlike her to give up that control. It proved how much she trusted me, and her faith had meant everything. I wouldn’t own that shop or be handling divorced life half as well without her.
The fact that her son got hurt because of mine and his friends planted a sharp ache deep in my chest.
Neither my son nor I could turn back time, but we could show integrity. “There’s no shame in telling the truth and cooperating. When good people mess up, they take their lumps.” The time Uncle Tommy accused me of stealing four dollars from his coffee can of cash to buy a sleeve of colorful hair scrunchies came back to me. There’d been so many dollar bills in that can I could hardly believe he’d noticed. But once caught, I’d copped to my crime. Like he always said, confession is the first step toward redemption. Channeling him, I said, “It’s hard, but it’ll make you stronger in the long run. Let those other kids and parents blame you, and me. Heck, some will even blame Carter. Crazy, I know, how people like to make excuses rather than take responsibility. But, Rowan, I’m not built that way, and I hope you aren’t, either. If we could’ve done things differently to have prevented this, we need to own that, okay? It’s called integrity, and as long as you’ve got that, you’ll always like yourself no matter what other people say.” Most of the time, anyway.
His shoulders drooped after he wiped away tears with his forearm. “Why would you get blamed? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Didn’t I? “I left a group of teen boys alone in a house with liquor. I should’ve hidden the booze, or at least let the other parents know you’d be here unsupervised.”
He dropped his head for a moment and mumbled, “I’m sorry it got out of hand.”
When kids are little, we teach them to apologize, like that is enough in and of itself. As an adult, I’d rarely found that even a heartfelt “sorry” did the full job. The first time I caught Dirk cheating, he’d seemed sorry, until he’d done it again. Contrition without action was meaningless.
“I keep thinking about Dad.” He repeatedly bumped his butt against the refrigerator in a rocking motion.
“Dad?” I scowled because Rowan should have been more concerned with his own mistakes, disappointing me, and the fact that a boy he’d known since they were wearing Pull-Ups was in the hospital. “Why are you thinking about him?”
“He’s gonna be so mad and think I’m a loser.” Rowan’s face crumpled. “He barely sees me now. This will make it even worse. What if he hates me for it?”
Slam! Guilt flooded my system again. I’d never escape how my divorce had hurt my son. I crossed to Rowan and wrapped him in a hug—as much for my own comfort as for his. “Honey, he doesn’t think you’re a loser, and he could never hate you.” But Dirk would probably find a way to blame me for everything. Maybe he wouldn’t even be wrong.
“He’s gonna kill me.” Rowan burrowed his head against my shoulder.
My son never worried about whether I would kill him or stop loving him. You’d think my dependability would be rewarded with kindness and deference. Instead, he saved his best behavior for his father and took out his worst on me. “He won’t kill you, but I
’ll call him first thing tomorrow and explain everything, okay?”
Rowan eased away, nodding. “I only invited Carter because you told me to get the guys to back off, but now look—it’s all worse and I’m getting blamed.”
I rubbed my hand over my chest to loosen the gathering tightness. While I’d worried that meddling could backfire, I hadn’t foreseen this unholy mess. “Honey, we all have regrets, but I’m honestly too tired for this conversation right now. Go on up to bed and we’ll discuss how we can make amends in the morning.” I kissed his head.
He took a step away and then stopped to glance over his shoulder. “Have you heard from Mrs. Phillips?”
I shook my head and set a hand over my stomach, which twisted again, as if the full strength of Grace’s suffering had reached inside me and squeezed. “Obviously they’ve got a lot going on tonight. We won’t know anything for a while, so say some prayers for hopeful news.”
Rowan’s chin wobbled. “What if he can’t walk? What’s going to happen to us and everyone?”
My brain ached from the uncertainty. “I don’t know, Rowan. But you should be more worried about Carter than about the boys who pushed him around—or even us—right now.” My tone carried a note of warning.
He jabbed his elbow back against the wall with a growl. Classic Dirk move. Genetics could be a bitch—or maybe it was learned behavior. Either way, I lacked the stamina to lecture him at this hour. He muttered something before barking, “This sucks so bad.”
Welcome to adulthood, I wanted to say but didn’t. “Fretting and crying won’t change one damn thing, Rowan, so pull yourself together. When the shit hits the fan, the only way out is to dig deep and think about what you can do to make it better. Now please go get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll come up with a plan.”
He hung his head, turned around, and left the kitchen. His footfalls broke the silence as he trudged up the steps. When his door clicked shut, I closed my eyes and thought about Dirk. The knot in my chest coiled tighter, but he should hear about this from me, not the grapevine. I scrubbed my face two or three times before reaching for my phone and texting.
Hey, it’s me. There was an incident tonight at the house involving our son that we need to talk about. I want you to hear it from me first, so call me when you get this message.
Thinking of my ex reminded me of poor Rich Polanti. The man deserved an apology. He would probably read about the party in this week’s local paper and rejoice in his narrow escape from me and my problems, but it’d been rude to bolt without explanation. I texted him a quick apology, then turned off the lights to go upstairs and rest. On my way through the living room, my phone rang. Dirk . . . at this hour?
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I answered without preamble.
“I’m up. What happened?” The slight slur told me he’d been drinking. Same with that husky rasp he got after a night with the guys. The only good thing about those warning signs was how they reminded me that I didn’t need or want him in my life anymore.
I slumped onto the nearest living room chair and summarized what had transpired.
“Jesus Christ, Mimi. Arrested?”
“Yep. Supplying minors. But at least he didn’t get arrested in connection with Carter’s injuries like some of the other boys involved might. Honestly, I’m a little worried that the push was intentional. The team has been giving Carter and others a hard time because of their parents’ position in the stupid budget debate. But if Carter is permanently hurt—” My stomach clenched. “Oh Lord, thinking about it makes me want to throw up.”
“And you’re sure Rowan had nothing to do with that?”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “Pretty sure. He was too scared to lie to me or the cops. And the cops haven’t come back, so no one else must’ve accused him. He says he was with a girl in his room when it happened.”
Dirk grunted. “He’d better be using condoms.”
“We’ve talked about being responsible and respectful to women.” Because you weren’t, I almost added. Fortunately, I kept my big mouth shut. Not that I was thrilled that my fifteen-year-old was throwing parties and having sex while other kids trashed the house. “He’s made mistakes, but he’s a good kid.”
“He stole your rum, hosted a damn party, and had a girl in his room, so you’re naive to take him at his word.” Dirk cursed softly. “Why’d he do something this stupid?”
As if Dirk had never thrown a party, drunk beer, or had sex in high school—although it’d be a bad idea to spout the pot-and-kettle saying now.
“He says it snowballed. When I left, there were four boys playing video games.” Five, if I counted finding Carter outside. “News of the empty house spread on social media. When kids showed up with booze, he didn’t know how to turn them away.”
Hearing my justifications only strengthened Dirk’s point. Did I whitewash my son’s faults? Still, Dirk brought out the bull in me, and his lectures were a red cape I charged at despite the chance of getting speared.
“I warned you letting those kids drink would come back to bite you.” Dirk clucked his tongue. I closed my eyes, absorbing the blow. Others were also thinking it. More evidence to justify their low opinions of me even though many allowed the same thing. “When his coaches get wind of this, he could be kicked off the team.”
“Football season is over.” If this were in season, it’d be a different ball game—no pun intended. However, the arrest could keep Rowan from becoming a captain in his senior year. And depending on the severity of Carter’s injuries, the school might make examples of everyone involved. If Rowan couldn’t play football, it’d kill him. Worse, his chance at an affordable college education would die—they don’t hand out Division I offers to kids who get kicked off teams. But Dirk’s making this all about my mistakes pissed me off. “While you’re criticizing me, remember that Rowan wouldn’t have been at home tonight if you hadn’t blown him off this weekend. What the hell was so important that you had to disappoint your son?”
“Don’t change the subject and turn this on me.”
I rolled my eyes toward heaven. “You’re right—it’s a waste of time to ask you to take responsibility for anything, including Rowan.” Missed child support payments, skipped visits—he had some gall to scold me.
“You want me to take responsibility, you got it. Maybe we start by moving Rowan here since you obviously can’t manage a teenage boy.”
Yeah, right. He couldn’t handle the responsibility for more than three days, and Miranda wasn’t interested in raising Rowan. “Don’t threaten me when you’ve hardly been around these past five years. Why do you think he’s so insecure he couldn’t turn all the partiers away? If you need someone to blame, look in the damned mirror.”
“Christ, I don’t miss your bitching. You’d better pray that Carter can still walk, or this will get way worse for you and Rowan. Especially since you didn’t even lawyer up before cooperating. Honestly, Mimi, your knack for making things worse is unbelievable.”
“Gee, thanks. And your concern for Carter is real heartwarming, by the way. Go to hell, Dirk.” I hit “End” and threw my phone across the table, where it landed on the sofa, and then I bent over and hugged my legs.
I remained crouched that way for minutes, shivering as every emotion wormed through my veins.
Giving Dirk an inch felt like having my teeth pulled without novocaine, but he hadn’t been all wrong. I’d been easy on Rowan these past few years, trying to lift him out of the blues whenever he’d get upset about missing his dad or when he struggled at school. Bending a rule or two had seemed harmless enough, especially when compared with the alternative—a mulish kid who never spoke to me.
Since Rowan’s birth, I’d been determined that things between us would not be like the pins-and-needles relationship I’d had with Uncle Tommy. He hadn’t been cruel so much as indifferent. Having been forced to move to that tiny, religious community in Virginia had been especially tough on me—with my fondness for Gw
en Stefani and her belly shirts.
Looking back, I think it was even harder on my uncle. He never brought a single date home in those six years he raised me. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, but as I got older, I realized he’d never talked about or flirted with women. After a while, I assumed he was gay and hid it from fear of his community’s reaction or because he’d been raised to believe it a sin. It made me sad to think of him stuffing down his need for love to pacify some community bigots, but it also made his eagerness for my departure and his own privacy feel less personal.
To this day I had no idea if I was right, but he never mentioned a girlfriend when I called him. Regardless of the reasons he and I weren’t especially close, it’d kill me if Rowan were counting the days to his eighteenth birthday like I’d done then.
My relaxed style had seemed to be working. Rowan didn’t fear me. I’d thought that meant we were close. But in truth, he might not respect me much, either, which was a consequence I hadn’t ever considered. If I couldn’t even win my son’s respect, no wonder I struggled to win it from others.
Dirk’s warning about the football team lingered. Maybe Rowan and I should call the coach first thing tomorrow—even if I had to track him down at home. Better to meet this head-on than wait until he heard the news through the rumor mill.
Good Lord, I’d bet this had already hit the moms’ Facebook group. Not that I wanted to dig for pain right now. The ugly comments would be there in the morning, waiting to stab me in the eyes and heart. Was it mere hours ago I’d been celebrating how my life had been improving? Man, that made this hurt worse.
But self-pity seemed a childish waste of energy when I pictured Carter on my basement floor.
I pounded on my thighs as punishment for my selfish worries when that poor boy might never walk again. The very idea of paralysis bounced off my brain like a rubber ball off cement. Rejection, pure and simple. I could neither accept it nor live with the guilt if it came to pass.
