Still Air

by Freya Barker

  Derrick Taylor was found lifeless in his cell at Green Haven Maximum Security Correctional Facility early this morning. Mr. Taylor, convicted in 2001 of Second Degree Murder in the death of a shopkeeper during the course of a robbery, and sentenced to twenty-five years, had been moved to the isolation ward after a violent altercation with another inmate last month. Mr. Taylor was only thirty-three years old.

  Green Haven officials indicate an investigation into the cause of death will be forthcoming.

  At this time we have not been able to contact Mr. Taylor’s family for a reaction. Several attempts were made to contact Ms. Paloma Brunard, currently residing in Portland, Maine, but were unsuccessful.

  I sit down heavily on a kitchen chair and drop my phone on the table. It skitters to the other side where Gunnar snatches it up and starts reading. Jesus.

  “Are you sure it’s her?” I try, lifting my eyes to Mark, even though I already know the answer. I can fucking feel it in my bones.

  “Positive.”

  “Years I’ve known her,” Gunnar mutters under his breath, sliding my phone to Tim. “And I had no fucking idea.”

  None of us did. Although that’s not entirely true, I always knew there was something. I just was never able to figure out what. Pam—or Paloma—carefully kept herself, her past, shut off from everyone.

  “What the fuck?” Tim bursts out when he finishes reading. “I never even knew she had a brother.”

  “Son,” I say quietly, as bits and pieces of conversations and impressions float back, painting a clearer picture now. Derrick Taylor is the missing piece to the puzzle that is Pam Brunard.

  “Sorry, what?” Tim turns to me, looking confused.

  “Pam’s his mother.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Pam

  The silence is killing me, and still I can’t bring myself to turn on my phone. I never even listened to the numerous messages already accumulating.

  I panicked when Brenda’s call woke me. Since the warden called the morning before, I’d lost the better part of two days. Her phone call propelled me into a flurry of activity. Pushing down the urge to curl up in a ball in the shower, I washed instead. My body suddenly alive with jerky, ill-controlled movements as I dressed and packed my bags. All I could think about was being close to him, my mind not quite having processed the fact he is no longer there. His body is all that ties me to him, so I needed to be where it still is. In the Green Haven Penitentiary’s morgue.

  My boy.

  My beautiful, cheerful, sensitive, and bright little boy, who went from a seemingly perfectly happy kid, to a sullen and troubled teen. I blame myself for not seeing it earlier. I had my head too far up my own ass at the time to recognize the happy-go-lucky smiles he showered me in were his way of lighting up our world, my world. All the time I was supposed to be caring for him—making sure he was happy—he was really looking after me. Until one day he stopped smiling.

  Even then, I didn’t want to see it. I wasn’t equipped to recognize the lost soul that had taken over the body of my cheerful child. Barely able to pull out of a lifetime of poor judgement and bad decisions, myself still struggling to adult at thirty-four, my sixteen-year old son slipped through my fingers. Denial was easier when I worked hard to better myself, got an education, and worked nights to pay for it. I thought I had time, but it ran out sooner than I thought, when one morning the police showed up and hauled my son away in handcuffs.

  I’d rolled into bed the night before after a long shift at the diner and hadn’t checked to see if Derrick was home. I just assumed he was. Instead, it turns out, that just as I was pulling the covers over my ears, my son was three blocks away, putting a bullet into an innocent, whose only crime was working nights at the convenience store to take care of his family.

  Too late for the pained and haunted look on my child’s face when he came to realize what he’d done. Too late for the forty-two-year-old father of three, whose death served no purpose at all and left a poor family even more destitute. And too late for me to open my eyes to what I might have been able to prevent.

  This is what I remember from that morning; the silence, as the noises of neighbors and traffic outside failed to penetrate. A silence that allows dark memories, regrets, and recriminations to fill the empty space. For years, after finally getting my degree, I managed to fill the ugly void by having my eyes open to everyone’s needs. Yet, it was still avoidance. It was still denial. A farce of a life. None of it served any purpose because my son is still dead, and I feel guilty because part of me expected this to be the outcome.

  The sudden shrill ring of the room phone on the nightstand cuts through the silence and my spinning mind. The only one who knows where I am is the warden.

  “Hello?” My voice sounds alien, even to me.

  “Ms. Brunard, I just wanted to see if you’d be able to come in this morning.”

  “Can I see my son?” I want to know. I haven’t been able to get further than the gate since I first got here. I wasn’t thinking, just drove five hours, straight from Portland to the facility, never clueing in that it wasn’t likely I’d be granted entry in the middle of the night. I was lucky that this nondescript inn along the highway had a night watchman. I’ve been stuck in this room since. Called the warden’s office first thing the next morning, only to be informed by his secretary that I would not be able to see Derrick until the coroner was done with him. I left the hotel number with her and have been waiting for this call for two days.

  “That should be possible. I’ll make sure they’re ready for you after you leave my office. Is eleven fifteen good for you?”

  “I’ll be there,” I quickly respond, looking at the alarm clock that reads twenty-two minutes past nine. Green Haven is about ten minutes away, so that gives me less than two hours to get ready.

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, tears running down my face as I take in the contents of my bags, haphazardly thrown around the room. It’s clear I wasn’t thinking when I packed them in a hurry. I feel hysteria bubbling up as I struggle to decide what to wear. I’m not sure why it is so important, but I really want to be dressed nice when I say goodbye to my son.

  -

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  A distinguished looking man, looking more like a successful business man than a prison warden, greets me at the door to his domain. I think I manage to mumble thank you, as I slip past him into the room, eager to escape the scrutiny and the pitying looks of staff in the outer office.

  I managed to pull something together after my meltdown at the inn, but I missed my usual carefully put-together outer armor. My face is a mess too.

  “Please have a seat.” He indicates a functional chair by the desk and takes a seat across from me. “Would you care for some coffee?”

  “No thanks,” I whisper, shaking my head lightly. I don’t want anything but to see Derrick.

  “Ms. Brunard, I just received the autopsy report this morning. Derrick died of a barbiturate overdose. I’m afraid it looks like your son may have taken his own life. We are currently investigating how he may have come to obtain them, but the dose he took was apparently significant enough that his death was swift.”

  “I don’t care.” The warden seems to startle at my words, but it’s true. I don’t care to know the how. I knew, when his last parole review came back negative, that he wouldn’t be able to take much more. I could see even the years before that his mental health was slipping. Thirty-three years old and my son was an old and tired man, weighed down by the devastating responsibility of a man’s death at his hands. Ironically, the ultimate proof of the goodness he still held in his heart, showed in his inability to live with that weight. I want to be angry with the person who put the drugs in his hands, but it’s futile. I want to blame Green Haven for not monitoring him close enough, but what is the point? I should be angry with him, for giving up on himself and on me, but I can’t. I get it.

  All that matters is t
hat at fifty-one years old, I’m about to say goodbye to my only child, and although I know in my heart he’s at peace, the empty pain I feel is as vast as the universe.

  “Do what you need to do, but I’d like to see my son.”

  “Of course,” he answers, “I’ll let them know we’re on our way down.

  -

  I’m not sure what I expected, but the smooth, peaceful face of my son, is so reminiscent of the big-hearted, bright young boy I once knew, it almost brings me to my knees. I reach out and brush my fingers over his high cheekbones, so much like mine. His skin is cold, but still so familiar. I lean down and press my lips to his closed eyes before kissing his forehead.

  “Be at peace, my boy. I’ll never forget the heart of you.”

  I barely register the words of the warden as he leads me from the morgue, presses a box with Derrick’s belongings into my arms, and walks us into the frigid air outside. Something about getting in touch with a local funeral home.

  “Sorry?” I turn to him as we reach the gate to the parking lot. “Could you repeat that?”

  “Of course,” he says patiently, and his patronizing smile is suddenly irritating me “I was just mentioning that McHoul Funeral Home in Hopewell Junction, just a few miles west on Route 82, always does a fabulous job for our inmates.”

  “I don’t think so,” I hear behind me, the heavy voice making me wish the earth would simply swallow me up.

  Dino

  “Excuse me?” the self-righteous prick, who was all but patting Pam on the head, throws me a look of disdain as the gate opens up between us.

  “I said, I don’t think so,” I repeat. “You are talking about her son, not just some nameless inmate. We’ll contact you when we’ve had a chance to make arrangements.”

  Pam has not turned around to face me yet, and when I place my hand in her neck to turn her around, she makes sure to keep her eyes lowered. I take the box she’s carrying in one hand and start walking her to Gunnar’s SUV.

  “My car...” she finally manages when I seat her.

  “Give me your keys, Gunnar will get it.”

  Now her eyes shoot up, anger, shame, and the deepest sorrow no longer hidden. “Gunnar’s here?”

  “And Viv. Oh, and Sydney, too. The girls are at the motel.”

  “Hope you remembered to notify the mailman, the kid who mows the lawn, and oh...let’s not forget the cute teller at the bank,” she says, as she digs up her keys from her purse. Her defenses are instantly up as she lets the sarcasm fly, and I’m almost relieved. I wasn’t sure who the beaten down woman I saw standing there was, but I know this ball-buster. I know her well.

  By the time I toss the keys at a waiting Gunnar, slide behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition, and look over at her, the tears are streaming down her face. “Come here.” Unclipping her seatbelt, I tag her behind the neck and pull her body closer, tucking her head in my neck.

  “How?”

  “A lot of worry and a little luck. It doesn’t matter how or why, Biscuit. We’re here, the way we should’ve been all along.” My tone does not invite argument, and Pam wisely keeps any objections to herself as I put the truck in gear, not letting her move too far away.

  It had taken a bit to find her. We’d been in Gunnar’s office last night when Syd, who’d come in when Gunnar called her, suggested Pam wouldn’t take off without taking care of her son first. Something Syd is in the best position to know, since she lost a child, too. None of us argued when she pulled up a list of motels and hotels near the penitentiary. It had taken Mark to pretend he was a Boston cop, working an investigation, to convince the front desk clerks to give up the information. We hit pay dirt the third call he made.

  I was ready to jump in my car and go, but Viv, who joined us after locking up, pointed out we all have kids that need looking after. Ike volunteered, as did Ruby and Tim, and at eight this morning, after a long sleepless night, Syd, Viv, and I got in the truck with Gunnar.

  When we arrived and didn’t see her car in the parking lot, I thought for a minute perhaps she’d already checked out, but when Viv checked with the front desk, they assured her she hadn’t checked out yet. The next logical step to find her was at the prison.

  We couldn’t get in and had been waiting for twenty minutes, Gunnar standing guard by Pam’s car, and I was waiting by the gate, when Pam walked out with some suit. The moment I saw the unguarded devastation on her normally composed face, any conflicted feelings I might have had were dwarfed by just one—a deep, cloying sadness.

  “Thank you.” The sound of her voice startles me and I lean in to kiss the side of her head.

  “For what, Beautiful?”

  “For buying me some time to figure out what to do.”

  “You’re not alone,” I tell her softly, to which she lets out a harsh snort.

  “That’s exactly what I am now.” Where normally her voice is rich and deep, now it sounds thin and raw. “Alone.”

  Her words make me as angry as they make me sad. There’s no fucking way she’s alone, but I’m not going to argue now. There’s plenty of time to get her to see that everyone, whose lives she’s become an important part of, is just as much a part of hers. Family, love, friendship—none of them are a one-way street. This woman’s been so focused on being there for others, she hasn’t allowed anyone to be there for her. But now’s not the time to point that out. Time will show her.

  I reluctantly remove my arm from around her when we pull into a parking spot outside the hotel and Pam straightens up. Gunnar pulls in right beside me. I get out and go to open her door but he’s beaten me too it, wrapping her in a hug just as I’m rounding the front of his car. I have to force down an irrational surge of jealousy at the sight of her head leaning on his shoulder. Before I have a chance to grab her hand like I want to, Syd and Viv—having obviously been lying in wait inside—come barreling out of the lobby and pull Pam from Gunnar’s arms, herding her inside. When I try to follow, Gunnar grabs my arm.

  “Let the girls do their thing, man.”

  I watch the three women, Pam tallest in the middle and the other two on either side with their arms wrapped around her, make a beeline to the elevator.

  “There’s a dinky little bar behind the lobby,” he says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “I could use a drink.”

  It’s barely three o’clock when we sit down and Gunnar orders us a couple of drafts. Personally, I could’ve gone for something a bit stronger, but the beer would have to do for now.

  “I know a guy who works for Hobbs Funeral Home on Cottage Street,” Gunnar says, taking a good tug on his beer. “I can call him to see what it would take to get Pam’s boy up to Portland.”

  “I can’t imagine that’d be cheap. I think she’d like having him close, but who knows?”

  “You okay?”

  I look up at Gunnar. He’s studying me intently.

  “Yeah. I’m just...I don’t know. Just when you think you’re getting a peek at a future, shit inevitably hits the fan to mess it all up— making you question everything.” It’s true, Sunday morning was fucking amazing. I liked waking up with the scent of Pam in my bed and that’s not all I liked. I just don’t get why every time something good happens, the shit immediately has to follow.

  “Are you saying this makes a difference to you?” There’s a bite to Gunnar’s voice I don’t hear often.

  “Fuck no,” I quickly correct him. “Not to me. I’m here, right? No, it’s her I’m worried about. Fuck. You know what she said to me in the car?” Gunnar gives his head a shake. “One minute she was busting my balls for showing up, and the next she sounded defeated like I’ve never heard her before, saying she’s alone now. Like I wasn’t even there. That’s what worries me. I’m afraid as private as she apparently has always been, she’ll bury herself so deep now, we won’t be able to find her.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  I swing around on my stool to find Viv standing behind me. My eyes instantly drift over her
shoulder to see if anyone else came down, but she’s alone.

  “Where is she?”

  “Syd’s got her upstairs. They have something in common now.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Gunnar bites off under his breath. His wife lost her son under tragic circumstances, and he knows the pain and devastation that Syd still struggles with from time to time. This can’t be easy on her either.

  Viv tosses her arm around Gunnar’s shoulders. “You’re wife is a rock up there. She’s totally got this.” She gives him a little squeeze. “And you,” she points a finger at me. “You need to have some faith. You never doubted me, or Syd—hell, you had Ruby’s back, too—no matter how messed up we got. You always believed we’d come out the other end—and better. Now we’re talking about your woman and you lose faith?”

  “It’s because she’s his,” Gunnar points out, hitting the nail on the head. Yeah, we never fooled our friends, not even when we were working hard to avoid each other.

  “I could fall for her,” I admit, draining my beer, when Viv and Gunnar both start laughing.

  “Oh man, this is priceless,” Viv snickers. “You’re already down, my friend. Gone.” She’s still chuckling when she puts her arm around my shoulders this time.

  Another round of beers is ordered, and we settle in to a practical conversation about funeral arrangements and the possible costs associated. Gunnar calls his guy at Hobbs Funeral Home, who tells him they would be able to handle the transportation.

  Ten minutes later Syd calls.

  “Can you come up? Room 402.”

  “On my way.” I’m already off my stool.

  “Tell Gunnar I’ll be right down.”

  I tuck my phone back in my pocket. “I’m heading up, Syd’s coming down.” I don’t wait around for a response and head toward the elevators.