Keep You Close

by Karen Cleveland

  I set a brown paper bag down on the island. Thai takeout, his favorite. I’d texted him earlier, let him know I’d be bringing it home. Otherwise he’d have eaten before I arrived, like he does most nights now. I was hungry, Mom, he’d say. I couldn’t wait. And I’d have had just a few precious minutes to talk with him, standing in the doorway of his room.

  It’s bribery. That fact isn’t lost on me. I’m an FBI agent, bribing my son with Thai food. But it’s time with him. Precious, precious time.

  I head for the fridge, open it. Sparse contents, mostly drinks. Bottled water, arranged in neat rows. Amber bottles below, all IPAs. I take one, the hoppiest of the bunch. Close the door, pop the top, take a long drink. I can already feel some of the tension start to drain away. Hanson had it coming. Black-and-white, no question about it. Power, policed.

  I hear Zachary’s bedroom door open, his footsteps in the upstairs hall, then pounding down the stairs. He used to barrel down when he was younger, like he didn’t have the time to tread carefully, like he was in a hurry, always in a hurry. His pace slowed as he grew, but it still sounds like he’s thundering down. Maybe it’s his size now, the fact that he’s bigger than me. Or maybe I’m just remembering the way it sounded when he was young.

  In any case, I’ll miss that sound. He swings around the corner, one hand on the banister. In jeans and a grubby T-shirt, bare feet. There’s a hint of stubble on his face, just the smallest bit, and it looks like it doesn’t belong, like he’s a boy pretending to be a man. I have to keep reminding myself that he is a man, or almost is, anyway.

  “Hi, honey. How was your day?” My voice sounds falsely bright, like I’m trying too hard. I am trying too hard.

  He catches the tone, recognizes it. He glances at me with a hint of suspicion, a realization that the takeout is pretext for forced bonding. “Fine.”

  I wish I could take back those words, try again. I focus instead on taking off my suit jacket. Fold it neatly in half, lay it on the back of one of the barstools, smooth out the front of my blouse, adjust the holster at my hip.

  When Zachary was young, locking up my gun was the first thing I’d do when I got home, even before I’d give him a hug and a kiss. I’d secure the Glock in the gun safe in my bedroom closet, because I didn’t want him to see me with it, never wanted weapons to be part of our lives. Then I’d peel off the clothes that I wore in the presence of criminals, like somehow that would keep them at a distance.

  But he’s older now. He knows I carry, and he couldn’t care less. He’s never had the slightest interest in guns. And criminals can find a way in, no matter the defenses against them; haven’t I learned that one the hard way?

  I pull plates from the cabinet and set them down beside the food. “School okay?” I ask, aiming to keep the words sounding neutral, conversational.

  He heads for the island, digs into the paper bag. He pulls out a clear plastic container, then another. Pad Thai and Panang curry. Our usual.

  “Yeah.”

  One-word answers. It’s about all I get from him these days. All I’ve gotten for a while now. And on the rare occasions we do talk, he’s invariably sullen.

  It’ll get better. I keep telling myself that. This is just a rough patch; the teenage years always are, right? We were close once, and we’ll be close again someday. Things would probably be easier if I were mother to a girl, or father to a boy. Maybe he’d be more himself around me, less guarded, less uncomfortable.

  I’ve watched Zachary with his friends, all those kids who are strangers to me, even if I knew them once, when they were young. In the parking lot at school, in pictures on social media. My son’s different with them. Expressive, happy. Engaged, too; he’s president of the Computer Club, a student government representative, a member of various honor societies. Works hard for a tech start-up after school, does all their coding, excels at it. But you’d never know any of it, the way he acts around me.

  He scoops rice onto his plate, three messy spoonfuls. Then he glances over at me. His hair’s skimming his eyes in the front; he needs a haircut, but I’m not going to say anything, not now. “You? Work okay?”

  “Yeah. You know, the usual.” I too aim for breezy and short. He doesn’t want to know details of my day any more than I want to discuss them. I want to talk about him, hear about him. I scoop noodles onto my plate, while beside me he layers curry onto his rice. Then, wordlessly, we switch containers. We’ve got this routine down; years of practice.

  “Did you hear anything today?” I ask. He’s in the waiting phase now, college applications all submitted. I’m waiting, too. Waiting to see how far away he’ll end up. Dreading the day it all becomes real, and I become a thirty-seven-year-old empty nester.

  “Nope.” He sets down the pad Thai container and walks around me to the dining room with his plate and two forks.

  I grab two bottles of water from the fridge and join him. “Any day now.” I slide into the chair across from him, set my work phone down in front of me, and we start eating in silence.

  The table’s too big for just the two of us, and mostly bare. It’s a nice table, heavy mahogany, eight chairs around it. Still looks brand new, even though we’ve had it for years. Don’t know for the life of me why I bought such a big table. For a brief moment I miss the old one, the scratch-riddled oak. I can picture the art projects and homework that used to clutter it, the plastic trucks and soccer balls that used to litter the floor in here, the chairs that were unfailingly askew.

  I used to hate the constant state of chaos we lived in when he was young. The perpetual disarray, the noise, the mess. You’ll miss this one day, my mom had warned, and I’d rolled my eyes. Well, she was right. I miss it. Because the house was lived in, then. I have the house I always thought I wanted, the one that’s magazine-perfect, and I’d trade it for the clutter in a heartbeat.

  He’s eating too fast, shoveling it in. I should say something, tell him to sit up straight, remind him of his manners. It’s my job as his mother, and besides, at this rate he’ll be done in minutes, back to his room for the night. But this time we have together seems fragile. I don’t want to break it by scolding.

  I take a bite of curry and try to think of what else to ask, what to say to keep alive the conversation—or what passes for conversation these days. “Which school do you think you’ll hear back from first?” I ask.

  “Maryland,” he mumbles, mouth full. He doesn’t look up and meet my eyes. University of Maryland. I’d love it if he went there, stayed near D.C., close to home. But we both know he only applied there to make me happy. Berkeley’s his first choice. Berkeley. On the other side of the country. He wants to get away from here, make a fresh start somewhere. And I can’t blame him—I just can’t bear the thought that he might stay there, never move back.

  After college he wants to go to law school. Become a defense attorney. Wrong side of the law, in my opinion, but I have time to talk some sense into him. In any case, it’s nice to see him following in my footsteps, at least a little.

  A lull follows, each of us chewing our food quietly. I need to try something else, a new topic of conversation, something that might elicit more than a one-word answer.

  “How’s Computer Club going?” I’ve never understood that club. Such a solitary pursuit. Why make it social?

  “Programming Club.” His tone’s exasperated. But I swear the focus of the group keeps changing. Freshman year it was all about robotics, then at some point it switched to coding. He even mentioned hacking at one point. Ethical hacking, whatever that is. No such thing—hacking is wrong, I remember telling him. It’s a gray area, he’d replied, his eyes flashing.

  “Programming, then. How’s Programming Club?”

  “I quit.”

  “You what?” I ask, because I must have misheard.

  “I quit.”

  My fork is still suspended in front of me.
“Today?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t understand this news.

  “Couple of months ago.”

  A couple of months ago? How did I not know this? “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  How was I supposed to know to ask? I stare at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s focused on his food, takes another sloppy bite. I feel like wheels are turning in my head, spinning idly, not making any forward movement. “But you loved that club.”

  A wry smile twists his lips, almost a smirk. “I’m a good actor.”

  A strange sensation runs through me, the dizzy feeling that I don’t know this person in front of me, even though he matters more to me than anyone ever has, than anyone ever will. I watch him take another bite of his food. “Why?”

  He shrugs, and I can feel the anger rising in me. This is something that deserves more than a shrug.

  “Why, Zachary?”

  He looks up. “I just did it for college applications. Once they were all submitted…” He shrugs again.

  I realize my fork is still hovering above my plate. I lay it down slowly. I’m almost afraid to say the next words. “What about everything else? What about student government?”

  He shrugs and avoids my eyes, but the answer’s clear.

  “Zachary,” I breathe. I’ve taught him better than this. Surely I have. “You can’t quit like that. You have an obligation. A responsibility.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Mom.”

  “It is a big deal.”

  His plate’s almost empty now, and I can tell from his posture, the way he’s poised to spring out of his chair, that he’s ready to escape to his room. He’s not going to get seconds. Dinner’s almost over.

  “What if the colleges look into it?” I ask quietly.

  “I didn’t lie. I was in everything when I applied.”

  “Zachary, this is serious.”

  He holds my gaze, almost defiant, and says nothing.

  “You could be turned down for this,” I say.

  “School’s almost over.”

  “You’re jeopardizing everything you’ve worked so hard for.”

  Silence crackles between us. Finally he looks away, and the instant before he does, I think I see a hint of sheepishness. In my mind he’s a preschooler again, and I see him in the kitchen on a stepstool, milk spilled all around an overturned paper cup on the countertop. I can picture those round, sad eyes, the quivering chin. I can hear his little voice. I’m sorry, Mommy.

  “We’ll talk to the advisors, ask them to reinstate you,” I say firmly. Same reaction as when he was young, when he’d make a mess or break a toy or forget his homework, and he was crushed by the mistake. It’s okay, Zachary. I’ll fix it.

  “Will they?” His eyes land back on me. I don’t see the sheepishness anymore. Was it ever there? Or was I just expecting it to be? What I see is frustration, like he doesn’t want my help, but knows he doesn’t have a choice.

  “We’ll do whatever we can.”

  “I’m gonna go do homework.” He pushes his chair back from the table.

  “Okay,” I murmur, but by the time the response leaves my lips, he’s already out of the room.

  I hear the faucet turn on in the kitchen, the clang as he slides his plate into the dishwasher. Moments later, his footsteps racing up the stairs. The bedroom door closing.

  Then everything is quiet, once again.

  Chapter 3

  An hour later, the kitchen’s clean and the dishwasher’s humming softly. Pantsuit’s been traded for workout clothes, and I’m headed back downstairs, into the living room. It’s a light-colored room; white sofa and loveseat, plush white rug over the hardwood floor, glass coffee table and end tables, a treadmill in the corner. There’s an antique chess set on the coffee table, one that belonged to my grandfather. A game in progress. It’s Zachary’s turn—at least, it was. The board’s been like this for two weeks now.

  We used to play quite a bit. It was sort of our thing. But games have become fewer and farther between. I’ve lost the last half dozen. And he’s lost interest. Told me he’d rather play the game online. Started talking coding and the merits of computerized play, lost me with the technical jargon.

  I really need to win this one.

  I step on the treadmill, start it up, the usual settings. Slow jog at first. I stare at the chessboard, like I’ve done for weeks now. He’ll move his rook, I decide. Even though he’ll lose it. His bishop’s in a better position. It’s what I’d do, anyway.

  I pick up the remote and turn on the television, mounted to the wall above the fireplace. The news is on; a story about Russia. It’s always something about Russia, ever since that big disruption of sleeper cells a couple of years ago. This one’s about potential election interference. Seems to be the topic du jour.

  The shot switches to a Senate hearing room. Halliday leading the questioning, Jackson testifying. I can’t watch them, not now. I increase the speed on the treadmill, change the channel. It’s a cooking program. I change it again, and it’s one of those dating shows. At that I turn it off altogether, increase the speed once again. The only sound in the room is the whir of the motor, the pounding of my feet.

  The conversation from dinner creeps back into my mind. Zachary should know right from wrong; I’ve taught him that. A vague sense of dread settles over me. If he hasn’t learned it by now, isn’t it too late? There’s nothing else I can do. He’s almost gone.

  I increase the speed again, make myself run harder, faster. I know I’m not handling it well, the prospect of Zachary leaving. Kids leave for college all the time; parents become empty nesters. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Maybe it’d be different if I had a partner, someone to make the nest feel less empty. Or if I had someone else to confide in—family or close friends. But Mom’s the only real family I’ve got, and I can’t talk to her about this, can’t let her know I’m struggling. I can just see the disapproval on her face. I knew you couldn’t do it, Stephanie.

  And I’ve never been close to the women I should be friends with, contemporaries at the Bureau. The ones with kids are in the throes of young motherhood, days I’m long past. The rest seem to be reveling in couplehood, that exclusive club that’s closed to singletons. Add to that the fact that I investigate the investigators, and other agents tend to keep their distance.

  Years ago, I’d have confided in Marta. Longtime friend, an analyst over at the CIA, one of the few people I trusted—and the only one I almost shared my biggest secret with. But those days are done. That’s what I got for insisting on doing the right thing. Lost my closest friend. Stop it, Steph. I force the thought from my mind.

  I’ve thought about seeing a professional. Sitting in some psychiatrist’s office, on some couch, a tissue box at my side, and just spilling everything while she nods along, scribbles down notes on a legal pad. Tells me it’s okay to feel that way, gives me ways to cope. But I’ve heard the stories at work, agents who’ve sought help and then promptly had their careers stagnate. Or worse, implode. Getting help would be tantamount to sacrificing my career. And God forbid I ever took an antidepressant. How would it look on the stand to admit I’m under the influence of a drug, even a legal one?

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can figure out exactly what a psychiatrist would say. I play the game sometimes; I imagine I’m on the couch, across from her. She talks with me, dispenses advice, says things like You’re not losing him forever and Your relationship will improve and There’s still so much to look forward to.

  I focus on the pounding of my feet. The rhythm is comforting, predictable. Running’s my escape lately, the best way to keep my mind from drifting to places I don’t want it to go. Today, it doesn’t seem to be working. Zachary’s almost gone.

  I press the stop button, hear the beep in response. The motor sl
ows, my footsteps slowing in unison. Down to a slow jog, then a fast walk. I hop off just before it comes to a complete stop, wipe the sweat from my forehead with a hand towel. There’s a familiar feeling running through me, a current of anxious restlessness, a worry that everything’s out of order.

  That face, on the news. Zachary’s smirk, the one that made him look like a stranger. I give my head a frustrated shake, but the images stick in my mind.

  I head for the kitchen, open the cabinet under the sink. There’s the plastic tub of cleaning supplies, perfectly organized. I reach for the canister of disinfectant wipes, pull out a wet cloth, start scrubbing the countertops. They’re clean, sure. But an extra pass won’t hurt.

  It’s on to the appliances next, inside and out. Then the floors. Sweep, then Swiffer. It’s what I do when life seems out of control, try to make my house perfect. The psychiatrist would have a field day with that one.

  I head to the living room next, duster in hand. At the entryway I catch sight of the chessboard and pause. If anything in here needs dusting, it’s probably that.

  I could ask him to come down, finish the game. He might. But I don’t want him to say no. And I don’t want him to think I’m pushing. It’s better to let him come to me, tell me when he’s ready.

  But he’s not coming to me. It’s been two weeks. Isn’t it time I go to him? So what if he says no?

  At least I’d have tried.

  I set down the duster on the coffee table and walk upstairs before I can change my mind.

  His bedroom door’s open, but across the hall the bathroom door’s closed. I hear the shower turn on, and I feel a rush of disappointment. His showers take forever. It was a battle years ago, until I finally threw in the towel, stopped pounding on the door.

  There goes chess. It was probably a bad idea anyway.

  I turn around to head back downstairs, and I catch sight of his room through the open door. Overflowing laundry basket, a pile of clothes on the floor. Unmade bed. McDonald’s cup on top of the bookcase, no coaster, probably leaving a ring.