“I stayed for you. Someone needed to be here when you woke up. The phone’s been ringing all morning.”
This may or may not be true. I cannot picture my mother kneeling down by the cold metal slab, her legs failing her, one hand buried in my brother’s thick, floppy hair. She would not survive it, her only son, his
(—his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing—)
“I haven’t heard anything.” I chew slowly, reluctantly, willing myself to eat.
“Your father took the phone off the hook. And we turned off your cell after you got home.”
My iPhone is sitting on the kitchen table, where I left it last night, the screen cracked down the center. When I pick it up, I notice the dried blood streaking the display, feel the slight stickiness on my fingers, and I begin to cough, dropping the phone with a clatter on the tabletop, bending at the waist. Then there is the steady pressure of my mother’s hand on my back, the sound of her voice as she whispers, “Shush . . .” slowly, quietly. She pats me at first, then rubs in circles, which makes me want to jump out of my skin, to start screaming and never stop.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” I manage to get out, coughing in between the words. I wave away her hands, and stumble over to the sink, fill a glass of water from the tap, and drink greedily, crumbs of toast still sputtering around in my windpipe like dried leaves. The feeder hanging from the oak tree in the backyard is birdless, snow dotting the ground in patches. The garden is asleep, and looking at it, brown and bare, I long for spring, the sunlight that will bring the wildflowers my mother planted last year to the surface, dotting the landscaping in a rich, colorful carpet. The tree house Luke built when he was thirteen still hangs from the upper branches of the oak, the wood weathered from the last few years of snow, rain, and sun. I remember him working on it all of that summer, cutting the wood into precise planks, a pencil tucked behind one ear. I blink back the tears and refill my glass, the rushing stream from the tap drowning my memories. But suddenly he’s there, slinking through the yard, the gold streaks in his hair shining under overcast skies. I blink once, dropping the glass in the sink with a crash, but he’s still there, walking through the backyard in a long winter coat, staring up at me.
“Alys?” My mother’s voice sounds worried, tense, but I barely hear her.
Her hands are on my shoulders as I raise my index finger and point, wordless, at the dark figure meandering around near my mother’s prize rosebushes: Lincoln. American Beauty. Damask. Following my gaze, her grip tightens, the nails digging in like claws.
“Paul!” She screams my father’s name, spinning around, hand on her hips, a wild look in her eyes. “Paul, someone’s in the yard again!”
Luke, is that you?
I mouth the words silently, afraid to speak them aloud, but when the figure moves closer to the window, holding up a large black camera, I see that it’s not him, not Luke, that his blond hair is shot with silver and there are wrinkles around his eyes. I realize that I am holding on to the kitchen counter, holding on with both hands as if I might fall down entirely if I let go.
My father enters the room, his bathrobe wrapped around him tightly. If I’ve ever seen my father in a robe after seven a.m. on a weekday, I can’t remember it. He walks to the kitchen window and peers outside, his face set and grim, then yanks open the back door so that the house shakes. I watch him stride over to the man and grab his wrist. My father, whom I have never seen touch another living soul in anger—we were never even spanked as kids—grabs him so roughly that the man’s camera falls to the ground, bouncing once before lying still, the lens pointed toward the sky. And in that one moment, my mother’s hands on my shoulders again, I know for sure that from this second on, my life will never be the same again. There will always be someone lurking behind the hedges, waiting to stun us with the glare of flashbulbs, our faces blank as paper. Our smiles utterly erased.
Before yesterday, we were a normal family. Normal. Camp in the summer and igloo forts in the winter. Icees made from the first snowfall, sugar and drops of food coloring melting on our tongues in a pink slush. Two parents, two cars. The low moan of a cello streaming from the speakers, the high-pitched burst of my violin punctuating the bustle and hum of our daily lives. Chocolate chip pancakes at IHOP on Sunday mornings. A white clapboard house with a manicured lawn, splashes of yellow roses lining the fence. Everything neat and tidy. Ask anyone. Of course, now after what Luke has done, people will say, Oh, the Aronsons. I always thought they were weird. But we weren’t. We were just like you. Except we weren’t. But we didn’t know it yet.
But you knew it, Luke, didn’t you?
Didn’t you.
TWO
Just as I’m about to walk upstairs and get dressed, the doorbell rings, making me jump. A clanging of bells reverberates through the house announcing the arrival of who? What now?
What fresh hell is this?
If I were in English class right now, Mrs. Miller would be boring me to death with Shakespeare and Eudora Welty, and I’d most likely be staring into space, stomach rumbling like a garbage truck, thinking about what culinary atrocity lay in wait for me in the cafeteria. Not standing at the foot of the stairs afraid to move, to answer the door, terrified at what might be on the other side.
My mother brushes past me, placing her hands on my waist and moving me out of the way as if I am suddenly small again, underfoot. The smell of coffee, the salty scent of her unwashed skin mixed with day-old perfume envelop me, and I want to throw myself into her arms and sleep, hiding beneath the soft folds of her robe. She looks out the peephole and a long sigh escapes her lips. “It’s the police,” she says, her voice wooden. “Again.”
The detectives were here yesterday after my father picked me up from school, but I went up to my room and straight into the bathroom, their suits and blue uniforms a shapeless blur, their voices a horde of insects, my mother’s shrieks rising above them all as I lay on the floor, moaning tunelessly. Later, wrapping her arms around me, her grip tight as she rocked me back and forth against the white tiles, her hot tears soaking the back of my neck, my tangled hair, my mouth stretched into a distorted scream. “Play the Brahms,” I yelled out at some point, inconsolable. “Play the Brahms.” But even the sweet, low sound coursing through the speakers in my room, the soaring soprano of that single, mournful violin, did nothing to ease the fire in my chest or take away the pain.
Help me.
When my mother opens the door, two men stand there wearing blue Windbreakers, sunglasses covering their eyes just like in the movies. Just beyond the front porch, I see the TV vans; the reporters clustered at the end of the driveway, talking into cell phones, pacing back and forth, holding up their cameras before the front door closes again, hoping for a glimpse. The taller of the two officers removes his sunglasses, and his watery blue eyes take in my mother’s robe, my messy hair, the fact that sleep last night was little more than wishful thinking as I lay there for hours, terrified to close my eyes and relive it all: that seasick, earthquake feeling as kids stampeded though the library, the tremor of running feet, the room vibrating with a peculiar mix of terror and tears.
“Mrs. Aronson, I’m so sorry to bother you at this difficult time,” he says, sounding apologetic enough. “But we have some questions for Alys, if you don’t mind. It will only take a few minutes.”
He pronounces my name Alice, not A-lise, the way it’s meant to be said, and for the millionth time I wonder why my parents gave Luke such a simple name—easy to say, easy to spell—but decided to bestow upon me one that pretty much guarantees that I’ll be correcting people in a mild but constant state of irritation for my entire life.
“Right now?” My mother puts her hands on her hips, ready for an argument, her face veiled in annoyance. When my mother doesn’t like someone—for whatever reason—they know it instantly.
“We wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t absolutel
y necessary.” His voice is quiet and grave, and my mother hesitates for a moment. I can see the emotions shifting over her face—sadness, regret, reluctance, acceptance—before she moves aside to let them in. They step inside the foyer, looking around uncomfortably. I watch as they take in the family photos lining the walls of the staircase: me at my first violin concert when I was seven, the framed drawings Luke and I both made over the years, scribbles of bright crayon and smeared paint. My mother has always been more than eager to foster our artistic potential with drawing classes after school, tie-dye workshops, modeling clay—anything she thought might spark our “creative sides,” as she likes to call it. Too bad for her that she wound up with kids who could barely color inside the lines, much less take the Guggenheim by storm.
We file into the living room, which is the one room in our house we barely ever use, except for “family” holidays like Christmas or Thanksgiving. All the tables and chairs have tiny matchstick legs that look like they will splinter if you so much as lean on them. My mother refers to it sarcastically as her “grown-up room,” which Luke always thought was pretty hilarious. “You are a grown-up,” he’d scoff, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need a stupid room to prove it.”
I sit down on the love seat, and the detectives sit across from me on the long couch, unzipping their Windbreakers, leaning back against the pillows. The taller one, who’s done most of the talking so far, takes out a pad and a pen. “I’m Detective Marino,” he says, then points at the guy sitting beside him. “And this is Detective Rogers.” Detective Rogers has white-blond hair that’s balding slightly on top, and a roll of fat that hangs over his belt, straining at the buttons of his white dress shirt. He’s incredibly pale, and when he removes his sunglasses, his eyelashes are so light, they are practically nonexistent.
My mother hovers in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. I can feel the nervousness, the tension coming off of her in waves. Just as she makes her way over to the love seat to sit beside me, Marino holds up one hand. “Mrs. Aronson, we’d really like to speak to Alys privately, if you don’t mind.” He mispronounces my name once again.
“It’s A-lise,” I say, unable to let it go, putting the stress firmly on the second syllable as the words leave my lips.
“Sorry,” Marino says, his cheeks reddening noticeably. He clears his throat once, a half cough behind a closed fist, and averts his eyes from my face. “We won’t keep . . . her . . . long.” He pauses, deciding whether to attempt my name once again. “We just have a few quick questions.”
My mother opens her mouth as if to say something, to protest, then presses her lips together so tight that her mouth resembles a straight line. It hurts me to see her like this: someone I have never known to give up a fight easily, reduced to wordlessness and sorrow. I hear my father moving around upstairs, the creak of the floorboards in their bedroom, then the sound of water gushing through the pipes in the walls. My mother glances quickly upward, her expression tense and worried, and nods her head at the detectives.
“If you need me, I’ll be right upstairs, Alys.” She points at the ceiling above her, as if I don’t know where her bedroom is and need to be reminded. With that, she shuffles out of the room and walks upstairs, the wooden stairs shifting and groaning beneath her weight.
“Alys,” Detective Marino begins, his blue eyes bloodshot but kind, “we won’t keep you long. We just have a few questions about Luke.”
My brother’s name in his mouth sounds obscene.
“What can you tell us about Luke’s demeanor in the days before the . . . incident?”
(shooting)
I look at my feet, how white they look against the pink-and-beige rug, like two fish pulled from the icy depths of the sea, gasping on land.
“He seemed a little depressed,” I say, my throat filled with static.
“Was that unusual for him?” Rogers inquires, pen poised above his little white pad.
“Not really.” I look up to find both detectives watching me carefully. “I mean, Luke could sometimes get into a mood, but so can everyone. If you’re asking me if I thought that he would bring a gun to school and mow down fifteen of our classmates, I had no clue.”
Anger wells up inside me. I know they’re wondering the same thing I am—how could I have not known? How could I have lived one room away from him for the past seventeen years and not even thought once that something was so wrong? So utterly unfixable?
The detectives exchange a look between them but say nothing in response.
“Had Luke ever talked to you about buying a gun?”
(—the long barrel looming over me, Luke’s face, his cocoa-colored eyes reflected in mine. “Hey,” he said, as if everything was normal. “Hey,” he said, like he was about to ask if I wanted to go and get ice cream the way we’d done countless times since I was small. He hated chocolate, but loved whipped cream. Rainbow sprinkles. These are the things I remember about my brother. This is what is left to me—)
I cannot speak. I stare ahead dumbly and listen to the rustle of people lining our front walk through the windows, curtains drawn like a veil.
“Did Luke know how to shoot?” Detective Rogers tries again, his tone slow and pointed, as if I have brain damage. I wonder if he’s asked my parents these same exact questions, the words hitting their mark like so many sharp knives.
“Yeah,” I manage to say, clearing my throat. “My dad taught him a few summers ago on one of their trips. I think it was at some shooting range, but you’ll have to ask him. I think he’s upstairs . . .” My eyes drift toward the ceiling. I imagine my mother and father at night, each moored on their own side of the mattress, the distance between them growing even wider, a chasm splitting the bed in two.
“Did Luke ever talk to you about buying a gun or wanting to purchase a weapon of any kind?”
“No.” My voice comes out in a squeak, and I stare at the wallpaper behind their heads, the flowers and leaves twining together, green and beige.
“Do you need a break, Alys?” Marino asks, his tone not unkind, careful, this time, to say my name correctly. He leans forward, places his pad down on the coffee table between us. “We can stop for a minute if you like.”
Stop for a minute. I want everything to stop for a minute. Longer, even.
“No, I’m okay.” I look over at Marino, my eyes snapping back into focus, and take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“Did you and Luke have a good relationship?”
(—I remember Luke’s broad back as he dove into the lake the summer I was nine. “C’mon, slowpoke! I’ll catch you.” The slap of cold water against my legs, my brother’s hands holding me up like a buoy. Weightless. “Is this swimming or drowning?” I ask, quizzical and silly, spitting water from my mouth in a fountain. Luke’s face is serious, contemplative, as he considers the question, his head cocked to the side, droplets of water glistening on his forehead.
“Which do you want it to be, Alys?”—)
The room spins. It dawns on me that there is a very real possibility I will spew the two bites of toast I’ve managed to swallow all over my mother’s Oriental rug. I imagine the detective’s shocked expressions, my vomit, messy and stinking of rottenness, cracking their professional poker faces, and I almost want it to happen. There was a darkness in him even then, on that perfect summer day, pulsing somewhere below the surface, waiting to emerge.
“Alys.” Rogers jumps in this time. “We asked if you and Luke had a good relationship.”
“I thought we did.”
“But you think differently now?”
“I didn’t say that,” I answer, unable to keep the first flicker of irritation from my voice. It’s like they’re trying to catch me in a lie, trip me up somehow. “I said I thought we did. My opinion. I can’t speak for Luke.”
(because he’s dead)
“Did Luke have a lot of friends? Wo
uld you describe him as popular?” Marino asks, scribbling something down on his pad. I have the urge to reach over and grab it, rip up the pages.
“No. He kept to himself mostly. We’re both kind of like that.
(were)
“He had one close friend, I guess . . .”
Rogers flips through his pad, searching. “Are you referring to Riley Larson?” he asks, looking up from the page expectantly.
“Yes,” I say, shaken slightly. Riley Larson. My brother’s closest friend. Riley’s sunny demeanor the perfect foil for Luke’s broody darkness, the periods of depression that started after his fifteenth birthday and could fall over him and linger for months. The sullen moods we all tried to ignore, pushing them away. Riley. The only person who knows Luke as well as I do.
(did)
“Did Luke have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “I don’t think so.” I’m aware, even as I speak, that it’s insane, ridiculous even, that I know so little about my brother’s life. Shouldn’t I know if he had a girlfriend? If he had a crush on someone? What kind of girls he liked—blondes, brunettes? If he’d had his heart broken? I keep talking, hoping that if I keep going I can make some sense out of the thoughts swirling through my head, confusing me. When did you stop talking to me, Luke? When did the silence begin?
“But what I was trying to say before was that he wasn’t especially popular, but no one
(hated)
disliked him. Not as far as I know.” I stop myself. “I mean knew.” My face burns with the correction. His shoes are still lined up on the floor of the closet in his bedroom, his baseball mitt is still in the garage, his hair in the bathroom sink from the last time he shaved—biscuit-colored bits of DNA. How can he be gone?
“Was he bullied? Picked on? Did he have any enemies?” Rogers asks without looking up, his pen scratching against the paper with a sound that sets my teeth on edge. Marino stares at me, sitting back against the cushions and waiting for what I might say next. I wonder how I must seem to him, hair uncombed, eyes wild.
Silent Alarm Page 3
