by Jessica Pack
Clara: Talk about what, exactly?
Darryl: This isn’t the life I want to live either. Please tell me it’s not too late.
Another pause. More breath holding. Would she trust him? Was he trustworthy, or would he change his mind again and want the job and the house and the prestige after all?
Clara: It’s not too late.
Darryl let out the breath and felt tears sting his eyes. In an instant, he knew that if his mom were here, this was what she’d have told him to do. She’d have told him to quit the firm if he had to but be a good husband and father. Nothing will make you happier—he could hear her words in his head. Nothing.
Darryl: I’m on my way.
3
Amanda
Three hours, seventeen minutes
Amanda shivered in the cold of the morning and reached over to turn on the lamp she hadn’t packed yet. The light didn’t fill the room, but instead created a bubble of yellow light that encompassed her, the nightstand, and the bed. Once she was moving around and had a cup of coffee in her, she wouldn’t notice the cold as much. Melissa had already warned her that Ohio wouldn’t be any warmer than South Dakota.
Amanda slid her feet into the fuzzy slippers Melissa had given her for Christmas. She wriggled her toes in the plush softness and felt her mind pulled toward a memory. She stopped the process as though pushing the pause button on the remote control. She took a breath. Was she ready to . . . remember? She slid one foot forward on the carpet as though she were about to step onto an iced-over lake. She put her hands on the edge of the mattress and let her mind roam her database of memory as though it were a dusty file drawer. She ticked through the files until she landed on the one that had tempted her, back when her son had been whole.
The mind-file creaked from lack of use, and she let her thoughts hover on the edges to gather courage. Then she took a mental step forward. And another. It wasn’t ice after all, but warm water that beckoned her forward.
“I got one for Mom!” Robbie popped up from where he’d been foraging beneath the Christmas tree, a red and gold papered box in his hands. Melissa, who had been digging through her stocking, looked up and then also jumped to her feet, crossing the room so that she was standing right next to Robbie as he handed the present to Amanda. It was Christmas morning, a long time ago.
“It’s from both of us,” Melissa said, her eyes as bright as Robbie’s. Amanda accepted the gift and shared a look with Dwight—he must have taken them shopping. The tender warmth she’d felt at the realization of his unexpected thoughtfulness had been another gift of that day.
Amanda brushed her hand over the wrapping paper, which reflected juvenile skill.
“I wrapped it,” ten-year-old Melissa said proudly.
Robbie nodded, his bright-blond bowl cut shifting with the motion. “Yeah, Melly wrapped it.”
Present-day Amanda smiled to remember the nickname Robbie’d had for his sister when he was little. By the time Melissa turned twelve she had made him promise never to call her that stupid name again.
“Melly,” Amanda said out loud; it felt like melting chocolate on her tongue. After a moment of savor, she returned to the memory, surprised how real it could feel after having been sealed up for so long.
“But it’s from us both,” Robbie added quickly. He bounced on the balls of his feet, which were naked beneath the hem of the Transformers pajama bottoms she’d given him the night before. Melissa’s pajamas were Barbie themed that year, and Amanda had known even as she’d purchased them that it would be the last year Melissa would put up with such a thing.
Amanda oohed and aahed over the wrapping and then carefully popped the first seam.
“It’s slippers!” Robbie suddenly yelled, making Amanda jump.
“Robbie!” Melissa’s hands were instant fists at her sides as she turned on her brother in the same moment that Robbie put both of his hands over his mouth, his eyes as wide as Christmas bulbs. Dwight laughed, a deep, rich sound none of them heard very often. Amanda had reached out for her angry daughter and horrified son, the half-unwrapped present on her lap. She put one arm around the waist of each of her children and pulled them against her.
“I love you guys to the moon!” she said, giving each of them a smoochy kiss in turn. They had both tried to pull away, but she’d successfully taken their minds off of Robbie’s outburst. They’d begged her to put the slippers on, so she had, keeping to herself that they were at least two sizes too big. She’d eventually put a sock into each toe, and she’d worn those slippers for years, until Melissa had given her another pair. Every Christmas now, Melissa gave Amanda slippers—including these ones that were lined with sheepskin—and yet it had been a long time since Amanda had let herself remember where the tradition had started.
The ringing phone shut off the memory like the closing of a music box. Amanda picked up the phone automatically, noting the unfamiliar number on the display. Did the movers need to verify some information? She’d been told they would call for confirmation.
“Hello?”
“Is this Amanda Mallorie?” asked the male voice on the phone.
“Yes.”
In the time it took to confirm her identity she realized that 5:49 in the morning was too early for the movers to be calling. But not too early for the press. Never too early on a day when there was fresh blood in the water. How did they get this number? She’d had it changed six months ago after a producer of some criminal justice television show had called her every day for a week in hopes of her participation in a Mother’s Day special made entirely of mothers of notorious killers.
The hounds.
The vultures.
The ordinary men and women trying to make a living.
“This is Mark Johanson from the World-Herald,” the voice said on the other end of the line. “I’m looking for the more human side of your son’s story and wondered if I could get a statement from you in regard to his execution despite your petitions to have his appeals reinstated.”
Amanda had been hanging up on people like Mark Johanson for years. Hanging up and then getting a new number. She’d learned quickly after Robbie’s arrest that the press was holding a completely different trial from the one in front of a judge and jury. Not that she blamed them, not really. She just couldn’t be part of the campaign against the flesh of her flesh and the bone of her bone. There were enough people willing to take that role. Her part—as his mother—had to be different. Her silence had made her that much more enigmatic, however, and the continual bombardment, along with the turning of too many people she’d trusted, had driven her further and further into isolation. A year ago, at the conclusion of the automatic direct appeal mandated for every death row inmate, Robbie had waived his remaining appeals and asked to be executed as soon as possible. That request was the only thing that could have brought Amanda to the forefront of the firestorm, but she’d come running. She’d written letters to her public officials, she’d done an interview on the ABC affiliate news station here in Sioux Falls—though she’d been labeled cold and robotic. She’d met with the warden and hired an attorney. For two months, she’d fought what she thought was a good fight and put herself in the center of a target in order to save her boy’s life. Until Robbie asked her not to. “This life is worse than death, Mom, the things that happen here . . .” He started to tell her. She made him stop, then went home and stared at the wall for hours. It had felt good to have a cause, and it had felt like she’d been doing the right thing by advocating for her son. But he didn’t want her advocacy. He wanted to die.
Amanda had withdrawn her arguments and run back to the hidey-hole of her life, pulling the lid on tighter than she ever had before. She hadn’t said a word publicly since.
Today, however, Robbie was gone and Amanda had no one to protect, though she never felt as though she’d truly protected him from anything. That one attempt had been like tying herself to the bumper of a runaway truck and thinking she could slow it down if she pulled ha
rd enough. “You’re calling me three hours after my son’s death in search of the human side of this story?”
The reporter didn’t skip a beat. “How do you feel, Mrs. Mallorie?”
She almost hung up. Almost. But instead she paused and then said the words that came to mind. “I feel like maybe we can all find some peace now. I hope so.”
“By we, do you mean—”
She ended the call and put the phone in her lap. Was that really what she felt? Did she truly believe there was peace to be found? Believe might be too strong a word. Maybe hope. She had hope, didn’t she?
In the next instant, her entire body ached in anticipation of how long the day would be. If one journalist had her number, they all had it. Whatever peace she hoped for would not begin today. The thought made her feel decades older than her forty-eight years, and she ran her hand through her sleep-tousled hair. She thought of all the television producers and newspaper writers who had contacted her over the years; all the friends and family members who had offered up their connection with Robbie in exchange for fifteen minutes of fame—offerings that were then twisted and posed to push whatever agenda had spurred the contact in the first place. Some writers wanted to sympathize with Robbie—son of an alcoholic father, child of divorce, victim of inadequate mental health services in our country. Another would frame him as a sociopath—charming, manipulative, and violent. Others simply called him evil. Soulless.
Amanda finished finger-combing her hair and began weaving it into a French braid that would keep it out of her face—she had it trimmed twice a year when she went to Cincinnati to visit Melissa. People didn’t recognize her as easily in Ohio. The strawberry blond had faded to dusty rose, but she couldn’t commit to regular maintenance, so she hadn’t had it colored for years. She stood and shuffled into the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went and still shivering. For a moment, she wondered why she wasn’t moving to Florida. Then she remembered Melissa and felt guilty. She had work to do there. Being Robbie’s mother had interfered with her being Melissa’s.
Amanda started the coffee before heading into the bathroom. At the sight of the tropical-fish-themed shower curtain she felt her mouth twitch into a smile; a desperate one, perhaps, but a smile all the same as another memory long ignored played out in her mind like a cherished home movie. She’d bought the curtain for a carnival at the kids’ elementary school. Robbie had begged her to run the fishpond—his teacher had pushed the kids to involve their parents and the fishpond was Robbie’s favorite game. Amanda had never been that mom, the PTA-room mother mom. But she agreed to do the fishpond and then panicked when she realized she had to put the entire booth together. Why hadn’t she just agreed to sell tickets like she usually did?
Her angst had resulted in a fully enclosed frame built of PVC pipe, actual fishing rods the kids could cast and reel with clothespins instead of hooks, and The Little Mermaid soundtrack playing behind the tropical fish shower curtain she’d searched five stores for. Dwight had helped her build the frame—it was one of the last things they’d done when she’d felt like they were friends. She’d shown up at the carnival that night to find that her setup was more elaborate than the other games, which had utilized desks and chairs and tables from around the school for necessary props. Instead of cheap candy and plastic rings, she gave away notebooks, mechanical pencils, and small stuffed animals—nicer prizes than the other booths. The compliments she’d received had made her feel as though everyone thought she was trying to impress people when what she’d really wanted was to just be like the rest of them. Robbie, however, had loved it so much that he hadn’t played any of the other carnival games and instead gleefully helped her clip the prizes and throw the line over and over and over again. On the way home, Robbie hadn’t stopped talking about how much better her fishpond had been than any other fishpond he’d ever seen. Amanda tried not to think about how much money she’d spent on the stupid thing or what judgments had been flung her way for overdoing it.
The fishpond setup had been relegated to the basement, and residual anxiety had kept Amanda from volunteering to do anything but sell tickets at future events. During a de-junking phase following Robbie’s conviction she’d found the remaining pieces, including the shower curtain, and decided that the upstairs bathroom could use a little color. Today she dared to specifically like the way the curtain reminded her of Robbie and a time when she’d made him proud. The smile faded. Maybe if she’d been a better PTA-type mom, none of this would have happened. Maybe if she’d volunteered regularly and made petitions to circulate about unfair practices in the district, her son would have avoided becoming a pseudo-commando killer. Either way, Robbie was dead.
She said it out loud. “Dead.” The windows did not shatter. A lone wolf did not howl at the injustice. The clock downstairs kept ticking. Tick. Tock. Tick. Nothing had changed. Everything was different. Was she different? Could she be?
Her phone rang from where she’d left it in the kitchen and she let out a tired breath—it was still too early to be the movers.
4
Melissa
Three hours, fifty-four minutes
Melissa hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d tried, telling herself that staying up would not change anything, but her thoughts had cycled and spun until she’d slid out of bed around midnight and come downstairs. She’d found the box easily enough, even though she hadn’t looked through it for years. She’d taken the box to the family room, where she turned on the gas fireplace, lifted the lid, and let the memories overtake her. Photo after photo of her and Robbie. Her dad was in some of the earlier ones, usually toward the side of the frame. Sometimes looking at his kids, other times looking off at something else. Usually holding a beer. Melissa stared at the pictures of him but was still unable to decide how she felt about the man who had been distant when she was little and then gone when she was older. She didn’t know him, never really had, and now, at the age of twenty-nine, with a child of her own and another on the way, she didn’t want to know him.
She had sorted through everything in the box—a collection of keepsakes from childhood, high school, and college—until she had one perfect pile of everything relating to Robbie. It wasn’t much. Prior to the horrible thing he’d done, she’d never considered a need to save bits of his life. After the horrible thing he’d done, she hadn’t wanted to look at him. It was too hard to reconcile the brother she’d grown up with and the demon he’d become. Each time she thought too much about it, she’d feel this tearing sensation in her head, as though she were moving at warp speed and the ship was beginning to fall apart like on those old episodes of Star Trek. So, she tried not to think about him and she’d become pretty good at it. No one here in Cincinnati knew that her brother was on death row—well, there had been that one article, but that was years ago. She paused and looked at the green digital time on the DVD player. With a loud exhale, she realized he wasn’t on death row anymore. He was dead. A lump rose in her throat and she put a hand to her mouth. Somehow she’d become so distracted with evidence of the past, she’d forgotten the present entirely. Maybe that was some kind of coping mechanism; maybe she’d been avoiding the realization. Hot tears filled her eyes and soon she was sobbing into the cushions of the couch, overwhelmed with so many emotions that she couldn’t sort one from the other—guilt for having not been a better sister, confusion as to whom she was mourning, embarrassment for her connection to him, and excruciating sorrow to know that he was gone.
The baby within her moved, as though reminding her that he was still there, and she put her arms around her belly. Things had been different with Lucy—Melissa had been naïve and overjoyed to be pregnant and could go weeks without thinking of her brother who was sentenced to death a few states to the west. She had built a perfect little life for her and Paul and Lucy in Ohio. Melissa had loved being a mom—met other moms in the area, learned how to manage a home and a child, and basked in the purpose of her life. When Robbie did enter her thoughts, she pushed him
away. There was no time. When her mom entered her thoughts, it was harder. She’d begged her mother to come with her and Paul when they decided they couldn’t stay in South Dakota. Robbie was six months into the trial and Melissa was suffocating. Leaving was the right thing for them and, she was certain, the right thing for her mom. But Mom wouldn’t leave. She said she needed to stay for the trial. And then there was the appeal. And then . . . it didn’t matter why she stayed, only that she chose Robbie over Melissa. Over Lucy. Over everything and everyone.
When Robbie had dropped his appeals and asked to be executed, Melissa had breathed a sigh of relief. The memory caused her to clench her eyes and cry even harder now, still cradling her belly. What a horrible sister and person she was to have been glad that there was an end in sight. And then she’d found out they were pregnant again. She had expected the new baby to distract her from her first life the way her pregnancy with Lucy had. It hadn’t distracted her this time. It terrified her.
Maybe because Lucy was growing up. Maybe because this child was a boy, like Robbie. Maybe because you can only run from the truth for so long. She’d had anxiety attacks. She struggled to sleep. Mom was coming to Ohio, and Melissa was terrified that the move wouldn’t be enough to fix what was broken between them. The physical distance had served as a good reason to be disconnected all this time. What if they still couldn’t connect? What if all the hope Melissa had of them being mother and daughter again came to nothing? The idea made her insides feel like sand.
A hand on her shoulder startled her and she snapped her head up to see Paul, his hair tousled with sleep and his eyes worried. He didn’t say anything, but slid onto the couch, somehow moving her onto his lap in the process. He wrapped his arms around her and she turned into his shoulder and cried again.
