by David Wright
I run to the end of the hall, and seize the doorknob.
It burns my hand, like the doorknob in my dream.
Makes me think that maybe I’m dreaming now.
Please, God, let me be dreaming.
“Daddy!” she screams again from the other side, “Wake up, Daddy!”
“I am awake!” I yell, clutching the knob in my hand, despite the burning, trying to twist it open. It’s not locked, but it’s barely moving, as if rusted or something.
I twist, the heat like fire burning into my flesh as if I’m trying to twist off a lit stove burner.
I let go.
Lightning flashes in the room beyond.
Kayla screams.
I launch myself shoulder first into the door.
It bursts open.
I stumble forward into the room, tumbling through darkness to the ground, hitting my head on a dresser I don’t recall being there.
I rise to my feet as the light flickers on and off. Between the flashes, I look around, at first for Kayla, and then at the room itself.
This isn’t my guest room.
Dark.
Light — I see that there’s no bed.
Dark.
Light — instead, there’s a crib.
Dark.
Light — a changing table.
Dark.
Light — and a name in wooden letters on the wall over the crib.
Dark.
Light — it says, Sam.
And then I remember.
* * * *
CHAPTER 15
I’m driving on a summer morning, too damned hot for such an early hour. They say the summers are getting worse, and that we should all just get used to it.
Kayla’s in the backseat, holding her lunchbox, ready for school.
Beside her is my six-month old son, Sam, in the car seat, playing with his little stuffed yellow bear.
We’re running late.
Meg is sick, and I’m running the kids to school and daycare before going into the city to meet Marty so we can figure out what to do about this shit contract that the publisher expects us to sign for the next two books in the Dark Family series.
With the third book we’re working on, our contractual obligation is up. They’re trying to sign us to another three, but the terms, especially on the e-book rights, are shit. At the same time, we’re negotiating with a producer who may be able to bring a decent version of the series to TV. But there are politics involved, a lot of glad-handing and ass kissing. The kind of stuff that Marty is good at, which I suck at, and which just frustrates Meg to no end. Perhaps that’s why she’s sick. Not saying she’s faking. But I think anxiety got her defenses down, and one thing led to another, and now I’m taking this trip into Manhattan alone.
She suggested I fly, but I hate flying — even if it’s a short flight — only slightly more than I hate these meetings. So I said I’d drop Kayla off at school and Sam at daycare, then she can pick them up if my meetings run late.
I pull up in front of Kayla’s school and see another mother we know, Mrs. Sutton, with her daughter, Felicia, also in Kayla’s class, walking past our car. Mrs. Sutton sometimes volunteers as a helper in the class, so perhaps she can save me fifteen minutes of having to find a parking spot and cart Sam in, then bringing him back out and fastening him down in the car seat again. He’s quiet now, drinking his bottle; I hate to aggravate him.
I roll down the window and call out, “Hey, Mrs. Sutton?”
She comes up to my car. “Hi, Tom, how are you?”
The girls wave at one another, giggly as Kayla hops out of the car and says hi to her friend.
“Good, how are you?”
“Great, I see you got car duties today.” She knows I hate taking the kids to school.
“Yeah, Meg is sick,” I say using air quotes to joke that she’s playing hooky. “Listen. I need to run into the city, and I’m running late. Could you take Kayla to class?”
“Sure,” she says, smiling. I like Mrs. Sutton, even if I can’t remember her first name. I know Meg also likes her. I think they’ve had a few play dates with the kids, though I could be confusing her for someone else.
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
I open my door to hug Kayla goodbye, “You have a good day in school, OK?”
“OK, Daddy. Will you be home for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” I say, anticipating the disappointment that follows. “I’ll try my best. And if not, I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?” she asks, smiling coyly.
Meg hates when I bargain with the kids or promise things I won’t deliver. But just this once won’t hurt.
“I’ll write you a story.”
“Maybe you can help Mommy write that porcupine story I asked her to write?”
“Porcupine story?” I ask. Before she can give me details, I see the clock, and realize I should really get going. “Oh, yeah, the porcupine story. Yes, I’ll help Mommy write it if I’m not back in time for dinner.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” I say, even though I have no idea what story she’s talking about, then hug and kiss her goodbye.
She opens the rear door, leans in, and kisses Sam on the forehead, “Bye, baby brother,” she says.
“He’s sooooo cute,” her friend says.
Kayla says bye again and closes the rear door.
“Thanks again,” I say to Mrs. Sutton as I pull away. I wave goodbye to Kayla, and then head out of the parking lot, looking to make up for lost time.
I look back at the car seat to see Sam giving me a big goofy smile.
I love his smile. He’s only recently started giving what I think are genuine smiles. I used to think he was smiling all the time, because whenever I’d feed him or rock him to sleep, he’d look back and give me these big grins. Meg said they were probably just gas, though.
I’m not sure if she was busting my balls, or not, but this smile on his face now is the kind of happy smile that a son only gives his Daddy. Or maybe his Mommy, too.
“Just you and me, Sam,” I say, heading to his daycare.
He lets out a babble that sounds like “Da.”
**
12:25 p.m.
I’m sitting in Marty’s office, staring at page after page of legalese in his proposed counteroffer to the publisher, enough to make my head swim.
After a long drive into the city, then waiting forever for Marty (who was running late with another client) then spending forty minutes bullshitting about the Yankees, I’m tired, and hungry, and wishing I’d thought to bring something to eat.
“I’m not gonna lie,” I say, “I can’t think straight right now. Long night, woke up early to take the kids to school, and I’m starving. Can we finish talking about this over a late lunch?”
“Hell yeah,” Marty says. “Wanna do Harry’s Pub?”
“Yeah,” I say, “let’s do that.”
We get up to leave, and suddenly my phone is ringing with a call from Meg, rather than buzzing from a text.
I wonder why she’s calling, and then immediately think that one of the kids is probably sick and needs to be picked up early. She better not ask me to leave the city before lunch. She’ll have to cover this one on her own.
I pick up the phone. “Hey, baby.”
She cuts past the pleasantries, voice distressed, “Is Sam with you?”
“What do you mean is Sam with me? I dropped him off at daycare.”
“I just called them, to check up on him since they usually call me at nap time on the days we bring him, and they said you never dropped him off.”
“Of course I did,” I say, though doubt creeps into my voice as I try to think back.
Didn’t I?
I retrace my steps. I’d been in such a rush, I don’t remember much after dropping Kayla off at school with Mrs. Sutton.
I dropped him off.
Didn’t I?
But I can’t remember for certain. My mind was s
o clouded with the day ahead, the contract talks, and all I needed to do when I got home, I can’t remember much of anything that I actually did for certain.
Oh God.
“I’ll call you back,” I say, hanging up and racing from Marty’s office.
I go to the elevators and hit the call button. Both elevators are on the first floor. I’m on the fourteenth. I can’t wait.
I run to the stairs, descending them two at a time, racing to the parking lot as fast as I can. The stairwell grows hotter with each floor I pass, as I’m sweating through my shirt.
I had to have dropped Sam off at daycare. Right?
But if he’s not there, where the hell is he?
My first thought is that someone took him. Someone kidnapped my child, and they’re going to ask for a ransom. I knew we should’ve hired bodyguards the minute the Dark Family series took off. Some assholes want to get paid, and they don’t care who they hurt to get theirs.
No problem. I’ll pay whatever they want. Nothing is more important than getting Sam back.
I hit the tenth floor and am struggling to keep my pace and catch my breath.
What if it’s not ransom? What if some pervert took Sam?
Seventh floor.
I can’t even fathom that. It happens all the time, at least according to the news reports. But that happens to other people, not to you.
Not to my family.
Second floor, one more to go.
I hit the first floor, gasping for air as my phone starts ringing in my pocket.
I don’t answer. I race outside and out into the parking lot beneath the bright summer sun.
I’m searching for my car, trying to remember where the hell I parked.
There it is, at the end of the row.
I run, ignoring the ringing in my pocket.
I finally reach the car. My heart stops in my chest.
Oh God.
Oh God, no.
I fumble for my keys, click unlock, and before I even open the door I know I’m too late.
Sam is dead, boiled alive in the car.
**
One month later …
I’m sitting outside on the hotel room balcony, staring up at the moon, half-empty bottle of vodka in hand.
Behind me, I hear the late night news come on, a regurgitation of what I already watched two hours ago.
I listen as my story leads the half hour.
The news anchor talks about how the sheriff decided today not to press charges in the death of my son “which rocked not just the small town of Warrenville, but the publishing world.”
The anchor cuts to an interview with Sheriff John Martin, who says, “It’s a terrible tragedy what happened, but it’s also an accident. We feel that we can’t possibly punish Mr. Witt any more than the hell he and his family are already going through. It’s a tough call, but I believe it’s the right one.”
The anchor then talks to some loudmouth who goes on about how I got special treatment because I’m a “celebrity.”
I’m not sure how long I’ll be in this hotel, but Marty said it was a best to stay here under a pseudonym until the heat dies down.
Meg and Kayla are staying with her sister until it’s safe to return home without being hounded by the press. At least that’s what she told me. But for all I know, she may decide to stay gone forever.
How can she ever forgive me what I’ve done?
I can’t forgive me after what I’ve done.
No matter how many times I replay the events in my head, it doesn’t make sense.
How could I forget my son was in the car?
I was so damned distracted by these fucking book and TV deals that I forgot to drop him off at daycare.
He must’ve fallen asleep after the bottle.
And then I drove four hours to see Marty.
Four hours, and he didn’t wake up.
Four hours, and I forgot my child was in the back seat.
I play his final moments over and over in my head. He must’ve woken, wondering where his daddy was. Cried for me.
And then, as the sun grew hotter, and he began to cook, Sam must’ve screamed, struggling to get out of his car seat, crying out for someone to come help him.
Confused, wondering what was happening.
Dying from the fucking heat.
I reach into my lap, grab the pain pills I got following the incident. Told the doc I was getting these horrible headaches. It was true. I was. But now they help to numb the pain. I pop two in my mouth, and swallow more vodka.
**
Six months later …
I’m sitting in the car, watching cold rain drizzle down the windows as I sit outside my house. The wipers thump rhythmically, making me sleepy. Making me wish I could sleep for more than a few hours at a time these days.
I want to go inside and kiss my wife and daughter.
I want to sit down to dinner like we used to.
But nothing is the same.
It never will be.
We’re together under one roof, ghosts of ourselves, a family in name only.
Meg is struggling to get through this. We’re doing therapy twice a week. Kayla’s also in therapy, though she seems to be taking this better than any of us. She’s sad that her brother’s gone. She knows that I’m to blame, but she, of all people, seems most ready to forgive me.
But Meg can’t.
Nor can I.
I am a burden to them. I can feel it in the way Meg looks at me. She hates me, and wishes it were me that was dead. She doesn’t say anything so mean, of course. She’s too kind for that.
But I see it in her eyes.
I feel it in her touch, on the rare occasions that we have physical contact.
I sit outside my house, a stranger.
I don’t know how long I can go on with this charade of pretending to be the man I used to be. How much easier it would’ve been had the sheriff prosecuted me. At least then I wouldn’t be this constant reminder in Meg’s and Kayla’s lives of the man who killed Baby Sam.
I’ve been taking more pills to try and make the pain go away, but it only makes the pain deeper and longer, and the brief moments of joy — my daughter’s smile or laugh, a moment where things feel almost like they once were — more fleeting.
Meg doesn’t deserve this constant reminder of our tragedy.
Nor does Kayla.
I pull out of the driveway as the rain begins to pour harder, the sky splitting open in a torrent of gray.
I’ve already decided what to do, but I can’t tell them. If Meg knows, there’s no way she’d be able to lie through the inevitable investigation.
I can’t leave a note.
I can’t get loaded on drugs or alcohol to make it easier. I just have to do it.
They’ll get a nice insurance settlement that should take care of them comfortably for a long time.
I consider calling Marty to let him know. I know he can keep a secret. But I don’t want to put that burden on him to keep such a secret from Meg. He’s a good man — a better man than me — and I don’t have to ask him to take care of my family. He just will.
I drive out of my neighborhood, head out to the highway, then make a couple of turns to get back on the same stretch, but the opposite way so it seems like I was on my way home.
So it seems like an accident.
I want to call Meg and Kayla to hear their voices once more, to tell them I love them.
But I can’t be selfish.
I just have to do this.
For them.
I speed up, making sure not to go too fast. The insurance might not cover my death if I’m speeding.
I see the guardrail ahead. The one I’d noticed was broken two weeks ago. The one over the steep ravine.
I position my car in the middle lane, waiting for the right moment. The moment that I can get over, then hit the brakes so it appears that I tried to stop rather than sped up and plunged myself off the road.
Two cars behi
nd me, and a truck in the middle lane.
Adrenaline pumps through me as I steady myself to do what every part of my body is screaming for me not to do.
The rail is rapidly approaching.
I speed up to fifty-five, then merge, a bit too far.
The car fishtails as I slam on the brakes.
No stopping now. The car hydroplanes right through the broken guardrail, and I plunge downward.
The last thing I think of as I brace for impact is my sweet son’s face and how he’d smiled at me that morning.
A smile betrayed.
**
I should be dead.
Instead, there’s a lot of noise and movement over me.
My whole body is in pain, and I can’t move.
I look up, eyes blurred, and see a female police officer asking me something. Her voice is garbled and sounds like she’s under water.
I try to talk, but can’t.
My eyes swim over her face, then settle on her badge: Ruiz.
She yells something to someone.
Darkness swallows me.
* * * *
CHAPTER 16
I’m back in my house, present day, in Sam’s room, after remembering everything.
The pain of remembering is too much to bear. It feels like I had him, raised him for six months, and then lost him all over again. I’m crying, looking around the now-lit room. The lights have stopped flickering, and everything seems normal, though there’s a slight dreamlike feel to the world that I can’t shake.
Am I really here?
Or am I in some kind of hell or purgatory?
My memories are all jumbled, dream, reality, memory. I can’t be certain of anything except that Sam is dead, and it’s all my fault.
Poor Sam. How can a father forget his son in a car?
It seems impossible, yet it happens all too often. But that’s to other people.
Not to me.
Not to us.
