You Were Always Mine

by Nicole Baart

  Jessica knew when it was done because the hush of the crowd expanded like dough until she feared she would suffocate. There was a moment of total silence, not the swish of fabric or a single sigh, and then the world exhaled, and slowly, slowly those who had gathered to say good-bye began to move.

  “I’m so sorry,” someone said, touching her elbow and giving Gabe’s hair a tousle. It was Dr. Murphy, from the clinic. They hadn’t been close. He was new.

  What was she supposed to say? It’s okay?

  There were more, a growing tide of people who blew their noses into soggy tissues and clasped Jess and her boys to their chests.

  “Mom?” Gabe called, his voice hitching in indication of the level of his distress. It was too much for him. He had been touched by strangers, shushed and ignored for hours. Now Jess could almost see the switch flip as Gabe crumpled. Not a tantrum. Not now. But it was too late. Gabe was crying, screaming, really, and arching his back against the cold ground as if the earth carried a charge and he was being electrocuted. The book on her nightstand said that Jess was supposed to hold him through it, speak gently and lovingly until the fit of rage passed. But she didn’t want to hold him. She wanted to spank him.

  “We’ll take him,” Henry said quietly as he crouched down to wrestle his flailing grandson. Jess felt a rush of gratitude that was quickly tempered by guilt. She should be on her knees, comforting her son. Too late. Her father had scooped up all fifty-five pounds of shrieking little boy and was carrying him in the direction of the parking lot. Gabe’s arms and legs thrashed, and his screams only intensified at the injustice of being so unceremoniously hauled away. But Henry knew what he was doing. He knew how to calm his grandson.

  “It’ll be okay,” Anna said, putting a hand on Jessica’s arm. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I have a pot of potato soup on the stove. Come over when you’re done here.”

  “Sure,” Jess managed. “Fine. We’ll meet you at the house later.”

  “Max can come with us if he’d like. Max?”

  Jessica felt her teenage son’s absence in the sudden chill. He was already weaving through the crowd, making his way to the parking lot and his grandfather’s car. She shivered.

  “You can all spend the night—I have the guest room ready for you.” Anna didn’t give her a chance to protest but gave Jess one last hug, then turned and melted into the sea of dark-clothed mourners.

  Jess didn’t want to spend the night at her father’s house, and she certainly didn’t want her sons to. She wanted her own bed, and the warm weight of Gabe beside her in the place where Evan used to sleep. Gabe had taken to sleeping in Jess’s king-sized bed when Evan moved out for good, and because she loved his company she had never discouraged him. She should have; Jess knew that now. But it was too late. Instead of going to sleep in his own bed, Gabe crawled into hers every night as if it had been his all along. But she loved his mussed hair, the sound of his breath in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. He whistled when he inhaled, and she even loved that.

  She could say no, Jess decided as she accepted a stiff hug from yet another one of Evan’s coworkers. A nurse this time, Evelyn, whom Jessica had always liked simply because she had a laugh like bells ringing.

  “Here.” Jess felt someone slide the rose she was clinging to out of her hand. She hadn’t realized that she was still holding it. “Let me take that for you.” Meredith cradled the head of the flower, preserving it for the vase where it was supposed to serve as a tender reminder of this moment, this day. Jess wouldn’t keep it. She knew that now. She’d drop it in the garbage the first chance she had.

  But her best friend didn’t need to know that. “Thank you,” Jess said, leaning into the arm that Meredith had thrown around her. To anyone looking on, it seemed like a warm half hug, but Jess could feel the protection in it, the unspoken promise that Meredith was here to run interference. Jess could have wept into the scratchy fabric of her friend’s funky tweed coat. There was something about Meredith’s bosomy embrace that reminded Jess of her mother. But as quickly as she felt a pang for her mom, Jess squelched it. To think about Betsy Lancaster was to tip off the edge into an abyss.

  “You saw Gabe’s meltdown?”

  “Honey, everybody saw his meltdown.” But Meredith smiled to soften the blow. “It’s expected, Jess. If I were you, I’d be the one screaming on the ground.”

  Later, when everyone who wanted to offer their condolences had filed past the place where Jessica stood rooted to the ground, Meredith gave her a fortifying squeeze. She hadn’t moved from Jessica’s side as coworkers, friends, and acquaintances pressed their sympathy into the new widow like a brand. Jess felt like she would carry the scars of this day forever, and she ran her hands up and down her arms, longing for a way to erase the evidence from her skin, her bones.

  “This is a nightmare,” she said, and didn’t realize that she had spoken aloud until Meredith linked arms with her and tugged in the direction of the parking lot.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Not my home,” Meredith clarified, clearly understanding the root of Jessica’s reluctance. “Your home. Todd already left with the kids.”

  “Amanda came?”

  “Of course she came. You talked to her before the service, remember?”

  Jessica didn’t, not really. And when she stumbled a little, her heel sinking into a divot on the brown grass, Meredith held her tighter and powered through, half carrying Jess along on a wave of willpower and friendship.

  “It’s probably good that everything blurred together,” Meredith said. “These things are never pleasant. Let’s get you home.”

  Jess was silent, compliant, as Meredith buckled her seat belt, drove the scant miles to the Chamberlains’ home, and then ushered her into the entryway. It was late afternoon, but the sun was already mostly gone, and Jess trembled in the darkness. Once she started, she couldn’t stop.

  “You poor thing.” Meredith hurried Jess over to the couch and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She gave her a hard hug, all blustery and fierce, and deposited Jess against the pillows as if she were a child. “I had intended to draw a bath, but I think you need a few minutes.”

  Jessica just nodded, teeth chattering.

  “Give me your feet,” Meredith demanded, sinking onto the coffee table as she reached for Jessica’s legs. She slipped off the offensive shoes and gave the arches of Jess’s feet a quick rub. “Better? I mean, I know nothing is better, but does that help, even a little?”

  Jess wasn’t used to seeing her friend so ruffled, so uncertain. Meredith was warm but uncompromising, the kind of woman who made decisions and did not regret them for a second—even if they proved to be problematic. Her heart was huge, but her confidence equally so, and it was alarming to see her flustered.

  “Yes,” Jess told her. “That’s better. I’m better. See? I’m not shaking anymore.” But she was, a little.

  “Liar.”

  “I should check on Gabe.”

  “He’s fine. Your dad would have called if he needed you.”

  Jess closed her eyes. The truth was, she didn’t want to know how her boys were doing.

  “Tea?” Meredith asked.

  That made Jessica bark out a humorless laugh. “Are you kidding? Whiskey, neat. I think there’s some Tennessee Honey in the liquor cabinet.”

  “Good girl.” Meredith hopped up, flicking lights on as she went, and returned a few minutes later with two stemless wineglasses. They were nearly half-full, a double shot for sure, but Jessica accepted the drink gratefully. She sipped and felt the alcohol burn the back of her throat. A moment later there was the hint of sweetness on her tongue.

  “What just happened?” Jess asked.

  Meredith sank onto the couch beside her friend and put her feet up on the coffee table. She wiggled her toes in black tights so that her feet looked webbed. “I don’t know, Jess.”

  “It was rhetorical.
”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Jess said, and was surprised by a howl that caught in her chest. It came out a whimper. “I’m a widow. I’m thirty-six years old and I’m a widow.”

  Meredith, for once, was speechless.

  “I have to go through his apartment. Get rid of all his things. There’s no one else to do it.” Panic began to rise like steam.

  “Give yourself some time.”

  “What am I going to do?”

  “I don’t think you have to do anything right now,” Meredith said slowly. As if she were talking to someone hard of hearing. Or crazy.

  Jessica gave her a sidelong glance. She was angry, she decided. Downright pissed off. “Of course I have to do something.”

  “You need to take care of yourself and your boys,” Meredith said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned forward to try and catch Jess’s gaze. “This is going to take time, Jess. Give yourself a little grace.”

  But Jessica wasn’t paying attention. “Evan is gone,” she whispered, her throat nearly too raw to speak at all. “All I can keep thinking about is how he can’t be. I mean, he can’t be. Like, it doesn’t make any sense. Evan wasn’t a hunter. He didn’t know anyone in central Minnesota. There has to be some mistake.”

  Jess hiccupped around a sob and sloshed a few drops of whiskey on the front of her dress.

  “There’s no mistake, hon.” Meredith patted her arm, but Jessica shook it off.

  “You know what I keep thinking?” Jess asked. “What keeps me up at night? That it wasn’t an accident. What if it wasn’t an accident?”

  Meredith stood abruptly and took Jess’s drink from her. She set it on the coffee table, where it immediately made a ring. “Look at me,” she said, bending so that they were eye-to-eye, so that Jessica had no choice but to look at her. “I’m so sorry—more sorry than I could ever begin to express—but Evan is dead. He was killed in a hunting accident and we buried him today. It’s awful, I know, but you have to accept it.”

  Jessica shuddered. “But I don’t want to.”

  “Honey, you don’t have a choice.”

  * * *

  July 2016

  Dear LaShonna,

  I’ve been waiting for an email notification from Promise alerting me to the fact that you have sent another letter. It never comes. Maybe you took me seriously when I wrote “I can’t do this anymore.” Of course, I was employing hyperbole. Of course I can keep doing this. And I will. As long as you want to know about Gabe, I will continue to write you letters. And if you tell me to cease and desist, I’ll do that, too. It’s your call.

  First the good. Gabe is hilarious and adorable. He loves to dance and play outside and copy everything his older brother does. “I’m a big boy!” is his favorite declaration, and he makes sure that everyone around him knows it. He’s completely obsessed with soccer right now—probably because it doesn’t take too much coordination to run around booting a big ball. This kid is amazing. A walking, talking miracle. I’m enclosing a picture of him at his preschool graduation. They let the kids wear caps and gowns—which Gabe thought was the greatest thing since Jess introduced him to Nutella. After kindergarten round-up it was decided that Gabe was not quite ready for kindergarten next year, so he’ll be attending TK (transitional kindergarten). Thankfully he’s thrilled about that, too. Word on the street is TK takes the best field trips.

  Now for the hard stuff. Although Gabe lags behind his peers in some areas, it is my professional opinion that his developmental delays are just a part of who he is. I refuse to call kids slow, and Gabe certainly isn’t that. He’s lightning quick in some areas and easily distracted in others. Jessica would like to have him tested. It’s something that we fundamentally disagree on. I don’t believe it’s healthy to label children, especially at such a young age when development can be so different—and still healthy—depending on the unique characteristics of each individual. Right now we are taking it a day at a time and trying to learn Gabe’s needs. He craves routine and dislikes disruptions. He loves to make noise but can’t process it when the sound is not originating from him. He likes to play near other children but not necessarily with them. And don’t even think about encouraging him to try a new food. He’s firmly in the chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and crackers camp. We’ll work on it. Someday.

  I hope that all is well with you and I hope that I hear from you again. Or, if your life has taken a different turn and you are no longer interested in writing, I respect your decision. Unless you tell me otherwise, I will assume that this chapter in your life has closed. Thank you for letting me have a glimpse of who you are.

  Regards,

  Evan

  PS—Exchanging letters is such an archaic way of communicating. I hope this isn’t overstepping some invisible boundary, but if you would rather take this conversation to the digital age, my email address is: echamberlain@comnet.com.

  Patricia K.

  37, African American, GED

  Cropped hair, brown eyes, chunky glasses.

  Husband, son at home (11).

  CF/TM, 20m, 18m pp

  CHAPTER 6

  THE AUTOPSY REPORT came in a nondescript brown envelope less than two weeks after the funeral. Jess was on bereavement leave, thirteen days in, but the boys had returned to school. “Continuity, connection, care,” the family counselor had told her, ticking off his fingers one by one as he listed her sons’ needs in this strange and terrible season. “Give them time and space to talk and grieve, but try to keep their lives as normal as possible.”

  Normal. Jess felt certain that nothing would ever be normal again, but she nodded as if she understood, and asked the boys if they were ready to go back to school. They were. She wasn’t.

  When she padded outside on stockinged feet to get the mail that day, Jessica hadn’t showered and was still wearing the yoga pants she had snagged off her bedroom floor that morning. She vaguely remembered a flimsy inclination to go for a jog, a brief hope that maybe this would be the day things would turn around. But after she dropped the boys off at school, Jess sank into the corner of the couch, legs curled beneath her, and stared at the wall while her mug of coffee went cold in her hands.

  The sound of the mailman on her porch roused her.

  A Pizza Hut flyer, a slim stack of bills, and then, an envelope from the Scott County Coroner’s Office.

  Jess called Deputy Mullen.

  “You said it would take a month or more,” she said when he answered the phone.

  “Jessica?”

  “Yes.” She rubbed her forehead and realized that her hair was limp and greasy. “Sorry, this is Jess Chamberlain. I thought, you know, caller ID.”

  “Your name came up,” Mullen told her. “Just making sure. You okay?”

  “The coroner’s report came today.”

  He sucked in a breath. “They were supposed to call me before they sent it. I’m sorry you weren’t warned.” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  “I thought you said it would be weeks.”

  “We expedited the process a bit.”

  Jess sensed a moment of hesitation. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  Mullen didn’t sigh, but he was quiet for longer than Jess would have liked. Weighing his options, measuring what he was going to say. Finally he offered, “We had some questions about Evan’s wounds, among other things.”

  “What other things? What’s that supposed to mean?” Jess didn’t realize she was pacing until she clipped her toe on the edge of the coffee table. She bit her lip to stop from crying out.

  “It’s nothing, Jessica. Really. The autopsy came back just as we suspected. We had some unanswered questions about why Evan was where he was that night. We still do. As you already know, he didn’t have any identification on him and we didn’t find his car until the next day. But everything checked out.”

  Jess wasn’t sure she was hearing him right. “Are you telling me you thought that maybe Evan’s
death wasn’t an accident?”

  “We’re just covering all our bases, Jessica. It’s our job,” Deputy Mullen said calmly. “And Evan died of wounds from a single round of buckshot to the back. That’s what the autopsy says. The simplest answer is usually the right one, and after all the interviews, we have no reason to suspect foul play.”

  They had been through this all before. The difference between manslaughter and homicide. No one mentioned murder (first or second degree), but Jess was the daughter of an attorney—she wasn’t naive. Still, all of it was unfathomable in regard to Evan. Quiet, unobtrusive, hardworking Evan. He was steady and kind, and just a little nerdy, but that was one of the things she found attractive about him. He was handsome in a distracted, “aw, shucks” kind of way, the resident small-town doctor who Jessica was sure made the stay-at-home moms’ hearts pitter-patter just a bit. He was a safe crush, and she knew exactly what they were thinking: “Maybe I can get him to sit up and take notice.” Jess had once thought the same thing.

  “I’m sorry to say, it happens all the time,” Mullen told her. “Roughly a thousand people are injured in hunting accidents every year, and approximately ten percent of those are fatalities.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Time of death was between eight and ten p.m.,” Deputy Mullen reminded her. “Not all that late.”

  “But I told you that Evan wasn’t a hunter.”

  “We never suggested he was hunting. He had just been in a car accident, Mrs. Chamberlain. Maybe he was walking to find help. Or he was confused. Evan had a significant laceration on his head and there was blood on the windshield of the LeSabre, as well as vomit on the ground beside the car. If he had a head injury and wasn’t thinking clearly, he could have easily missed the public hunting ground signs.”

  “I know,” Jess whispered. The fact that the car had been in an accident helped them identify it as Evan’s. It wasn’t his SUV, but the blood on the windshield was a match. “But he was miles from his car . . .”