“Oh, no,” Jamie said.
“What?” Christie asked, nervous about what Jamie might do next.
“I got a little blood on your car seat,” Jamie said. “It’s leather, though, so it should come right off. Do you have a napkin?”
Christie reached into her purse and gave Jamie a tissue. Yesterday she might’ve been upset at the thought of something marring her Mercedes. But now all she could think about was Henry’s raw, bitten nails, and that emptiness in Jamie’s red-rimmed eyes . . .
“I’m returning the car tomorrow,” Christie said. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to—who ever read the fine print in contracts?—but she was going to try.
“Why?” Jamie frowned. “Because of what I said?”
Christie pulled up to a stoplight and turned to look directly at Jamie. “You mean when you called me a mooch?”
Jamie sighed. “I’m sorry, okay?” she said.
“You were right,” Christie said. “Not the part about me being a mooch. But I shouldn’t have bought this car. I don’t really need it. And just so you know, I already told Mike I don’t want any more child support.”
Jamie nodded, and Christie felt a little deflated. A thank you would’ve been nice.
Jamie didn’t say anything else as Christie made a few turns and eventually reached Jamie and Mike’s street. She pulled up in front of their house and waited for Jamie to step out, but Jamie didn’t move.
“Can you, um, tell Mike I stopped by?” Jamie finally asked.
Christie nodded. “Sure,” she said. It felt strange, Jamie asking her to convey a message to Mike.
“I left the minivan there, so if he wants to bring it home when he wakes up tomorrow . . . he can,” Jamie said.
“Okay,” Christie said.
“If you talk to him, could you just let him know . . .” Jamie gulped in some air and her face crumpled. “Would you tell him . . .” Again Jamie’s voice trailed off, then she reached for the door handle and exited the car.
Christie stared after her as Jamie made slow progress to her front door in the darkness. She was limping, and the strap on one of her cheap-looking sandals was broken and flapping with every step. She’d trip if she weren’t careful.
Christie put the Mercedes in drive and made it a few feet away before stopping again and looking back. Jamie still hadn’t reached her front stoop. She was shuffling along like someone who was sick, or very old. Her head was bowed, and every line in her body seemed steeped in misery.
Christie flung open her door and ran after Jamie.
“Listen, Mike’s at the apartment because of Henry,” she said.
Jamie stopped walking and looked up at her. “That’s the only reason,” Christie continued. “Henry really needed him tonight. That stuff I said to you earlier about Mike and I—all we did was go over the case. The private detective I’m working for is trying to help him. That’s why we’ve been talking so much.”
Jamie nodded slowly. “Oh,” she said.
How many times had she communicated with Jamie through the years? Christie wondered. Hundreds. No, thousands. They’d talked about Henry and the other kids, about immunizations and diaper rashes, about music recitals and grades and cyberbullying. Jamie knew Henry intimately, maybe even as well as Christie did.
“But you don’t know me!” Christie blurted. “You’ve never once tried to know me!”
Jamie looked up at Christie, her forehead creasing. Christie hadn’t meant for her private thoughts to spill out, but before she could backpedal, Jamie spoke up.
“Maybe that’s true,” she said.
“Well,” Christie said. She cleared her throat. “It’s probably a little late now. I mean, Henry’s going off to college in a few years, so . . .”
“Yeah,” Jamie said.
“Anyway, maybe I didn’t notice what was going on with Henry, or how upset he was . . . and fine, so I shouldn’t have gotten that car . . . but I’m still a good mother!” The words erupted from Christie with a force that surprised her.
Maybe this was what it came down to, she thought as Jamie blinked up at her. The discomfort that had always underlain her relationship with Jamie could be rooted in the times she’d messed up and Jamie had rushed to cover for her, in the way Henry had asked long ago why Christie never made green trees for dinner like Jamie did (trust Jamie to find a way to turn broccoli into a treat), and in the moment when a waitress had mistaken Christie for just another guest at Henry’s birthday party a few years back. The waitress had caught Christie’s eye and said, “What a beautiful family”—meaning Jamie and Mike and Henry and the other kids. Christie had felt a kind of rage toward Jamie then. She’d watched Jamie rub her big, pregnant belly, Mike’s hand resting possessively on her lower back, and Christie had walked to the bar and ordered a tequila shot and downed it quickly. Only then was she able to rejoin the party. When the balloon had popped a moment later, she’d hung on to Mike’s arm and hadn’t let go until Jamie noticed and glared at her.
Jamie looked confused. “I mean, our styles are different. But you’re a good mother. Of course you are. Anyone can see how much you love Henry.”
Christie felt her throat tighten and she shook her head. She wanted to say that wasn’t what she’d meant, but she was unsure of what she did mean. So she walked back to her car before she did something ridiculous, like burst into tears. There had been far too much crying tonight anyway. She had no idea what had gotten into her; maybe Jamie’s crazy mood was contagious.
She put her Mercedes in drive but waited to pull away from the curb until Jamie made it safely inside her house.
You’re a good mother, Jamie had said, sincerity threading through her voice.
As Christie headed home, back to her son, she knew in her heart it was true.
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
MIKE STOOD IN THE doorway, wearing a T-shirt Jamie had picked up last year at a discount outlet because she knew the mossy green color would complement his olive skin. His hair curled down around his ears and stubble coated his jawline, a look she loved.
“Are the kids ready?” he asked. “I’m gonna take them to the park.”
It had been two weeks since she’d gone to find him at Christie’s. When she’d awoken the next morning, the minivan was in the driveway and Mike was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands cupping a steaming mug of coffee. She’d begun to hurry toward him. Then she’d glimpsed the expression on his face and she’d stopped short.
“Christie told me you came by when I was asleep,” he’d said. “I want you to know I wasn’t there the whole time. I crashed on Shawn’s couch the first night.”
She’d eased into the seat across from him. “Okay,” she’d said, her voice coming out as a whisper.
Mike’s two duffel bags were at his feet. He hadn’t unpacked them.
“I’m going back to stay at Shawn’s,” he’d said.
His words had felt like a hard pinch. “For how long?” she’d asked.
He’d shaken his head. “I don’t know.”
“A night? Two?”
“Look, I just— I’ve got to get away for a little while.”
From me, Jamie had thought.
Shawn was one of the guys who’d brought over fried chicken after Ms. Torres’s press conference. If Mike was sleeping there, it meant he would have to watch his friend leave for work in his blue uniform, a painful reminder of the life Mike used to have.
How could staying with her be worse than that?
“I’ll tell the kids it’s because of all the reporters hanging around the house,” he’d continued, not meeting her eyes. “The press is going to be all over me now that we’re going to trial. I’ll say I want to draw them away. Henry’s having a rough time, so when he’s here I’ll be around as much as possible. I’ll probably stay in th
e basement some of those nights. And I want to come by and see the kids every day.”
“Why even leave, then?” Jamie had asked, wondering when he’d planned this all out and how long he’d been thinking about it. “You can keep sleeping in the basement. Or I’ll stay there if you want!”
But he’d just shaken his head and stood up and put his barely touched mug of coffee into the sink. She’d bought that mug for the kids to give him last Christmas. It was the kind you could write on with a special pen, and all the children had signed their names, with Jamie’s hand helping guide Eloise’s as she printed shaky but still recognizable letters. Henry had sketched a baseball next to his signature, and Sam had drawn a paw print for Sadie. After he’d torn away the gift wrap, Mike had said he’d never use anything else for his morning coffee.
“Wait!” Jamie had cried as Mike picked up his bags and began walking toward the front door. “Don’t just— Let’s talk this out! Go to marriage counseling or something!”
“I need to get through the trial,” he’d said.
She’d hurried after him. “I know things haven’t been good between us,” she’d said. “But I still love you, Mike. Why are you so angry with me? It can’t only be because I went to see Ritchie!”
He’d sighed, one hand on the doorknob. “Look, I’m not even sure I can explain it,” he’d said. “All I know is I need a break, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay!” she’d cried. “I’ve been furious with you, too. Don’t you think I haven’t wanted to walk away once or twice? But I didn’t. And you can’t, either! Talk to me, Mike. You can’t just leave . . .”
But he had.
Now she gestured for him to come inside, feeling a mixture of anger and sorrow that she was inviting her husband into their house. “The kids are in the kitchen,” she said. “They’re finishing up breakfast.”
Sadie ran to Mike, her nails scrabbling against the wood floors, and he squatted down and rubbed her neck. Then he followed Jamie to the kitchen, where Lou was flipping a pancake high into the air. Lou tried to catch it in the pan, but missed and it landed on the floor.
“Oops,” Lou said as Sadie gobbled it up. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Hey, elephant girl,” Mike said, giving Lou a quick hug.
“Hey, Thor,” she replied, hugging him back.
“Sadie’s eating the pancake!” Eloise said, laughing. “Do it again!”
“Want one?” Lou asked Mike.
“Sure,” he said, taking the empty seat next to Emily.
“I’ll get their shoes,” Jamie said. “Oh, and sunscreen. Do you want me to pack some snacks?” Talking about logistics helped fill the empty space between her and Mike.
“Nah,” Mike said, stealing a strawberry off Emily’s plate and popping it into his mouth. “We’ll pick something up if they get hungry.”
Twenty minutes later, they were all clustered by the door and Jamie was rubbing sunscreen on Sam’s arms over his protests while Mike helped Eloise strap on her sandals. Above the din came the sound of Mike’s cell phone ringing.
He reached into his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
“Better take this,” he said. “It’s J.H.”
He stepped away, toward the family room, but Jamie could still hear his side of the conversation.
“When is it going to happen?” Mike was asking. His tone revealed it wasn’t good news. Jamie felt a clutch of fear.
“Okay. Talk to you after.”
He slid his phone back into his pocket and stood there, staring into space.
Jamie handed the tube of sunscreen to Lou and walked over to him. “What is it?” she asked softly, not wanting the kids to overhear.
“Lucia Torres is holding another press conference,” he said.
Jamie gasped. A few days after Mike had left, Jamie had called and told him about her visit to Jose’s mother, knowing she needed to be honest with him. She’d been worried Mike would feel betrayed again, but he’d only said he appreciated her effort. Now Jamie wondered if she’d violated some sort of law.
“What’s she going to say?”
“He doesn’t know,” Mike said. “But she’s starting it in half an hour. He said it’s so rushed that a lot of reporters probably won’t get there in time.”
“That’s good, right?” Jamie asked.
Mike shrugged.
“Do you want to watch it here?” she offered.
Lou stepped toward them. “How about I take the kids to the park?” she suggested. “I can bring them back in an hour.”
Mike hesitated. “Yeah, okay,” he finally said.
He was probably going to watch it with her only because he didn’t have time to get to another television, Jamie thought, feeling stung. They saw Lou and the kids off, then Jamie busied herself cleaning the kitchen. Mike sat on the living room couch, flipping through the newspaper so quickly he couldn’t be reading a word.
“Seven minutes,” he said, looking at his watch. He flicked on the television and switched the channel to a local news station.
“Can I get you anything?” Jamie asked, sitting down a few feet away from him.
“No thanks.” Mike began drumming his fingers against his leg.
They stared at a commercial for a retirement community, then another for English muffins.
They should’ve watched the earlier press conference together, Jamie thought as she remembered how she’d stayed upstairs instead of going into the basement with Mike. She’d thought she’d been shielding him. Now it was just another regret.
A young male reporter appeared on the screen, holding a microphone and recapping the facts of the case. The press conference was taking place at Ms. Torres’s lawyer’s office, the reporter said. He wrapped up, and the camera cut to a podium positioned next to the doorway of a large room.
In a voice-over, the reporter narrated what was happening on-screen: “Ms. Lucia Torres is approaching the podium. She called this press conference unexpectedly and has not released any statement about its contents.”
Only when she began to feel light-headed did Jamie realize she was holding her breath. She exhaled and leaned forward, trying to glean clues from Ms. Torres’s appearance. Jose’s mother wore the same black dress she’d had on for the last press conference, and her expression was somber. She seemed to have aged since Jamie had seen her just a few weeks ago. She reached the microphone and stood there for so long that Jamie wondered if she was going to speak after all.
“I have always told the truth, all my life,” Lucia Torres finally began in a low voice. “And I have tried to teach my children to do the same.”
Jamie gripped her hands together, wishing she could hold Mike’s instead.
“My younger son, Alejandro, is not here today, and I ask that none of you try to contact him in the future. My lawyer or myself will answer your questions. He is to be left alone. He is a little boy, eleven years old.” Her voice faltered on the word little and her mouth twisted. But then she straightened up and lifted her chin higher. “He made a mistake because he was trying to protect me from something he knew would break my heart.”
She stepped back, and the woman standing behind her—the lawyer? Jamie wondered—leaned toward the microphone. “Ms. Torres wants to let you all know that she received a gun from her younger son last night. The boy took it from where it had fallen near his brother Jose’s body just after Jose was shot by Police Officer Michael Anderson. Alejandro had followed Jose to the scene of the fight and was hiding under a nearby parked car during the time of his brother’s shooting.”
The room was silent for a moment, then it exploded with shouted questions.
“The gun was turned over to the district attorney early this morning,” the lawyer said, waving her hand for quiet. “That’s all the information I have at the moment. Please respect the fact that thi
s is a grieving mother who tried to do the right thing. And Alejandro, too. Until recently he didn’t understand the extent of the repercussions of his actions. Once he did, he took the courageous step of telling the truth.” She took Ms. Torres by the forearm and led her from the room.
Jamie struggled to process the words. She stared at the television, remembering the pair of big brown eyes peeking out at her from behind Ms. Torres. Alejandro—Jose’s little brother. He’d listened as Jamie begged on behalf of her husband and talked about how her children needed their father. He’d seen her cry.
The male reporter appeared on the screen again, his voice tense and his words spilling out rapidly. “We have just heard from Lucia Torres that her—that a gun was recovered from near her older son, Jose Torres’s body immediately following his shooting death. The gun—Ms. Torres said—was picked up by her younger son and brought home, where presumably it has remained this whole time. We’ll, ah, we’re going to bring you an update on the case as soon as we have more information. Right now we are—we are confirming that Lucia Torres has just said there was a gun a few feet away from her teenage son, Jose’s body immediately after he was shot by Police Officer Michael Anderson.”
The phone erupted upstairs.
Jamie turned to Mike. His mouth had fallen open. He was still staring at the television, even though a weatherman was now on, predicting another scorcher.
The phone stopped ringing, then started up again. Jamie could hear her cell phone buzzing frantically.
Mike’s breathing turned ragged. “They found a gun?” he asked. “I knew—I thought—but then when there wasn’t any evidence—”
“Mike, he had a gun, just like you said.” Jamie felt dazed and muddy, as if everything was happening in slow motion. “You were right all along.”
“I saw it in his hand. There wasn’t any doubt—but then after I got to him so fast, and nothing was there—” Mike said.
Mike’s cell phone was ringing now, too, but he ignored it. He was a cop again, intent on puzzling out the clues.
Things You Won't Say Page 31
