Things You Won't Say

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “It’s crucial that you keep up the highlights,” Christie had instructed Lou. “Go back every four weeks.”

  Lou had just nodded, her eyes wide and round—Jamie noticed her eyebrows had been waxed and wondered if other, more delicate parts of her had been, too—and Lou hadn’t ventured anywhere near the salon again.

  Christie had given a deep sigh when she’d seen the highlights growing out. “I did my best,” she’d said, then she’d asked Lou if she could set her up on a blind date. That, at least, had gone well, and Lou was bringing Elroy by for dinner tonight, so he could meet the family.

  Jamie had sent Christie an email, asking if she’d come, too. Sure, Christie had written back. I’ll bring the wine.

  A friendly toot sounded from a car horn, and Jamie waved at the neighbor driving past. It was the elderly woman down the street who’d ignored them after Mike had been indicted. A week ago, the neighbor had shown up with a casserole, lingering on their doorstep and chatting away as if she’d been in their corner all along.

  Mike had brought the kids to visit his parents right after the charges were dropped, partly to escape the reporters who’d returned to camp out in front of the house. He hadn’t asked Jamie to come with them. Knowing her husband needed to escape from her, too, was one of the most painful things she’d endured, along with her father telling her that her mother had died.

  Jamie had planned to immerse herself in activity while the kids were gone, to try to distract herself by getting caught up for once—the refrigerator was desperate for a good scrubbing, the kids’ toys begged to be organized, and the attic needed to be cleared out before the floor collapsed under it—but she’d ended up staying in bed, not even bothering to shower or change out of her nightshirt. The quiet and solitude she’d used to fantasize about felt like a form of torture, and the sleep she’d long craved eluded her. The kids phoned every evening, their bright voices bubbling over as they talked about body surfing, picnics on the beach, and a trip with Grandma to a candy store to load up on saltwater taffy. Jamie made sure her voice was equally cheerful, even though she felt as if something heavy was crushing her. Mike came on the line only to say a quick hello, which was almost worse than him not talking to her at all.

  On the fourth morning after they’d left, Lou stood at the foot of her bed like an apparition.

  “Come on,” her sister had said, yanking back the covers. “Get up.”

  “Why?” Jamie had muttered.

  “Because you need to,” Lou had said, opening the blinds and flooding the room with sunlight. Lou’s voice was so determined it seemed as if it would take more energy for Jamie to fight her than to succumb, so she’d crawled out of bed and headed for the hot shower Lou had already turned on. It was odd to think their roles had somehow been reversed while she’d been resting.

  Lou had driven her to the zoo and directed Jamie to muck out the elephant enclosures and weigh food. At first Jamie had moved slowly, her limbs aching and her eyes gritty, wanting nothing more than to be in the dark nest of her bed. But gradually she’d become aware of her sister. Jamie had brought the kids to visit Lou at the zoo dozens of times, but she’d never spent the whole day here, watching Lou give directions to volunteers and work with the animals. This was her sister’s habitat, Jamie realized with a sense of wonder. She watched how the elephants responded to her sister, and listened as Lou talked to baby Masego in a gentle voice, her movements swift and assured as she examined him, and Jamie was filled with pride.

  “How did you know this was exactly what I needed?” she asked Lou as they drove home that night, her muscles pleasantly sore.

  “I guess,” Lou said slowly, “because it always helps me.”

  Mike had returned to work, too, and he’d been paid for the weeks of salary he’d lost. Gradually, the story had emerged: Jose was supposed to stay home that afternoon and watch his younger brother, but instead he’d turned on the television and slipped out to meet up with a new group of friends—several of whom were gang members. Alejandro had secretly followed his brother, and when the brawl broke out, he’d become frightened and crawled under a parked car. He’d seen the blood blooming on his brother’s chest, and had watched Jose collapse.

  Jamie could see it happening: Jose falling onto his back like a snow angel. The gun—which turned out to be a Beretta with a filed-off serial number—following the arc of his arm as it was thrown backward. The gun clacking against the pavement behind Jose, bouncing and sliding to land within ten feet of Alejandro’s hiding place. The boy slipping out from beneath the car, unnoticed in the melee. Alejandro closing his hand around the weapon and running home.

  After they’d retrieved the gun, investigators determined that Jose’s fingerprints were still on the handle. They also learned Jose had been given the gun the previous day by a leader of the gang. Apparently Jose wanted to join it so he could begin selling drugs—but one of his friends said Jose told him he’d do it only temporarily, to help his family. He knew his mother worked long hours, and dreamed of someday owning a house. Jose had wanted more than anything to give her one.

  Jamie closed the front door and went to start making waffle batter, her eyes flitting to the calendar once more. The day’s activities were listed: a dentist appointment for Eloise, Sam’s soccer practice at three-thirty, and Henry’s baseball practice at five.

  One previously scheduled item was missing, though. Mike’s trial was supposed to have begun this morning.

  Jamie shivered again.

  “Cold?”

  Mike walked up behind her and enveloped her in his thick arms. She leaned back against his chest, tears pricking her eyes. He had forgiven her, eventually.

  “If you hadn’t gone to Ms. Torres, Alejandro might not have come forward,” Mike had said during one of their marriage counseling sessions. He’d looked at her then—really looked at her for the first time in weeks—and she’d felt a glimmer of hope. “You saved me. I need to thank you for that.”

  Now she had to find a way to forgive herself.

  “Do you want to finish making the waffles and I’ll go wake up the kids?” she asked Mike.

  “Sure,” he said. She gave him a kiss—she found herself kissing him all the time now, and constantly touching him—and headed upstairs. Mike had started to renovate the basement in the time he’d taken off before going back to work, roughing out a tiny bedroom and bathroom for Lou, so Sam could have his old room back until Lou found a place of her own. No rush, Jamie had told her. She liked having her sister around.

  Mike hadn’t returned to his patrolman’s job, even though he’d been offered it back. Instead, he’d taken the detective promotion he’d once turned down. Jamie had also heard through the grapevine that no officer in the entire force would agree to be partnered with Jay. He’d quit and had apparently moved to North Carolina.

  Jamie had asked Mike whether he thought he’d ever go back to working a foot patrol, and Mike had shaken his head. “Doesn’t feel right without Ritchie,” he’d said. It made Jamie sad to think that part of his life was over, at least for the foreseeable future.

  But they were going to visit Ritchie, who was back at home now, too, this weekend. Jamie was planning to make a couple of giant lasagnas—one spinach and mushroom instead of meat, because that was Ritchie’s favorite—and Mike and some of the other officers were going to tear down the wheelchair ramp. Ritchie had made swift progress to a walker, and his speech was improving, too. Jamie could almost hear the teasing that would go on. The guys would joke about signing Ritchie up for a marathon next year, and they’d pretend to eat a bite of the veggie lasagna and gag. Before they tore down the ramp, they’d probably hold races down it in the wheelchair. She and Sandy would make a big salad in the kitchen, chatting as they sliced cucumbers and washed lettuce side by side. The officers would pick up Ritchie’s kids and toss them around, and they might notice a sticky door hinge or a leaking p
ipe and they’d make a mental note to come back and fix it. And in the thick of it all would be Mike, clinking beer bottles with his pals, reminiscing about old cases, making plans to get together for a football game. Because he was one of them again.

  Jamie walked upstairs, into Sam’s room, and saw that he’d kicked off the covers. Sadie was curled up in the curve behind his knees, and she opened her eyes, looked sleepily at Jamie, and then closed them again.

  “Thanks for keeping my boy warm,” Jamie whispered.

  She sat down at the edge of Sam’s bed, watching him sleep. The once-soft curves of his face were turning angular, and his feet looked too big for his body. In another few years, he’d be a mini-Henry.

  The buttery smell of cooking waffles drifted upstairs, and Jamie knew she should wake up her son and then her daughters, prod them all to get dressed and come downstairs, but she wanted to stay like this, for just a little longer, listening to the peaceful sound of Sam breathing.

  Jamie thought about what they were going to do today.

  After they took the kids to school, they were going to drive to Ms. Torres’s apartment. Mike had already phoned to ask if he and Jamie could visit. At first he’d suggested a neutral spot, like a diner, but she’d said she preferred that they come to her home. They were going to bring donuts and coffee, and Mike was going to ask if he could talk to Alejandro sometime, to tell him how proud he was of the boy for doing the right thing.

  And Mike needed to tell Ms. Torres about the missing piece of the puzzle. Maybe the most important piece.

  He’d finally figured it out in the middle of the night, while he’d been lying in bed. He’d sat up so abruptly that he’d awoken Jamie.

  “Are you okay?” she’d asked.

  “I can’t stop thinking about how that idiot Jay was running toward Jose with that can of pepper spray,” Mike had said, his voice hoarse. “What if . . .”

  Jamie had sat up, too, suddenly feeling wide awake.

  “Jose wasn’t the kind of kid who joins a gang,” Mike had said. “He had no idea what he was getting into. He probably thought he could move some pot and buy his mom a house and get out in a couple of months. He was fifteen. Kids that age—they don’t think through stuff.”

  Jamie had remained silent, sensing Mike was on the cusp of something vitally important.

  “So he’s in the fight, and he’s probably scared out of his mind because he’s in way over his head. Maybe he was thrown in as a type of initiation. Maybe it would’ve scared him enough so he would’ve tried to have gotten out.” Mike had massaged his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “Then he hears someone yell, ‘Freeze!’ and he looks up to see a cop charging him. The cop is lifting his hand with something metallic and gray in it. Pointing it at him.”

  “Oh my God,” Jamie had gasped. “You think—”

  Mike had nodded slowly.

  “All along, everyone assumed I was the one who’d imagined I’d seen a gun. But I think it was Jose who did.”

  “It was raining,” Jamie had said. “Maybe he couldn’t see clearly . . .”

  “Exactly what they said about me. You just gotta flip it,” Mike had said.

  “Mike, Ms. Torres told me a police officer harassed Jose when he was just a boy,” Jamie had blurted. “The officer told Jose to get home and stop causing trouble or the officer would give him real trouble. He made Jose cry.”

  “Might not have been the only time something like that happened. Maybe that officer was the regular one on the beat,” Mike said.

  “So Jose drew the gun because he thought he had to defend himself?” Jamie had asked.

  “Yeah,” Mike had said. “That makes . . . what happened . . . even worse.”

  He’d fallen back against his pillow and exhaled.

  “He was like Henry,” Mike had said softly. “He loved his mom. He took care of his younger brother. He didn’t have a violent record. You heard what one of his teachers said—he was a smart kid. He started out life like Henry.”

  Your son lives in a different world, one that doesn’t automatically treat him with disrespect, Ms. Torres had said. You have no idea what life is like for our brown boys.

  You’re right, Jamie had thought. She’d closed her eyes, feeling herself begin to tremble.

  “Henry started a fight at camp when he was under pressure for the first time in his life,” Mike had said. “If he’d been feeling desperate, and wanted to help Christie—if he didn’t have us around—you can’t tell me he wouldn’t be tempted by the idea of moving pot.”

  Jamie had rolled over and put her head on Mike’s chest, feeling his heart thudding.

  “Do you still dream about him?” she’d whispered.

  “Not as much,” Mike had said after a moment. “Not every single night.”

  But she knew Mike thought about Jose every single day, as did she. She saw it in the way the expression in her husband’s eyes changed sometimes when he was with their children, in the way he stayed kneeling at church, praying, after everyone else had risen to their feet.

  Today they would tell Ms. Torres everything. Mike had said if she wanted to hold another press conference, to reveal the whole story, he’d stand beside her.

  Now Jamie stared at Sam, seeing the sweep of long eyelashes against his cheek, remembering the photograph of Jose in the paper. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there when Sam lifted his head and stared at her sleepily.

  “Do I have school today?” he asked.

  She reached out and stroked his soft, thick hair. “Yes,” she said.

  He groaned and flopped his head back onto the pillow.

  “Daddy’s downstairs,” she said. “He’s making waffles.”

  The bedroom window was cracked open, and she could hear a squirrel chattering in a nearby tree. Sam’s laundry basket was overflowing, so Jamie picked it up as she began to walk out of the room. She’d try to throw in a load after breakfast.

  She could hear the sounds of Eloise stirring in the next room now, and Mike was calling from downstairs that everybody should come eat while it was hot, and Sadie was giving a little whine that meant she needed to go outside, fast, or there would be an accident to clean up.

  “Come on, honey,” Jamie said to Sam. “It’s morning.”

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  Things You Won’t Say was born during a conversation with my extraordinary editor, Greer Hendricks. Greer helped me pinpoint exactly what I wanted to write about—and because of her probing questions and creative contributions, this novel was in good shape even before I sat down to type a single word. A good editor can improve a manuscript. A great editor can help inspire an entire book. I’m honored to get to work with Greer, and I’m grateful beyond measure for her friendship, her faith in me, her talent, and her generosity.

  My literary agent, Victoria Sanders, is fiercely protective, brilliant, boundlessly kind and loyal. Victoria’s careful reading of Things You Won’t Say—and her subsequent suggestions—made this book better. In good times or bad, Victoria is the kind of agent, and friend, an author needs by her side.

  I suspect Sarah Cantin cloned herself a few years ago, because there’s no way one woman can do so much, so well. I’m immensely grateful for her constant help.

  Marcy Engelman is one of the best dinner companions you could ever hope to have in New York City, and I’m so thankful she continues to sprinkle publicity magic dust over my novels.

  My thanks to Chandler Crawford for her many years of hard work and dedication in selling foreign rights to my books, and to Lisa Keim at Atria for the same. Bernadette Baker Baughman is a joy to work with, as is Chris Kepner, and I look forward to many more years and books together. My heartfelt appreciation also to Emily Gambir in Marcy’s office.

  My gratitude to everyone at the amazing publishing h
ouse Atria Books: Judith Curr, Ben Lee, Lisa Sciambra, Carly Sommerstein, Hillary Tisman, Jackie Jou, Yona Deshommes, and Paul Oleswski. And a special thanks to the very funny, very smart Ariele Fredman.

  My sincere appreciation to my film agent, Angela Cheng Caplan, and to Kim Yau in her office, for all they have done. And thanks also to Caroline Leavitt for an insightful early read, and to Judge Jennifer Anderson and Robert Seasonwein for providing legal expertise.

  More than a decade ago, while working as a features reporter for the Baltimore Sun, I wrote an article about police officers in crisis. Recalling that story helped inspire this book. I was incredibly fortunate to work with editors Bill Marimow, John Carroll, and Jan Winburn on “Officer Down!” And I will always be grateful to Officers Lavon’De Alston and Keith Owens for speaking with me at such a difficult time. Officer Harold Carey Jr., a hero who died in the line of duty in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1998, was the subject of that story.

  My gratitude also to the incomparable Kathy Nolan, for her friendship and her incredible support. I’d also like to thank the elephant keepers at the Seattle Zoo for sharing their experience.

  Finally, a gigantic hug to my sometimes chaotic, occasionally nutty, usually messy, and always beautiful family.

  Things You Won’t Say

  SARAH PEKKANEN

  A Readers Club Guide

  Discussion Questions

  1. Early on in the novel, Jamie feels her husband Mike slipping away: “No matter how hard he tried to exhaust himself, though, the nightmares persisted, and with every passing day, Jamie felt as if her husband was withdrawing a bit more, an invisible casualty of the shooting”. How does Jamie try to get Mike to open up to her? What did you think of her strategies? As a group, discuss what you think she could have done differently.