Need to Know

by Karen Cleveland

  Mom’s asking the kids about their day, trying to direct the conversation, trying to fill any silence with words, with normalcy. Dad’s cutting meatloaf into tiny pieces for the twins, and they’re shoveling it into their mouths by the fistful, as fast as he can cut.

  Ella’s answering her questions, chattering away. But Luke’s quiet, looking down at his plate, pushing food around with his fork. Not engaging, not eating. I wish I could take this pain away. I wish I could bring his father back, make everything normal once again. Bring back his smile.

  Ella launches into a story about the playground, a game of tag. I look over at her, say the right things in the right places, the little phrases that make her think I’m listening, that make her keep talking, but my eyes keep drifting back to Luke. At one point, I look up and see my mom watching me, concern etched on her face. For Luke, for me, I don’t know. I catch her eye and hold her gaze, just for a moment. And I know she wants to take away my pain as much as I want to take away Luke’s.

  Later that night, three of the four kids are down and I’m tucking in Luke. I sit on the edge of his bed and notice his old stuffed bear tucked in beside him. It’s tattered now, stuffing peeking through a tear where one ear connects to its head. He used to carry it around the house, bring it to school for nap time, sleep with it every night. I haven’t seen it in years.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind, sweetie,” I say, trying to strike the right tone—soft, gentle.

  He grasps the bear tighter. His eyes are open in the darkness, wide and brown and so smart, so much like Matt’s.

  “I know it’s tough with Dad being gone,” I say. I feel like I’m floundering here. How am I supposed to make him feel better when I don’t know what to say? I can’t say his dad will be back. I can’t say he’ll call. And I certainly can’t tell Luke the truth.

  “It’s nothing to do with you or your brothers and sister,” I say, then regret the words. Why did I say that? But isn’t that what they say to do, when one parent leaves? Assure kids it’s not their fault?

  He squeezes his eyes shut, and a single tear leaks out. His chin is quivering. He’s trying so hard to hold it all in. I stroke his cheek, wishing desperately I could take his pain and make it my own.

  “Is it that?” I say. “Are you worried you made Daddy leave? Because you absolutely didn’t—”

  He shakes his head firmly. Sniffles once.

  “What is it, then, sweetheart? Are you just feeling sad?”

  He opens his mouth, ever so slightly, and his chin quivers more. “I want him to come back,” he whispers. More tears spill down his cheeks.

  “I know, sweetheart. I know.” My heart is breaking for him.

  “He said he’d protect me.” His voice is so quiet I wonder if I heard him correctly.

  “Protect you?”

  “From that man.”

  The words make me go still. Fear rushes through me, makes me cold all over. “What man?”

  “The one who came to my school.”

  “A man came to your school?” There’s a thudding in my ears, blood pounding through my veins. “Did he talk to you?”

  He nods.

  “What did he say?”

  He blinks quickly, and his eyes get a detached look, like he’s remembering something. Something unpleasant. Then he shakes his head.

  “What did the man say, sweetheart?”

  “He knew my name. He said, ‘Tell your mom I said hello.’ ” Another sniffle. “It was just weird. And he had a weird voice.”

  A Russian accent, no doubt. “Why didn’t you tell me, honey?”

  He looks worried, scared, like he did something wrong. “I told Dad.”

  I swear my heart stops, just for a second. “When did this happen? When did you tell Dad?”

  He thinks for a moment. “The day before he left.”

  —

  IT TOOK MATT AND ME five months to get out of the house together after the twins were born, just the two of us. My parents were up from Charlottesville for the weekend. We’d finally established a bedtime routine; the twins were sleeping in their cribs, a long stretch at night, not waking until midnight or so. It seemed like my parents could hold down the fort for the evening.

  Matt said he’d make plans, and I was happy to let go of the reins, looking forward to a surprise. I thought he’d make reservations at that new Italian place, the one I’d been wanting to try, the one that was far too quiet to take the kids.

  He wouldn’t tell me where we were going until we got there. I thought it was charming, fun, keeping me in suspense. That is, until we got there, and I realized the truth: He knew if he’d told me where we were going, I’d have refused.

  “A gun range?” I said, staring at the sign out front, a big ugly warehouse of a building, dirt parking lot crowded with pickups. He pulled the Corolla in, bumped along toward an open spot, didn’t answer me. “This is your surprise?”

  I hated guns. He knew I hated guns. They’d always been a part of my life; my dad had been a police officer, wore a gun every day—and I’d spent every day of my childhood worried that a bullet would find him. After he retired, he still carried. It was a sore point between us; I didn’t want guns in our house, ever. He didn’t want to be without one. So we’d compromised. He could have his gun when he visited, if—and only if—it was unloaded, locked in a travel gun safe at all times.

  “You need to practice,” Matt said.

  “No I don’t.” I’d been proficient long ago, those first years at the Agency when I wanted to check every box, be prepared for any assignment. But I’d let the certification lapse. I was perfectly happy being deskbound, close to home. I hadn’t touched a gun in years.

  He put the car into park, then turned to face me. “You do.”

  I could feel anger starting to rise in me. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to do less right then than shoot. This wasn’t how I wanted to spend my evening. And he should have known that. “I’m not doing this. I don’t want to.”

  “It’s important to me.” He gave me a beseeching look.

  I heard shots echo inside the building, and the sound made my skin crawl. “Why?”

  “Your job.”

  “My job?” I was utterly confused. “I’m an analyst. I sit at a desk.”

  “You need to be prepared.”

  I was exasperated at that point. “For what?”

  “The Russians!”

  His outburst silenced me. I had no idea what to say.

  “Look, you work Russia, right?” His tone softened. “What if they come after you someday?”

  I saw the worry on his face. I’d never realized before that my job scared him, that he was concerned about my safety. “It’s not like that. They don’t—”

  “Or the kids,” he said, interrupting me. “What if they come after the kids?”

  I wanted to argue. To tell him that it wasn’t like that, that the Russians wouldn’t “come after” an analyst, not like that. That they certainly wouldn’t come after our kids. Did he really think I’d have a job that would put our kids in any danger? But there was something in his expression that stopped me, that took the argument right out of me.

  “Please, Viv?” he said, and gave me that pleading look again.

  This was important to him. This was weighing on his mind. This was something he needed. “Okay,” I said. “Okay. I’ll practice.”

  —

  IF THERE’S ONE THING about Matt I know for sure, it’s that he loves our kids.

  From the bottom of my heart, I believe he loves me, too. I may have some doubts; I was, after all, his target. But the kids? There’s no question in my mind he loves them. The way he looks at them, interacts with them—that’s real. That’s why it’s been so hard for me to believe that he would have taken off, left Luke to walk home from the bus stop alone, left the other three waiting at day care.

  And that’s why now it’s impossible for me to believe it. Because if he’d heard that someone had brought Luk
e into this, there’s no way he would have run off and left us.

  He would have gone after the person who approached our son.

  Late that night, when the house is quiet, I pad down the stairs and peek into the living room nook, over to the pull-out couch where my parents lie sleeping. My dad is snoring softly. I can see my mom’s chest rising and falling. I walk quietly to my dad’s side of the bed. There’s a set of keys sitting on top of the end table. I pick it up.

  The snores continue, unabated. I glance at my mom, see her chest still rising and falling in a steady rhythm. I walk over to their luggage, set against the wall, and open the largest suitcase. Lift some folded clothes out of the way, rummage around, until I see it. The travel gun safe, buried at the bottom.

  I lift it carefully out. I find the smallest key on the ring, slide it into the lock and turn, hear it click open. I freeze and glance over at my parents. Still asleep. Then I open the safe and take the gun out, light in my hands and yet heavy at the same time. I pick up the magazines, the box of bullets. Set everything down on the carpet, close the safe, lock it. I put it back at the bottom of the suitcase, arrange the clothes on top. Our deal is Dad can’t touch it while he’s here; he’ll never even know it’s gone.

  I place the keys back on the end table, careful not to let them clang. Slide the magazines and the box of bullets into the pockets of my bathrobe, then slip out of the room as quietly as I entered, gripping the gun tight in my hand.

  I lie awake that night with the gun on the bedside table next to me. I stare at it in the darkness. This is all surreal. The kids are involved now. It might not have been an explicit threat, but the implication is clear: They’ll use my kids as leverage. And that changes everything.

  I can’t stop thinking about that day at the shooting range. Matt wanted me to practice. He specifically mentioned the Russians, too. It’s like he knew this day might come, knew I had to be prepared.

  I roll on my side, away from the gun, toward the spot where Matt should be lying. The bed seems especially empty tonight, especially cold.

  I finally get out of bed. My mind won’t shut off, won’t let me sleep. I walk through the quiet house. I peek in on the kids, check the locks on the doors and windows, the third time tonight. I find my way to the front hall, pull the folded paper from my work bag. Then I take it into the family room, the room where the kids play, where so much of our life has taken place. I sink down on the couch and unfold it, stare at the map, the box outlined in red.

  Yury’s there, somewhere. The man who approached my son, who terrified him. And Matt’s there, too. Something happened to him. He’s in trouble.

  I look at the streets, the pattern of them. I find the one outside my old apartment, the one where we met, just inside the red lines. How has it come to this? Who would have ever thought, a decade ago, that we’d one day be here, blackmailed by the Russians, on the verge of losing everything?

  I walk into the kitchen, set the map down on the counter. Turn on the coffee maker, listen to the rush of the water heating, the squeal of the coffee brewing. I reach into the cabinet for a mug and see the tumbler. I hesitate, ever so slightly, and then I close the door.

  Coffee poured and mug in hand, I turn back to the counter, look at the map once again. I walked those streets, long ago. Matt and I both did. He’s there, somewhere. I just have no idea how to find him.

  I have no idea what to do.

  I drain the last of my coffee and set the mug in the sink. Then I grab the baby monitor from the counter, take it with me upstairs, set it on the bathroom counter. I get in the shower, close my eyes, and let the hot water beat down on me, the steam rise around me, until the air is so thick and hot I can barely see, barely breathe.

  —

  “NO ONE IS TO PICK UP my kids except our emergency contacts,” I say to the day care director early the next morning. Ella’s little hand is clasped tight in mine, enough that she complained as we hurried in from the parking lot. My other hand is holding Luke’s. I can wait in the car, he muttered, but I wasn’t going to hear it. Not this morning. “That’s my parents, and my neighbor Jane.”

  Her gaze shifts from the bags under my eyes down to my left hand. “If it’s a custody issue, we’ll need a court—”

  “My husband and me and our emergency contacts,” I say, gripping the kids’ hands even tighter. “Check IDs, if anyone comes. And call me immediately.” I write down the burner phone number, then give her my iciest look. “No one else.”

  I drive Luke to school, and he’s sullen, because he wants to take the bus. I peer along the length of the fence, down the tree-lined street, then hurry him into the building, my arm around his shoulder. When we’re at his classroom door, I bend down so that we’re face-to-face. “If you see him again, call me right away,” I say. I press a slip of paper into his hand, the number of the burner phone. I see a flash of worry, and in that instant he’s years younger, my baby again, and I can’t protect him. Hopelessness fills me as I watch him open the door to his room.

  When the door’s shut behind him, I find my way to the principal’s office. I tell him that Luke was approached by a stranger on school grounds, and I use every shred of anger and indignation I can muster. He’s used to it from the other parents here, I’m sure. His eyes widen and the color drains from his face, and he’s quick to pledge more security along the perimeter of the school, and on Luke himself.

  I join the morning traffic, begin the usual commute, the mindless crawl toward the city. And I hate it, because I should be with the kids. But I can’t keep them huddled in the house with me forever, and I can’t be at school and day care and work at the same time.

  The car inches forward, ever closer to an exit sign. It’s the one I used to take to get to my old apartment, the one that leads into the northwest section of the city. I stare at the turnoff, the lane that’s clear. And when I’m close enough, I turn the wheel and accelerate. Yury’s there, somewhere. Matt is, too.

  The exit leads onto streets that are so familiar. I wind through them, picturing the red-bordered box in my mind, navigating until I’m inside it. My eyes are scanning the roads, looking for Matt’s car, and Yury’s. Picking out each and every black sedan, checking the tags. None are a match.

  I finally parallel park on a quiet street and start walking. My bag’s slung over my shoulder, the gun tucked in a zippered makeup case at the bottom. The morning is warm already. Pleasant. The kind of morning we’d have ventured out in when we lived in this part of the city, walked to get coffee or breakfast, that little diner on the corner we liked.

  Memories come flooding back, Matt and me in those early days, those blissfully happy, uncomplicated days. I walk past my old apartment building, stop in the same part of the street where I bumped into him, all those years ago. I picture carrying that box, the collision. I can almost see the coffee stains on the concrete, the smile he flashed at me. Would I change the past, if I could? Make it so I’d never met him? My heart feels like it’s squeezed tight. I give my head a shake, keep walking.

  I reach the corner where I stood when I saw him next. The bookstore is long since shuttered, a clothing boutique in its place now. Still, I stare at it, imagine it’s the bookstore again, that he’s out front, book in hand. The feelings that coursed through me, excitement and relief. Now it’s sadness, just sadness.

  And the coffee shop, the one where we sat at the table in the back, talked until our coffee grew cold. The Italian restaurant, now a kebab place, where we had our first meal. It’s like I’m wandering through my life, and it’s a strange sensation, because they’re the moments that defined me, that brought me to where I am today, and none of them were real.

  And then I see the bank up ahead, the one on the corner with the domed roof. There’s a heaviness in my chest as I look at it, the dome glinting in the sun. I never gave the place a second glance, never had any idea Matt was coming here regularly, meeting with the very person I was working day in and day out to find, while the kids
sat in day care.

  I walk over, find the little courtyard around the side, a grassy square, trees and manicured flower beds and two benches, dark wood and wrought iron. I look at the one on the right, the one that faces the door. I try to picture Matt sitting there. Yury doing the same.

  I sit down on it and look around, see what Matt must have seen, what Yury would have seen, too. The courtyard’s empty, quiet. I’m suddenly so conscious of the underside of the bench, the place where Yury left Matt the flash drive. I reach my hand under and feel around, but there’s nothing there.

  I scoot down to the other end of the bench, feel around underneath. Still nothing. I bring my hand back up, slowly, clasp it in my lap with the other. I blink into the emptiness, feeling numb. It’s not like I thought I’d find anything, did I? Matt and Yury are together.

  It’s just that I don’t know what else to do. I have absolutely no idea how to find Yury, how to find Matt, how to make everything okay.

  —

  I PULL INTO THE PARKING LOT at day care at five, the height of the pickup rush hour. The lot’s crowded, cars extending all the way into the third row, the one that’s usually empty. I see a minivan pulling out of the middle row, and I wait as it backs up, slowly, timidly, then drives off. I pull into the space and park.

  I’m just getting out of the car when I see him. At the far end of the lot, in the farthest row. His car’s backed in, and he’s leaning against the hood, arms across his chest, looking right at me. Yury.

  I’m rooted in place. Terror creeps into my heart. Him, here. And what am I supposed to do, ignore him? Come back out with Ella and let him confront me then?

  I force myself to move, to walk over to him. We stare at each other. He’s in jeans and another button-down shirt, two buttons open at the top, no undershirt. His necklace catches the light, shiny gold. His expression is hard; none of this fake-friendly stuff anymore.

  “Leave my kids out of this,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.