by Freya Atwood
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Levinson.” I said, looking over my shoulder as the untidy little man left the apartment building behind me. “Sorry for your, what was it? Sixty mile journey home?” I smiled knowingly.
He waved a hand. “I live two blocks away. Don’t worry about it.” He grinned sheepishly and I laughed. He had taken the cash I had offered, every dollar, almost apologetically. But he still took it. Despite that I found myself liking him. A rough diamond maybe. I crossed the street and unlocked my car, tossing the umbrella in the back and putting my shoulder bag on the passenger seat.
I took out my phone and was about to call Nic when the screen lit up. It was an unknown number.
“Laura Jones.” I answered.
“Mrs. Jones. This is Sergeant Meyer at the Everwood Police Department. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your son has assaulted someone. I have your number from the college as next of kin. He fled the scene and I wanted to know if you knew where he was.”
I gaped, my heart freezing in my chest. The world lurched around me. This isn’t happening. The Sergeant had spoken with almost bored indifference. He was a cop following procedure, with no care about the hand grenade he had just casually tossed into my life.
“Mrs. Jones?” I realized he had been saying my name, including the assumption that I was married, repeatedly. I had been silent for several seconds.
“Sorry, Sergeant. No, I don’t know where he is. I last saw him leaving for school this morning. What happened?”
My hands were beginning to shake. My first thought was that Bryan wasn’t violent. He could get angry, that he surely got from me. But, to attack another person. He must have been retaliating. This can’t be his fault.
“It was a campus security guard. The account we have is that Bryan was found to be carrying a concealed weapon, he was stopped for a random search. Apparently the college has had some problems with drug use on campus. And he struck the guard, knocked him down and kicked him. Then ran.”
“Jesus!” The exclamation came involuntarily. I felt like I had been punched in the gut. My head spun. The car was closing in on me, the air being squeezed out of the increasingly small space.
“Obviously, he’s an adult but frankly, he’s still young enough that I thought calling his mother was a wise first step. Even at that age the instinct can be to run home.”
The clipped, official tone had slipped. Sergeant Meyer was beginning to sound human. I fumbled with the door handle and then, finally catching it, kicked the door open. A car passing along Duke Street honked loudly as the door flew open in its path. The driver gesticulated and shouted. I leaned back against the car, head resting on one hand, phone still glued to my ear.
“I…I…I’m not at home. He might have gone there. Have you looked for him there?”
“Yes. We didn’t get an answer and his car isn’t there. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Meyer asked this last almost gently, maybe he was responding to my reaction.
I blinked away tears. How could he react like that? And why was he carrying a weapon? It doesn’t matter what it was, why did he have it? Christ, Bryan where are you? I tried to think of anyone he had mentioned who might be his friends. But he had become so secretive. I had put it down to normal teenage awkwardness, the chick getting ready to fly the coop. But maybe there was something more to it. He was carrying a weapon!
“I’ll need to think, Sergeant. I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone right now…um…this is all just…”
“I understand.” Meyer replied softly. “I’ve spoken to some of the faculty staff. Seems like they thought he was a good kid. I have a couple of names to chase down. Now they’re real bad apples but if this behavior is out of sorts, and your reaction tells me that it is, that may explain why. He wouldn’t be the first kid to fall in with a bad crowd.”
“He is a good kid!” I flared. “Whatever has happened…well he’s just not like that, OK?”
“Like I said. That’s what I hear.” Meyer sounded patient and well-rehearsed. Probably had conversations like this a million times. “Look, Mrs. Jones…”
“Miss!” I yelled. I shut my eyes tight, wishing I had it back. It’s not relevant. What do I care what he calls me?
“I’m sorry. Miss.” There was so much emphasis on the title it was clear how foolish he thought the distinction was, in the context.
A young man with a hood pulled over his head, walking with a stoop, looked sideways at me as he passed. He looked like all of his clothes were two sizes too big. His eyes glittered from within the shadows of the hood. I stared back, furious and wanting something to lash out at.
“Can I help you with something, buddy?!” I snapped.
He looked away and carried on. I need to get out of here. I need to find Bryan! Keep him safe! Where are you Bryan?
“Look, Miss Jones. Your instinct right now is to protect your son. But the best thing you can do for him in the circumstances is to advise him to give himself up. With no previous record, even if the guard or the college presses charges, he won’t see jail time over this. You’re a lawyer, you know the score.”
So, he looked me up before calling me. Trying to gauge what kind of parent he’s dealing with. Well, you’re dealing with a good parent, Sergeant! Except part of my mind was whispering that if I was a good parent, my son wouldn’t be arming himself and assaulting people. He wouldn’t be so secretive that I didn’t know who his friends were. Oh Christ, he’d have been better off with his fucking grandmother!
Get control, Laura! Snap out of it and take back control. Your emotions do not rule you. They. Do. Not!
“Thank you for the kind words, Sergeant.” I said through gritted teeth, breathing hard through my nose.
I tore open the car door and got back in, slamming it shut.
“I will get in touch when I’ve got hold of Bryan. I appreciate you calling me.” It was all delivered in a monotone, a level surface laid over a boiling stream of molten lava. A surface made of glass, melting away. I hung up and slammed my hand into the steering wheel. It hit the horn and for a few seconds the repeated blast rang through Duke Street. I screamed through my teeth, the sound coming out as a feral, whining snarl.
The anger was directed inwards. I was alight with self-recrimination. A cold, objective part of me whispered that it was an entirely irrational viewpoint. That I couldn’t hold myself responsible for his actions, his choices. But the maternal instinct overrode everything and the mother in me took on every piece of blame, piled it on until the weight was crushing me to the ground.
I called Bryan. No answer. Just a prompt to leave a voicemail.
“Bryan, it’s me. What the fuck!? I’ve just spoken to the police. Call me or text me or do something! I need to know where you are!”
I hung up. He wasn’t going to respond if he thought I was attacking him. I screamed again, lowering my head to the wheel and shutting my eyes tight. I called Bryan again.
“Bryan, I’m sorry. I’m really worried. Just let me know where you are and that you’re safe. Please.”
Thoughts of the case had been chased from my mind. I didn’t even know where to start looking for him, but the instinct was to just drive around town. The thought of sitting at home or the office, waiting or worse, seemed anathema. I couldn’t see myself doing either. A thought occurred, an idea. I searched online for the number I needed and then called the network provider Bryan’s cellphone contract was with. Could they locate his phone? He was in danger and wanted by the police. I was his mother. Surely that overrode any data privacy concerns, didn’t it?
The answer was no, delivered in a foreign accent by an anonymous call center operative. And the rage burned, feeding off itself and getting hotter. I raised my hand to hurl the phone away and the effort to stop myself had my arm trembling uncontrollably. I slammed my head back against the seat rest. All thoughts of mantras and strategies were gone as though they never existed. There was only the anger and the instinct to lash out.
Is this what Bryan feels? Does he have the same anger problems as me? As his father? Is it genetic? I dropped the phone to the seat next to me, that simple action requiring a superhuman effort of mastery. I started the car, tearing away from the curb without looking behind, making a turn onto Vale at speed and cutting across oncoming traffic. I put my foot down and the car leapt along the slick street.
I was lucky to avoid traffic cops as I tore out of North Denny. Hitting the freeway I wove between traffic and passed ninety miles an hour. As the gleaming blacktop began to wind up into the Holland Hills my eye was caught by the sudden appearance of red and blue lights in my rear view mirror.
I watched those lights in the mirror for too long and my luck ran out. I wasn’t paying enough attention to the road ahead. A long curve appeared ahead, another car blocking the left lane as it overtook a slower vehicle. I tried to move right to avoid the vehicle in my path but misjudged the curve and the condition of the surface.
Suddenly, the car was spinning, traction gone. I instinctively locked the wheel in the opposite direction and the vehicle lashed itself straight just as the driver’s side slammed into the metal barrier at the side of the road. The impact threw the car back into a half spin. The back end hit the barrier, then the passenger side and the barrier broke and the front end rode up over the mangled metal before slamming into the dirt on the other side.
There was a shriek of stressed metal and the car came to halt. The back end was high in the air, caught on a spar of twisted barrier. The air bag had exploded into my face and I had stopped inches from a tree that was wider across than my car. The last sound I heard before blacking out was the wail of the police siren.
Chapter 19
I was lucky. I left the Everwood General Emergency Room with nothing more than cuts and bruises. My car was towed at my own expense, a write-off. I got points on my license but the cops who had pursued me took pity, they waived the ticket for speeding. Where my luck ran out was as I stood outside the Emergency Room waiting for a cab.
“Jayzus!” Exclaimed an Irish accent.
Nic had been standing across the street from the ER entrance, smoking a cigarette. She had just noticed me and hurried over.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Got into an accident. It’s a long story. Could I get a smoke from you?”
Nic’s eyes bulged but she offered me the pack. I took one gingerly. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette since I was eighteen. But right at that moment I felt like I needed it more than anything, except maybe some strong liquor. She offered me a light and took a drag, expecting me to cough my lungs up. The smoke went down smooth and easy. I blew out a stream of blue.
“Come on over here.” Nic steered me across the street as a security guard noticed us and started to move towards us. There were large no smoking signs displayed prominently. “You want to talk about it?”
“No. What happened with the cellphone in the prison?” I was being abrupt and at that point didn’t care. Thinking about work was hard but it at least kept my mind focused on something. There’s nothing I can do for Bryan other than keep trying him and waiting at home. He will come home eventually. He will!
“Secured. Cops have bagged it and taken it as evidence. I’ve made contact with the State police who are investigating the attack and made it clear it could be evidence in our case.”
“Good, let’s hope we get something we can use. And I appreciate you staying here. I suppose there’s no word on Hunter?”
“Still in the operating room.”
“You can’t stay here all night. It could be hours yet. Why don’t you go home? The hospital has my number. Make sure they have yours too.” I felt weary, almost too tired to talk. I just wanted to be home so I could sit staring at my phone, waiting for Bryan to call me or better yet walk in the door.
“I’m good for a while boss. Had a nice chat with a cute nurse at the coffee machine a while back.” She winked. “Wanna see if I can get a phone number before I call it a day.”
I would normally laugh at her devil may care attitude. It was usually refreshing. But I was numb. The events of the day were weighing me down. I felt like I should be crawling, barely able to lift my head. I just nodded. Nic looked at me with a frown for a moment then impulsively hugged me. I was so surprised I just stood there, arms pressed to my sides.
“Just take care, OK?” Nic looked into my eyes, her own brimming with concern. “Don’t like seeing my heroic leader looking so shaken up.”
I forced a weak smile, the effort almost beyond me. “Give me another cigarette, will you?” I asked, now craving it. “I’ll be OK once I’ve…got some sleep.”
I didn’t want to go into the whole Bryan saga right now. Talking through everything that had happened would just break me.
“Sure thing.” Nic handed me another and took one for herself.
We smoked in companionable silence. Then crossed the street. I got into a cab and Nic went back inside in pursuit of her nurse.
I had hoped and prayed that Bryan would be back home. The cab was paid by card. Levinson had cleaned me out of cash. When the cab pulled up outside the house, Bryan’s car wasn’t there. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. No calls. No messages. He might have been arrested. The thought filled me with horror. I kicked off my shoes in the hall, sending them skidding across the floor.
Then I dropped my bag next to the door, peeled off my jacket and dropped it on the way to the kitchen. I pulled my blouse out of the waistband of my trousers and undid the first few buttons. I went upstairs, letting my hair down as I went, shaking it loose. There were three bedrooms up there. Mine, Bryan’s and a guest room.
I walked along the hall to the last door, Bryan’s room, and walked in. Bed unmade. Faint odor of unwashed clothes and the stale tang of cigarettes. I must be doing something wrong if I didn’t notice that. I walked to the window, pulled open the blinds and opened the window. Sure enough, the outer windowsill was pockmarked with burns where he had been stubbing out his smokes. I was sure if I looked in the hydrangea bushes below I would find cigarette butts.
Bryan’s room had a desk with a computer on it and a docking station for a laptop, which was absent as Bryan would have taken it to school with him. A wardrobe stood next to the bed. There were no posters on the wall, he had painted the walls orange when he was fifteen and said he just liked the soothing color on its own.
A chest of drawers, same color and style as the wardrobe was on the other side of the bed. A lamp stood there and a scattering of random objects, phone charger, earphones with a bud missing and batteries.
It looked like a teenage bedroom. A pile of plates stood on one end of the desk and several cups stood either on the drawers or the floor. The smell was musty and unpleasant. But it made me feel closer to my boy. I opened the wardrobe.
Clothes, piles of shoes and sneakers. Nowhere to hide anything. But what was I expecting to find? Drawers next.
Underwear, socks, t-shirts. Books. I stopped, squatting before the bottom drawer which was full of books. Books on psychology, criminology and real-life crime. How long has he been interested in stuff like this? In college, Bryan was studying engineering. I sat on the floor, taking out the books and leafing through them.
Then I saw the notebooks underneath. They were thin and small, like police notebooks. I eventually found seven in total. Two of them were full, written in pencil in Bryan’s neat hand. The other hadn’t been started yet.
No! I’m not sitting here reading his stuff. Looking through his room is one thing, but if this is a journal, I can’t read it. Not without his permission. The notebooks were burning in my mind though. I wanted to read them, wanted to see into my son’s closed off mind and understand him like I used to. Like I thought I used to.
I put them back, putting the books back on top and closed the drawer. I hadn’t packed the books back in properly and the drawer wouldn’t close. I left it ajar and sat down on the bed. Thoughts whirled in my mind, the cas
e mixed itself up with Bryan and what he had done.
For a long time I sat there, turning the facts over and over, my mind working them like a puzzle. Then I heard a car pull into the drive.
Chapter 20
A door slamming brought me out of my thoughts sharply. It had grown dark. I heard voices downstairs. I had left the door to Bryan’s room open. His voice carried up to me from downstairs.
“Her car’s not here. She’s probably out looking for me.” Pause. “No, she’s not here. Got about fifty messages from her.” Another pause. He was talking to someone that I couldn’t hear. Talking on his phone then.
An instinct told me to stay still. I was still sitting on his bed and I didn’t move. I closed my eyes, straining to hear without moving closer to the door and potentially making a sound. I wanted to hear what he said when he thought he was alone.
