Heart Bones

by Hoover, Colleen

  “It’s just a formality. You’re welcome to meet us at the station, and if everything checks out, she’ll be free to leave with you.”

  My father nods. “Don’t worry, Beyah. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Don’t worry?

  I’m fucking terrified.

  Before I exit the house, I grab both Samson’s and my backpacks that are still sitting by the door and hand them to my father. “Can you put my stuff in the house?” I don’t tell him one of the backpacks belongs to Samson.

  He grabs both of them and looks me firmly in the eye. “Don’t answer any questions until I get there.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The room is so small, I feel like there isn’t enough air for the four of us.

  My father is sitting next to me at this tiny table, so I’m leaning to the right to try to preserve my own space bubble. My elbows are digging into the table and my head is in my hands.

  I’m worried.

  My father is just angry.

  “Do you know how long he’s been staying at that house?”

  I learned the female officer’s name is Officer Ferrell. I don’t know the man’s name. He hasn’t said much. He’s just taking notes and I don’t really feel like looking up at anyone.

  “No.”

  “Beyah just moved here in June. But Samson has been in that house since at least spring break. That’s when I met him, anyway.”

  “You don’t know the owners?” the officer asks my father.

  “No. I’ve seen people there, but I just assumed they were renters. We live in Houston most of the year, so I don’t know many of the neighbors in our area yet.”

  “Do you know how Samson bypassed the alarm?” This question is directed at me.

  “He knows the code. I saw him enter it last night.”

  “Do you know how he got the code?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of any other houses he’s stayed in?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he stays when the owners occupy the house?”

  “No.” I don’t know how many different ways I can say no, but I haven’t known answers to hardly any of their questions.

  I don’t know where Samson is from. I don’t know the name of his father. I don’t know his birthday, where he was born, where he grew up, whether his mother is actually alive or dead. The more questions they ask me, the more embarrassed I become.

  How can I know nothing about him, yet feel like I know him so well?

  Maybe I don’t know him at all.

  That thought forces me to lay my head on my arms. I’m tired and I want answers, but I know I won’t get any until I get to speak to Samson. The only answer I really want to know is whether or not he actually grew a heart bone. If he did, is his breaking right now?

  Because mine is.

  “She really doesn’t know anything else,” my father says. “It’s late. Can you guys just call if there are more questions?”

  “Sure. Let me check on something real quick before you leave. We’ll be right back.”

  I hear both officers leave the room, so I finally lift my head and then lean back in the chair.

  “You okay?” my father asks.

  I nod. If I say I’m not okay, he’ll want open dialogue. I’d rather not speak.

  The door is open, which gives me a good view of the activity outside this room. There’s a man who is obviously strung out on something being detained in a room across the hall. The whole time we’ve been in this room, we could hear him making unintelligible noises for no reason. Every time he would do it, I would flinch.

  I should be used to that behavior because it was so common in my house. My mother mumbled to herself all the time. Especially in the past year. She’d talk to people who weren’t even there.

  I almost forgot what it’s like to live with an addict. It makes me sad seeing that man here. Jail isn’t going to help him with his addiction, just like it never helped my mother. If anything, it made it worse. Being locked up and released over and over is a cycle that gets stronger with every arrest.

  My mother was arrested several times. I’m not exactly sure what she was arrested for, but it was always drug related. Possession. Intent to purchase. I remember a neighbor coming to get me in the middle of the night and taking me to her house to sleep a few times.

  My mother needed more help than I was capable of giving her. I tried on more than one occasion, but I was in over my head. Looking back now, I wish I’d done more. Maybe I should have reached out to my father.

  I don’t think she would have been a bad person if she wasn’t sick. And that’s what addiction is, right? It’s an illness. One I’m susceptible to but determined never to catch.

  I wonder what she could have been like had she not been addicted to drugs. Was she like me in any way whatsoever?

  I glance over at my father. “What was my mother like when you met her?”

  He looks jarred by that question. He shakes his head. “I don’t really remember. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know why I expected him to remember. It was a one-night stand when he wasn’t much older than me. They were both probably drunk. I sometimes want to ask him how they met, but I’m not sure I want to know. I’m sure it was at a bar and there isn’t a romantic moment he would be able to recall.

  I wonder how my father turned out somewhat normal while my mother turned out to be the worst version of herself she could be. Is it strictly because she was an addict? Was it an imbalance of nature vs. nurture?

  “Do you think humans are the only species that get addicted to things?” I ask my father.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like drugs and alcohol. Do you think animals have any vices?”

  My father’s eyes scroll over my face like he can’t understand the questions coming from my mouth. “I think I read somewhere that lab rats can get addicted to morphine,” he says.

  “That’s not what I mean. I want to know if there are addictive things in an animal’s natural environment. Or are humans the only species who sabotage themselves and everyone around them with their addictions?”

  My father scratches his forehead. “Is your mother an addict, Beyah?” he asks. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  I can’t believe I’ve gone this long and still haven’t told him she’s dead. I can’t believe he hasn’t figured it out yet. “She’s not an addict anymore.”

  His eyes are narrowed in concern. “I didn’t even know she used to be.” He stares at me, unwavering in his worry. “Are you okay?”

  I roll my eyes at his question. “We’re sitting in a police station in the middle of the night. No, I’m not okay.”

  He blinks twice. “Yeah, I know. But your questions. They just…don’t really make sense.”

  I chuckle. It sounds just like my father’s chuckle. It’s my new least favorite thing about myself.

  I stand up and stretch my legs. I walk to the door and look out of it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Samson somewhere, but he’s nowhere.

  It’s as if there’s a gap sitting between the moment I sat down in the police car and the moment I’ll get to speak to Samson again. A huge emotional gap where I feel nothing and care about nothing else but that potential conversation.

  I refuse to open myself up to whatever is happening, which is probably why my thoughts are all over the place while I wait. If I open myself up to this moment right now, I might convince myself that Samson is a complete stranger to me. But last night, that felt so far from the truth.

  For the second time this summer, I find myself amazed at how much life can change from one day to the next.

  Officer Ferrell returns, gripping a mug of coffee with both hands. I back out of the doorway and lean against the door. My father stands up.

  “We have all your information. The two of you are free to go.”

  “What about Samson?” I ask.

  “He won’t be released tonight. Probably won’t be releas
ed for a while, unless there’s someone to make his bail.”

  Her words kick their way down my chest. How long is a while? I press a hand to my stomach. “Can I see him?”

  “He’s still being processed and will have to see the judge in a few hours. He’ll be allowed visitors starting at nine tomorrow.”

  “We won’t be visiting him,” my father says.

  “Yes, we will,” I counter.

  “Beyah, you probably don’t even know the guy’s real name.”

  “His name is Shawn Samson,” I say defensively. But then I wince and look at the officer, wondering if that’s something else he wasn’t honest about. “Isn’t that his name?”

  “His full name is Shawn Samson Bennett, actually,” the officer corrects.

  My father waves a hand at the officer while looking at me. “See?” His hands are on his hips when he faces Officer Ferrell. “Do I need to be worried? What exactly is he being charged with and how long will he be in jail?”

  “Two counts of breaking and entering. One count of parole violation. One count of arson.”

  That last one makes me choke on air. “Arson?”

  “A fire partially destroyed a residence late last year. He was staying in the house without permission when the fire broke out. They have him on security footage and put a warrant out for his arrest. He stopped checking in with his parole officer after that, which leads us to his current outstanding warrants, along with the new charges.”

  “Why was he on parole in the first place?” my father asks.

  “Auto theft. He served six months.”

  My father begins pacing. “So, this is a pattern with him?”

  “Dad, I’m sure he’s just a product of a faulty system.” My father stops pacing and stares at me like he doesn’t understand how such a ridiculous statement can come from my mouth. I look at the officer. “What about his parents?”

  “Both deceased. He claims his father went missing after Hurricane Ike and he’s been on his own since then.”

  His father went missing?

  Rake was his father? That explains so much about his behavior when we found his remains on the beach. I want to go back to that moment when he looked like he was in so much pain. I want to go back and hug him like I should have.

  I start to do the math. If Samson has been honest about his age, that means he was only thirteen when Hurricane Ike hit.

  He’s been alone since he was thirteen? No wonder I could tell he was damaged.

  “Stop feeling sorry for him, Beyah. I can see it all over your face,” my father says.

  “He was a kid when his father died. We have no idea what kind of life he lived after that. I’m sure he did the things he did because he had to.”

  “Is that excuse still valid for a twenty-year-old? He could have gotten a job like the rest of us.”

  “What was he supposed to do after being released from jail the first time if he was on his own? He probably never had any kind of identification if he didn’t have parents to help him with that. He had no family, no money. People slip through the cracks, Dad. It happens.” It happened to me and you never even noticed.

  My father might think Samson’s behavior is a pattern he chose, but it sounds to me like it was a life he might have had no way out of. I know all about making bad choices out of necessity.

  “Can we get a restraining order against him? I don’t want him anywhere near my property or my daughter.”

  I can’t believe him right now. He hasn’t even spoken to Samson or heard his side and he feels threatened by him? “He’s harmless, Dad.”

  My father looks at me like I’m the unreasonable one.

  “It’s certainly within your rights to protect your property, but your daughter is an adult and would have to file her own restraining order to protect herself,” Officer Ferrell says.

  “Protect me from what? He’s a good person.” It’s like they aren’t hearing me.

  “He was pretending to be a good person, Beyah. You don’t even know him.”

  “I know him better than I know you,” I mutter.

  My father presses his lips together, but says nothing in response.

  Whatever bad things Samson did in his past, he didn’t make those choices because he wanted to. I’m convinced of that. Samson was never threatening. He’s been the most comforting, non-threatening part of Texas for me.

  My father has already made up his mind about him, though. “I need a bathroom,” I say. I need a breather before getting in the car with my father.

  The officer points down the hallway. I rush into the bathroom and wait until the door closes before sucking in as much air as I can fit into my lungs. I slowly release it as I walk to the mirror.

  I stare at my reflection. Before Samson, when I would look in the mirror, I would see a girl who mattered to no one. But every time I’ve looked in the mirror since meeting him, I’ve seen a girl who matters to someone else.

  I wonder what Samson sees when he looks in the mirror?

  Does he have any idea how much he matters to me?

  I wish I would have told him last night when I had the chance.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It’s seven in the morning when my father and I pull into the driveway. Pepper Jack Cheese is wagging his tail, waiting by the passenger door when I open it.

  I just want to be with my dog right now.

  I’m tired of answering questions, and P.J. will be the first living thing I’ve encountered in the last few hours that hasn’t thrown questions at me.

  My father walks up the stairs and I choose to remain on the stilt level of the house. I sit at the picnic table and scratch P.J.’s head as I stare out at the water. I get maybe three minutes of peace before I hear quick footsteps descending the stairs.

  Sara.

  “Oh my God, Beyah.” She rushes to the picnic table and sits across from me. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, forcing a sad smile. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. “I won’t be okay until I speak to Samson.”

  “I’ve been so worried. Your father left in such a hurry, and then he texted my mother and said Samson got arrested. What happened?”

  “It’s not his house.”

  “He broke in?”

  “Something like that.”

  Sara runs a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. I’m the one who pushed you on him.” She leans forward and grips my wrist, looking at me with sincerity. “Not all guys are like him, Beyah. I promise.”

  She’s got that right, but it’s a relief that Samson isn’t like other guys. He could be like Dakota. Or Gary Shelby. I’d much rather fall for a guy who has a shady past and treats me as well as Samson does than fall for a guy who treats me like shit while looking good to the rest of the world.

  “I’m not mad at him, Sara.”

  She laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. Kind of how she used to do when we first met—when she couldn’t tell if I was kidding or not.

  “I know it looks like Samson is this terrible person. But you don’t know him like I do. He wasn’t proud of his past. And he was planning to tell me everything eventually, he just didn’t want the truth to ruin the rest of our summer.”

  Sara folds her arms over the picnic table and leans forward. “Beyah. I know you’re upset and you care about him. But he lied to you. He lied to all of us. Marcos and I have known him since March. Everything he’s ever told us is a lie.”

  “Like what?”

  She waves her hand to the house next door. “That he owns that house, for one.”

  “But what else?”

  Her lips fold into a thin line. She shifts in her seat while she thinks. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything specific right now.”

  “Exactly. He lied about where he lived and went along with the rich-boy narrative you guys labeled him with. But he did everything he could not to talk about himself so he wouldn’t be lying to you guys.”

  She snaps her fingers
. “That guy at dinner! The one who called him Shawn. He lied about going to boarding school in New York with him.”

  “He lied because we forced an answer out of him.”

  “I would respect him a lot more than I do now if he would have just told us the truth in that moment.”

  “That’s not true. He’d have been judged back then, just like he’s being judged now.” Everything is so black and white with people like Sara. The real world doesn’t operate under a simple system of right and wrong. People who have never had to trade a piece of their souls just to have food or shelter can’t understand the scores of bad decisions desperate people are forced to make. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Sara.”

  She sighs like she’s not finished trying to convince me to get over him.

  It’s going to take a lot more than a shady past for me to get over a guy who didn’t bat an eye at my own shady past.

  Sara is obviously in agreement with my father when it comes to Samson. I’m sure everyone is. “I’d really like to be alone right now.”

  “Okay,” Sara says. “But I’m here if you want to talk.”

  Sara leaves me to my thoughts and heads back up the stairs. When she’s back inside the house, I scratch behind P.J.’s ear. “I guess it’s just me and you on team Samson.”

  P.J.’s ears perk up as soon as my phone begins to vibrate. I immediately jump up and pull it out of my pocket. My heart is stuck in my throat when it says the caller I.D. is unavailable. I answer it right away.

  “Samson?”

  “You’re receiving a call from an inmate in Galveston County Jail,” the recording says. “Please press one to accept or two to—” I press one and put my phone to my ear.

  “Samson?” My voice is full of panic. I squeeze my forehead and sit back down.

  “Beyah?”

  He sounds so far away, but I can finally feel him again. I sigh with relief. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” His voice isn’t filled with fear like mine is. He actually sounds calm, like he’s been expecting this moment. “I can’t talk long. I just...”

  “How long can you talk?”

  “Two minutes. But I was just told I can have visitors tomorrow at nine.”