The Perfect Plan

by Bryan Reardon

  He reached down and grabbed my shirt just below the collar. He lifted me up to my feet. I stumbled, unable to totally regain my balance. This upset him. He sneered and pushed me into the table. I hit the edge hard but was able to put my hands down and keep from falling.

  “Get those bottles out of here. Take them to your mother’s room. Put them under the bed,” he said, his tone flat but his eyes burning with anger, or maybe hatred.

  I didn’t move. I remember being so totally confused. I couldn’t figure out what he’d said. Or why he’d said it. In that moment, I didn’t know who he was. What he was supposed to be. It was like I couldn’t be sure of anything. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe this was the way it was supposed to be. Maybe I was being a weak little baby. Being stupid.

  Whatever the truth was, my pause simply angered him more. He grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me to the counter. He pointed at the wine bottles but wouldn’t touch them.

  “Do it!”

  I did. When I walked into her room, the smell was an assault. I recoiled, shaking as I put the bottles under the bed one by one. Then I rushed out of the room. I needed to know if Mom was okay. If she was alive. So I inched out into the hallway, reaching the stairs just as two men in black uniforms carried my mother out of the kitchen. She was strapped down to a bright yellow backboard. A clear mask clung to the bottom part of her face. Thankfully, someone had covered her legs up with a thin white blanket.

  I needed to know. I needed to see her. The men stepped through the front door. I took a step toward the landing before my father appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced up at me and then looked away like I no longer existed.

  “Drew, let’s go,” he said.

  Drew hurried out of the kitchen. My father put his hand on my brother’s shoulder and they rushed out of the house.

  * * *

  —

  I WAS ALONE for hours. The sun set and the streetlights turned on. I paced the living room, going to the window every time I heard a car passing by outside, hoping it was them. After a dozen or so, I stopped, but I couldn’t ignore the passing headlights. They tortured me.

  At one point, I ended up moving toward the kitchen. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just walked until my foot landed on the white porcelain tile. And I saw the dark red stain on the floor, the edges turning a horrid, thick black.

  I froze, my stomach turning. I wanted to run, get the hell out of there, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead, I stared at my mother’s blood and everything else simply vanished. The gore drew me closer, deeper, until I could hardly breathe. I wanted to disappear into it, melt into my mother’s blood like some vampire in reverse.

  At that instant, I heard a car passing by outside. I turned my head. And when I looked back, it was just a bloodstain on the floor, one that scared me and made me feel sick. Swallowing down the tightness in my throat, I went to the sink and pulled free a handful of paper towels. Kneeling down, I wiped at the stain. It felt surprisingly solid under the towels, and when I moved them away, I realized I’d only been able to mop up the very center. The rest remained dark and thick, dried onto the tiles.

  I returned to the sink, this time more frantic than the last. I took a huge wad of paper towels and wet them. Sliding on my knees, I bent over and scrubbed at the floor. Pink water pooled around my effort, some seeping through the fabric of my jeans.

  “Shit,” I said, trying harder.

  The more I worked, the worse it seemed to get. So I got up again and grabbed one of my mom’s white dish towels. I sopped up the tinted water and continued to scrub at the floor. I was working so hard that I failed to notice my father’s car pull into the garage. And I never heard him walk into the house until I looked up and found him standing in the kitchen with me, looking at me through his small round glasses.

  I froze again. He said nothing. He just looked me up and down, lingering on the damp knee of my pants, and then shook his head slowly.

  I wanted to scream out to him, beg him to tell me how my mother was. It had been so long. I needed to know if she was okay. If she was home. But the words wouldn’t come out. Not a letter of them. Instead, I just stared back as all the muscles in my face seemed to go slack.

  My father said nothing. He turned and walked out of the kitchen. I heard him head down the stairs to the basement, his basement. God, I wanted to follow him, but I couldn’t. He didn’t have to yell at me, or even tell me to leave him alone. The space between us simply pushed back at me, buffeting me like two magnets in reverse.

  I looked down at the floor. Surprisingly, the stain was almost gone. I took one last swipe with the towel and stood up. I was going to put it in the sink, I think, but I heard footsteps passing through the living room. So I broke into a sprint, rounding the corner in time to see Drew starting up the stairs.

  “Hey!” I said.

  Drew took two more steps up without even a look over his shoulder. I rushed closer.

  “Drew! Where’s Mom?”

  He stopped. Slowly, he turned. His dark eyes cut straight through mine and I took a step back.

  “She’s dead, Liam.”

  * * *

  —

  AFTER MY BROTHER told me that, I ran. I never looked back. I bolted from the house, through the yard, and didn’t stop until I made it to the rock ledge in the woods. I skidded to a stop, my entire body quaking. My foot touched a large stick amid the leaves. I grabbed it and lashed out, slamming it into anything I could, tree, rock, whatever. And I screamed with each strike.

  “It’s his fault!” Crack. “He wouldn’t help her!” Crack. “He did this!” Crack. “I hate him!”

  The stick splintered in my hands. I dropped it, and the tears started. I cried as I tried to find another club. I grabbed one fallen branch but it was wet and full of fungus. It snapped in half as I lifted it off the ground. I threw it away, over the rock ledge, letting out a primal yell as I did.

  Shaking, crying, coughing out air like I was drowning, I dropped down to my knees. The dampness wicked through my pants. It felt like ice against my skin. But I didn’t care. I just cried and hacked.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I stammered.

  And I punched myself in the chest, so hard that the coughing got way worse. I sobbed, although I would never tell anyone that. But it happened, and it kept happening until the last bit of energy in my body seeped through my wet legs, down into the cold, dead earth.

  Still kneeling, I quieted down. But I didn’t move. The soft sound of the woods at night replaced my agony. It calmed my breathing. Stopped my tears. Not in a comforting way, though. Instead, the emptiness pressed in on me, reminding me with each second that she was gone. That I’d lost her. And that she had left me behind. Left me with them.

  15

  I could have run away. I could now. I imagine someone hearing my story and wondering why I don’t. What could possibly hold me here? It’s never as easy as that. Nothing is. I’ve considered it. I’ve even tried. But I can never get far.

  The last time, I almost made it. It happened at the ocean, years before I returned to that same spot. I went to a party right after my brother married Patsy. It should have been a great time. To everyone else at the beach that day, I’m sure it was. When I walked up the boardwalk over the dune, I could hear their voices and laughter rising even before the party came into view. The westward wind carried the smell of Old Bay seasoning and burning wood. And faintly, under it all, I heard the roar of the surf. Even then, I think it was calling to me, as it would when I eventually returned to that place.

  When I reached the top of the hill, I saw the party spreading across the sand. The sun had set and the fire of a dozen tiki torches added to the warm glow of the evening. They surrounded a cook fire. Atop a handmade rack, steam rose from four big cooking pots. Even if I couldn’t smell it, I’d have known they were filled with seafood—blue crabs and clams
and mussels and fresh shrimp.

  I stopped before making my way down to the beach, just standing there and watching. This was an annual party, thrown by one of Drew’s friends from high school. Everyone who played lacrosse for our high school was welcome, from current freshmen all the way back to my brother’s year. I recognized a bunch of the faces but I still hesitated.

  To be honest, I almost turned back. If I had, it wouldn’t have made a difference. What happened that night could not be avoided. If not at the party, then someplace else, at another time. There are moments in life like that. They are as inevitable as the end, no matter what your gut tells you.

  So, eventually, I moved. I merged with the guys and girls. People greeted me. Someone threw me a Bud Light. I settled in, my back to the ocean, and watched everyone drinking and dancing and talking. For a moment, I think I had fun. Or at least, I felt at ease. Almost at home.

  “Liam!” someone called out to my right. I turned and saw a kid from my year. His name was Andy, but it took me a second to remember that. We got talking and, as it always did, the conversation turned to my brother.

  “Hey, is Drew coming?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. His first campaign had already started; I had been laying low. I had just broken up with a girl because she moved away to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. So I was painting houses during the day and drinking at a dive bar just over the state line every night.

  “Too much of a big shot, huh?”

  I stared at Andy for a second without blinking. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Oh, I was just kidding. It’s kind of cool, him running for something. Good to see a lax boy making it big, right?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  And just like that, he appeared at the top of the dune. Andy saw him, too. He sort of laughed.

  “He’s here.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I haven’t seen him in years. Who’s the smoker?”

  This time, I didn’t even bother to look at him. “That’s his wife.”

  Andy choked on the beer he’d just drunk. “Oh, shit. My bad. Don’t tell him I said that, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  My brother walked toward the party, Patsy on his arm. She was dressed like she had just come out of some advertisement for a swanky cruise. And he had on his most preppy boat shoes and a light-colored collared shirt with three buttons undone.

  As I watched them, Patsy’s head turned. Then she touched his arm. I saw her smile, her chin tilting up into the air. She moved with such freedom. Like a bird. I stood there, staring, and I pictured her doing just that. Lifting off the warm sand and disappearing into the darkening sky. Without realizing it, I started to scratch at my forearm.

  Then Drew smiled at her. He said something but he was too far away for me to hear it. As he spoke, his eyebrows did this very charming thing, dipping just enough. She kissed him then. Leaning in quickly as her hand cupped his jaw. It was fast, but everyone there seemed to see it. Someone whooped to my right.

  They broke apart then. Patsy moved away from my brother. For a second, I imagined she would make a run for it. Bolt up the coast. Instead, though, she melded into this group of strangers like they’d come to see her. Like she was the party.

  * * *

  —

  EARLY THAT NEXT morning, hours before the sun rose, I sat in my truck outside their house. I’d left the party just after they arrived. Instead of going home, though, I went there. And waited, watching as they eventually pulled up and walked into the house. The warm glow from the windows as the lights went on called to me. The memory of her body moving like a beautiful dance across the sand haunted me. I gripped the steering wheel, fighting my urges.

  It had started to rain an hour before. I remained in my truck, staring out through the droplets of water on the windshield. The world outside became a kaleidoscope. Instead of a rainbow of bright colors, though, it took on shades of gray and darkness. Except for the light behind their window. I felt myself slipping into that world, the one I saw but knew did not exist.

  It was like a dream. Suddenly, my door was open. I was out in the rain, moving through the darkness. I crept among the shrubs and small pines until I saw the lights from my brother’s back porch. I moved closer, hopping a split rail fence and continuing along a line of expensive-looking bushes in their yard.

  After only a minute, I saw Patsy. She walked into the kitchen, right up to the window. She stood with her hands on the sill, and I swear she stared back at me. Without my realizing it, my knuckles dug into my eyes. Droplets of rain ran down my cheeks, under my shirt. My head spun and throbbed. But I opened my eyes again.

  Patsy remained standing there, though the rain coating the window faded her details, giving her an otherworldly aura. I moved closer, crossing an open stretch of lawn. I didn’t care if she saw me. Maybe I wanted her to. I stopped just off the porch once I could see her eyes again. I fed on that strength, the way she held her chin high, the straightness of her neck.

  Over the patter of the rain, I heard him. And so did Patsy. His voice was cold but loud, calling to her. Ordering her. I lurched forward, like I might stop it all from being real. And I noticed her flinch. It was subtle but unguarded.

  I moved to the left and saw him. He stood in the doorway to their kitchen. Bangs of hair hung down his face, framing those piercing eyes. The set of his jaw, the line of his mouth; it was all I needed to see. Though the weather and the walls of their home muffled his voice, I might as well have been able to hear every word.

  His voice lowered and his expression became more intense. He spoke to her calmly, softly. Every word seemed to chip away at the light behind her eyes. For the first time, I thought I saw her sadness. Her despair. But I also saw a woman trapped. The muscles of her forearm pulsed as she gripped the sill. She did not turn to look at him as he spoke. My brother paused and I saw that thin smile of his, the one I’d known for far too long.

  What did I expect to see? My brother lunging for her. Smashing a fist into her face. Kicking her while she lay defenseless on the kitchen floor. Maybe, in a way, I hoped for that. Maybe that would finally be enough for me to act. Seeing that might break the crushing hold he maintained over me. I could storm into the house, grab him by the throat. What would it feel like to press into his flesh, see his eyes bulge as I closed his windpipe? I could look into those eyes and see his pain. I could watch him die.

  Instead, I crouched in soaked grass wiping water from my eyes as Patsy stood like a statue in the window, not even blinking. Eventually, his words stopped. He walked away. So did she. The lights went off and I was left in the darkness, watching nothing.

  * * *

  —

  ALL THE OTHER times I ran away, he found me. He’d come to me and his words would slip into my ears, violating my memories. Eventually, in a cold and calculated voice, he would threaten me. Not with violence. No, he would hold our past up to the light. He would remind me of what we had done. His words would flay me, leaving me raw and rough and, as always, under his control. With his arm around my shoulder, I would follow him home again.

  That night it was different. I was going to run. To get the hell out of my life. Out of Patsy’s and Drew’s. I was going to get into my car and drive forever. Never stopping. Never turning around. He wouldn’t know where I went. He’d never find me. No matter how many police officers he knew.

  I got into my truck and I started the engine. But I never moved. My resolve crumbled as quickly as it had formed. I stared up at that dark window. I imagined what was happening behind those cold brick walls. And something changed.

  For the first time, it wasn’t Drew’s slithering words that drew me back. Instead, it was her. I closed my eyes and I saw her face as it looked through the rain-streaked glass. Somehow, though it should have been too distorted,
I saw the bright lights inside her dimming, darkening under his weight. I would try to blink the sight away. I would try to tell myself that she was okay. That she was fine. But even inside my head, my voice would change. It would deepen. Go as flat as death. And I’d hear his words inside. My father’s voice haunting me.

  She’s fine. She’s fine. She’s fine.

  Then her face changed, too. Like some kind of nightmare, Patsy’s hair darkened. Her complexion yellowed. And suddenly it was my mother I stared at through that glass. Who I stared at in the darkness. All alone.

  I knew that I wouldn’t leave. I was still weak. Still hiding behind the weight of my pain. But I knew I would never truly be free. The past is like flypaper. The more you struggle, the more tangled you become. Until you finally just stop trying.

  16

  I can’t stop watching the scene in my rearview mirror. I’m thirty yards away from the police. I could walk out of my truck, walk right up to them, and end all of this. That, too, might seem reasonable. The police are always the answer to those who have never needed them. The rest of us know. We understand. Between me and anyone else, my word loses. And that’s a horrid understatement in this case.

  As I stare, other thoughts slip into my mind. I picture Lauren back at the cabin. I see her as if I am in two places at once. Time seems to speed up. She wastes away. Parched. Suffocated by the tape across her mouth. Her flesh dries and peels away, leaving nothing but bones. More bones.

  Jesus!

  I grind knuckles into my eyes, trying to push it all away. When I open them again, look back into the mirror, I see it. The dark blue Crown Victoria with a yellow strip and shield. Although I’m sitting in the city, that cruiser belongs to the Delaware State Police. Less than half an hour and it’s already here. Faster than I thought. My brother has a lot of friends in the state police. He worked in the Department of Public Safety for years before getting elected to County Council. There is only one reason they would be responding to a call in the city limits.