I take the turn into my neighborhood, hard. I hear the quarter panel grind against the back tire but it doesn’t blow. So I floor the gas pedal. The speedometer hits forty as I race past two-story colonials with aging pastel siding and mature trees. I see two kids on bikes stopped at the corner. As I move closer, I swear one of them is Carter. That he’s returned to haunt me. At the same time, I smell it, I swear. It comes out of nowhere. Flowers and a slow death. I wipe at my nose but it doesn’t help. The aroma is inside me. Filling me to the point that I might get sick.
I turn onto Elder Street. Pass the Clarksons’ old house. Drew played lacrosse with their son Eric. Maybe his parents still live there. I have no idea. Eric’s BMW isn’t there, though. But that was twenty years ago. That car has to be long gone, but I look for it regardless.
Another turn and I pass Carter’s house. I feel like I am standing on that doorstep, looking up at his mother, trying to find the words to apologize for lashing out with that branch, not caring if my words soothed my friend, only worried that they be enough to assuage my father.
I hear the siren. It’s close but the police cruiser isn’t in view yet. I turn again and I see my old house. It slams into my chest. Taking my breath away. Lauren disappears. The car vanishes from underneath me. And I melt down, through the years, my age stripping away like horribly burned skin.
I am young again. Alone. Praying that my mother will come back to me. Even if the smell follows her home.
14
Mom did come home from the hospital, but she didn’t stay long. Instead, she walked up the stairs and came back with a packed bag. My father hovered at her side as she kissed my forehead.
“I love you, Liam,” she said with a weak smile. “I’ll be home real soon. And everything will be okay. I promise.”
I hugged her, burying my face as much as I could in her sharp shoulder. I closed my eyes but could feel my father’s attention on me. When I cracked one eye open, though, he had turned away, looking toward the front door.
“I love you, Mom,” I whispered.
She pulled away. I noticed the tears in her eyes before she turned. I remember thinking it was about Drew. He wasn’t there to say good-bye to her. I thought that must have upset her. I wanted to grab ahold of her, pull her back. I knew she needed to go to the rehab Marci Simmons had arranged. And even at my age, I felt this sliver of hope that this might actually change things.
My father took Mom’s arm. I stared, the contact between them drawing me in like some powerful magnet. I couldn’t look away until the door shut behind them. It wasn’t until after that I realized it was the first time I had seen him touch my mother since that day with the neighbor in the front yard.
* * *
—
TO MY SURPRISE, a week later Marci Simmons visited again. This time, though, she was not there to speak to my father. After he invited her in, I heard my name. I was upstairs again, trying to listen, but their voices were hushed for some time. Then my father’s rose, vibrating inside my chest.
“Liam!”
I stumbled rising to my feet, and then rushed down the stairs.
“Yeah,” I said when I reached the bottom.
“Ms. Simmons would like to speak to you.”
I looked at my father first, trying to get some sense of what he wanted me to do. It felt like a trap, even then. I swallowed, turning to Marci Simmons, and realized she was watching him.
I felt like I had fallen into someone else’s dance. As Marci watched my father, he refused to look at her. His cheeks reddened. I felt this urge, a desperate need to fix it, to make it go away.
“Okay,” I blurted out.
Her eyes moved to me then, and I think I saw her for the first time, really. I took in her thick wool sweater with sleeves that hung down to the first knuckles of her hands. Her hair flowed down her back and around her shoulders in styled waves of silver and brown. It was striking, so different from all the mothers I knew, like she wore her age as a badge of courage. Reading glasses hung from a gold chain around her neck and she carried a canvas bag with an embroidered design that looked straight out of India.
She’s not a mom.
The thought sprang into my mind like a warning siren. I didn’t judge the woman. And I didn’t really mean she wasn’t a mom. I just realized immediately, somehow, that she was not a mom in our circle. She was new and different, but not in a good way. The air in the house crackled with the potential energy of chaos. And I felt this woman in her natural colors and bohemian hair might be the lightning rod.
The feeling grew stronger when my father led Marci into his study. He stopped at the doorway. To my surprise, she passed him and took the same chair she had the last time. I stopped, still so utterly unsure of how to proceed, like I stood on the edge of a minefield, one that I really had no desire to cross.
“Sit down, Liam,” my father said, pointing at his chair.
I hesitated still, but the energy radiating off him finally pushed me into the room. Without another word, he stepped out and shut the door behind him. I stared after his exit, almost afraid to look at the stranger sitting across from me.
“Hi, Liam. My name is Marci. Can we talk for a little while?”
I nodded, uncomfortable with the way she spoke to me, like she thought I was ten years old, not in high school. Worse, there was something else, a kind of pity, or charity. Part of me wanted to reach out for that, take it in, but it also disgusted me.
“So, Liam, how are you?”
“Good.”
“My name is Marci Simmons. I’m a psychologist at the hospital your mother visited recently. I used to work with the police before that.” She smiled. “And a long time ago, I was a counselor at an elementary school. So, what grade are you in?”
“Ninth.”
“Do you like school?”
“Sometimes.”
She laughed. The sound, soft and real, brought with it a wave of relaxation. I looked at her. For some reason, she put her glasses on then. The lenses magnified her eyes. I remember thinking how different they looked from Drew’s, of all people. His were always sharp, intense, like he had X-ray vision. This woman looked at me, not through me. She saw all of me, but not more than I wanted to show. Somehow I trusted her, and as the conversation continued, my answers grew longer and longer.
“How is everything at home?” she asked.
I almost laughed. What could I say to that? Thankfully, she realized the scope of that question did not fit the moment. She smiled.
“Stupid question, right? I know about your mother. I know she’s sick. And I know she just left to get the help she needs. Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
I nodded. “She’s an alcoholic.”
“Yes, she is. And you know that if she doesn’t get the help she needs, she might die, right?”
I was surprised by her question, yet I did know that. And, in a way, it had seemed to me that no one else did.
“I just want her to get better,” I said.
But I didn’t really know what that meant. She had never been better. Not for a long time.
“The place she is going to is great. But it isn’t enough. When she comes home, she’ll need support. That’s why I’m here today, Liam. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. The night your mother was taken into the hospital, you were in a fight. A thirty-two-year-old man said that you attacked him when he tried to help you. When the police talked to him, told him about your mother, he chose not to press charges, but that’s not normal behavior for a fourteen-year-old. You understand that, right?”
I nodded.
“I understand that you were upset about your mother, but I wonder if it was something bigger than that. I talked to your brother last time I was here. He’s very impressive. President of his class. Varsity lacrosse player. He told me that everything was okay, but that your mother’
s illness has taken a toll on everyone. Mostly your father.”
She paused, looking directly into my eyes. I felt an itch flare up from the inside out. I looked to the door, like if I could see through the wood and brass I would find him crouched on the other side listening to my every word.
I wanted to scream. To cry. I wanted to trust this woman with the truth. But to be honest, I didn’t even know what the truth was. I felt like every step of my life up until then had been on a world with absolutely no emotional gravity. I swayed left and right and up and down, some days thinking I understood, some nights going to sleep with my father’s burning eyes on my mind. Maybe I didn’t know any better. Maybe nothing was as it seemed. I just couldn’t be sure. Not then.
So, instead, I said nothing. I sat there watching her. She fidgeted before I did.
“Liam, are you okay?”
“Sure,” I said.
“No, I mean it. I really want to know if you’re okay.”
I blinked. But I didn’t respond right away. I had no idea what to say. Not because I was scared or nervous. Instead, reality seemed to tease me, staying just out of sight.
She leaned closer. “How is your relationship with your father? Do you get along? Is he present?”
I laughed. It burst out quicker than I could close my mouth.
“What’s funny, Liam?”
“Nothing,” I said, looking at the floor. “I didn’t mean it.”
Her eyes widened. Marci’s mouth remained slightly open as she thought about what to say next.
“How about your brother?”
“We get along fine,” I said.
“No,” she said, getting even closer to me. “Does he get along with your father? Are they close?”
I tried to remain completely still when she asked that. I was so afraid that if I moved, even just a little, she’d see the truth of it. She’d know what was going on in my house. Yet, as I struggled, I let myself wonder, What if she knew? Would she help me? Could things be different?
I looked into this stranger’s eyes and I saw something in that moment. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it made me think of my mother. Her disease. And her smile. Her fingernails and that sour smell. I think, for the briefest of moments, I trusted Marci Simmons. I think my mouth even opened and the words formed deep in my throat. But she spoke first.
“Does he touch you, Liam? Your father? In ways that he shouldn’t. Ways that make you uncomfortable.”
The spell shattered. My eyes focused and I saw her truth. She didn’t understand my life. Instead, she saw it like the movies she watches at night while sitting on her comfortable couch, maybe with a big lazy cat on her lap. How could she be so wrong? As obtuse as my father was subtle. I thought she might understand. That she might be able to help.
“Liam?”
Eventually, hope can be more painful than despair. I thought about Drew’s strange apology and I let it grow and bloom inside my heart. Maybe I wasn’t alone. I thought about my mom. She was going to treatment. Maybe it would work. Maybe she would come home to me and things would be better. Like in a story. The smell would be gone forever. And my father would just give up. He’d slip away one night and never come back. Leaving the three of us alone, together.
Hope is a dangerous thing sometimes. It can be the mask that hides the truth. The pause that lets help slip through your fingers. My father never abused me, not like she thought. But maybe, if he had, maybe if it had been as clear and horrible as that, I would have spoken up. I would have told her the truth. Or what I thought was the truth. Instead, thinking of Drew and my mom, of the possibilities, I shut down.
“Of course not. Everything is okay. We’re just worried about Mom.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her shake her head. She stood, her arm reaching out to me.
“Here’s my card, Liam. Keep it. And call me if you ever need to talk. Or . . . if you need help. Okay?”
I nodded. Marci Simmons left shortly after that. Once the front door closed behind her, my father appeared, and I can never forget that moment. He nodded, a small thing, barely noticeable. But in it I saw approval. Like I had finally done the right thing for a change. Despite it all, that small, possible figment filled me with an almost painful flare of pride. And an even more fiery need to experience it again.
Instead, my father walked out of the room. And I didn’t see him again for four days.
15
My past is an abusive relationship, one that didn’t fit into some textbook diagnosis. I know what it does to me. The pain it causes. To someone else, it would seem so easy. Move on. Build a new life atop the ashes and never look back. Even I know that is the best thing I could hope for. That knowledge, however, is no better than a dream. No better than a wish. Because I keep going back. Thinking the impossible. That it will be different this time. It will be better.
Though my truck doesn’t slow, time does. I am back in my father’s study. Marci Simmons’s kind face watches me. Her eyes pull at the truth. They hint at some miracle, if only I speak. If only I trust.
Would I have told her? If I knew then how it would all turn out? I don’t know. But I don’t think so. But why? I wonder. I feared what he would do, certainly. That wasn’t it, though. The real reason feels like a stone forcing its way up my throat. It was her. I just wanted my mom to come home. And I wanted it to be different. I prayed for it, in my own way. And I couldn’t do anything to risk that chance, no matter how unlikely it may seem.
“What are you doing?” Lauren says, her voice strangely emotionless.
My foot presses the pedal down. The truck lurches forward. I hit the next turn, leaving my childhood home behind. I hear the siren, maybe sirens now. They sound close. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’ve led them here. I picture the police reporting back to my brother. Telling him where I brought them. Where I gave them the slip. I can almost see his eyes narrowing. His thin lips going flat and hard as the first hints take hold. He can be the one who has to remember. The one living in the past for a change. Because that’s where I need him to be. I did what I had to do. And now I can go.
We pass the Richardsons’. Then the Chungs’. Between the next two houses, I jump the curb, careening into their side yards. Lauren’s hands slam into the roof of the truck. She screams, curses, as we are thrown up and down. The truck’s tires kick up grass and mud as I race toward a line of oak trees.
“Oh, God!” Lauren moans, covering her eyes, expecting a fiery end.
Then I am passing between two thick trunks. The ground hardens, smooths, and I slow down, finding the two ruts of an old emergency access road, one that I used to ride my bike on as a child. It leads through a thin slice of woods before joining a paved one-lane road. The truck lurches one last time as I pop up onto the asphalt. After that, it’s easy. I just follow the lane back behind my neighborhood until it comes out of the trees and runs parallel to the entrance. From there, I merge onto the highway and leave the police behind.
* * *
—
FINALLY, LAUREN HAS nothing to say. She stares out the window as I head north, away from the cabin again. When I turn on the radio, I have to find the local news station. I probably should have preset it before all this, but I didn’t think of that. Once I find it, it doesn’t take long for the reporter to mention Lauren’s name.
This morning a young staffer working for Andrew Brennan’s gubernatorial campaign went missing after leaving the YMCA on Pennsylvania Avenue. Her car was later found a few blocks away, allegedly abandoned by the prime suspect in the case. Police are asking everyone to be on the lookout for a white late-model Ford pickup with damage on the driver’s side. It was last seen in the Pike Creek area, near Woodside Acres, Brennan’s childhood neighborhood. The authorities ask that you contact them immediately if you see the truck. But do not try to—
I cut it off. I feel Lau
ren’s eyes on me.
“You’re done,” she says.
I look at her. At this point, I don’t even want to slow down because I think she might try to jump from the truck again. A part of me just wants to tell her the truth. Maybe that would convince her to stop trying to escape. But maybe it wouldn’t. She knows Drew. She knows him well. His claws are probably in deep. I could tell her the truth and she’d still take his side. I have no doubt of that.
At the same time, I need her ignorance. It is my final weapon. The last step in the plan. I just need to get there without letting the police catch up with us. And there’s no way I’m going to be able to do that in my truck. Not anymore. So I pull out my phone and send a text.
Is the car in place?
Once again, Lauren looks over my shoulder.
“Who’s that to?” she asks.
I look at the screen. The text is to a cell that is not in my contacts, so no name appears. I wonder, for just a second, if she might recognize the number. But that probably doesn’t matter, anyway.
“A friend,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Drew?”
I shake my head but don’t say no. She fidgets beside me, muttering. A second later the response comes in.
Yes, but it’s early. Everything ok?
Change in plans, I reply.
Do u need me?
Not yet.
“Where are we going?” Lauren asks.
“I’m getting rid of the truck,” I say.
“Then we’re going to walk away, huh? That sounds like a great idea.”
I shake my head. Although her lip is huge now, her sense of superiority has returned. And I wish it hadn’t. With my teeth grinding together, I just focus on my destination.
“Drew told me that you mess everything up.”
The Perfect Plan Page 14