The Perfect Plan

by Bryan Reardon

  * * *

  —

  “MOM?”

  We sat outside the giant pet store by the mall. She turned the engine off and opened the door. When she spoke, there was a lilt to her voice I had never heard before.

  “I want to show you something,” she said.

  I followed her into the store. We had never had a pet, so the smell felt like a slap to the face. I covered my nose, which made her laugh. And she hurried down an aisle filled with dog chew toys.

  “I thought about a puppy,” she said over her shoulder.

  “What?”

  “A puppy,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She took a sharp turn, heading toward the back corner of the store. I saw the cats before she reached them. Stacks of three cages lined a portion of the wall, rising almost halfway to the ceiling. A single adult cat, orange and white, slept in one. Three kittens played in another. My mother reached them and stopped. She swayed a little as she watched. I stepped up beside her.

  “But a dog is too much, right?” She turned and smiled at me. “So pick one. Whichever you want.”

  I stood there, unsure what to do. Part of it was that I was a teenage boy in a pet store with my mother looking at cats. I fidgeted, looking around to make sure I didn’t recognize anyone else. The bigger question racing through my mind, though, was whether my mother was okay. She looked clearheaded. Sober would probably be the correct word, but even then I didn’t think of it that way. I had absolutely no idea why she wanted us to get a cat.

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  “Come on,” she said, grabbing my sleeve. “Pick one.”

  I took a step closer to the cages. I felt so weird, kind of like I had a fever, chills when I wasn’t even cold. And sweaty in a strange way.

  “Are you . . . ?”

  I couldn’t figure out what to ask. She laughed and pointed to one of the smaller kittens, a brown-and-white tabby. It sat in a small litter box while two larger kittens wrestled in the middle of the cage.

  “Oh, look at that one.”

  She moved closer to the cage, sticking a finger through the bars. The kitten stared at her but didn’t move.

  “He wants to come home with us, doesn’t he?” Her pitch rose. “Hi, baby.”

  A woman in a green smock joined us. She started talking to my mother and all of a sudden we were buying that cat. Once my mother filled out about a hundred forms, she breezed through the store aisles, the smocked woman in tow, picking out a litter box, toys, even a cat tree. By the time she was done, someone had to help me carry it all to the car. With my arms full, I turned once to look at Mom. She held the small cardboard box with our new kitten up to her eyes as she whispered.

  “You’re going to love your new home. It’s going to be great.”

  * * *

  —

  DREW WASN’T HOME when we got back. I have to admit that while at the store, I thought the entire cat thing was crazy, but when we got it out of the box and it started running around the house like mad, I got into it. We spent that day together, Mom and I, setting up all the cat’s new stuff and playing with it. We laughed and goofed around. I felt young, and happier than I could remember.

  “Do you remember that day with the caterpillar?” I blurted out.

  My mother’s eyes met mine. She scratched the kitten’s chin as her eyes narrowed.

  “Caterpillar?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She just smiled. “Do you want to make some cookies?”

  “Cookies?”

  “Sure,” she said, springing up so fast that the kitten launched off her lap. “Come on.”

  I followed her into the kitchen. She swung open cabinets, pulling down bowls and her old stand mixer, which I hadn’t seen in years. Then she moved to the pantry. I stood by the kitchen table, already pretty sure that we didn’t have any of the ingredients we needed. I didn’t want to tell her that, though. I sensed something in her jerky movements and in her decision to suddenly adopt a cat. Sort of like that day when my parents had been outside talking to the neighbor. Like a fuse had already been lit.

  When she finally backed out of the pantry and looked at me, I saw her disappointment. I thought she’d just give up. Instead, her long fingers touched the side of her face. Then she smiled.

  “Smoothies,” she said, beaming.

  My mother laughed as she dug through the groceries she had bought the day before, tossing a half-empty container of fresh fruit and a jar of peanut butter on the counter. To my surprise, she found the blender, taking a minute to scrub the years of dust off the clear plastic. As I watched her work, I felt strange—shaky, I guess. Like I’d eaten too much sugar already. But after a second, I got caught up in her energy. As we worked together, our movements in the kitchen took on a choreography, like we danced to some silent music only we could hear.

  Our fun hit a crescendo as the blender blades roared, pulverizing ice cubes and fruit, mixing it with milk and sugar. When it was done, the silence seemed to take us. Without a word, she poured two glasses and we carried them to the table. We sat and she leaned forward, asking me questions about my life.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Mom, really?”

  “Seriously. You’re so handsome.”

  She asked me about grades, too. And sports. Her questions flirted with home life, but she’d stutter-step, diverting to safer topics. Until she said something about Drew that I would never forget.

  “Your brother’s gone,” she said, looking over my head.

  “What?”

  Her head did a very quick shake. “He’s not home.”

  I knew that was a recovery. I knew she meant something else. Although I wanted to let it go, to let the evening spread out until it became some new version of my life, I couldn’t help myself.

  “You said he was gone. What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, baby,” she said.

  “No, seriously. Are you talking about him and Dad? About how they act together?”

  “Liam, no,” she said. “I just meant he wasn’t home.”

  “He hates me,” I said.

  “No, he doesn’t. Why would you say that?”

  “He told me he does,” I said.

  “No, he—”

  “He told me that you were dead. He made me believe that.”

  Her irises seemed to waver. One hand touched her forehead. “What are you talking about?”

  “He told me I killed you. That I embarrass you. That I’m the reason Dad treats you like he does.”

  “Stop!” she snapped.

  It was the first and only time my mother ever raised her voice. It cut right through my thoughts. My admonitions. Right through my heart. I blinked, and I saw my mother in a new light. I saw her fear. Her avoidance. Her need.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  She stood up and came to me, taking my head in her arms. She hugged me to her chest. She was warm and real. I never wanted to let go.

  “It’ll be different,” she whispered.

  But she was wrong.

  19

  Later that evening, when we heard my father’s car turning into the garage, I think we both stiffened. My mother sat on the floor in the family room, the kitten on her lap fast asleep. I looked at her and she just smiled. But as we listened to the garage door going up, I saw her picking at her nail polish.

  Neither of us spoke again until the door opened and my father walked into the house. He seemed to sense something before he saw our new pet. He stopped, glancing at me first. I recognized that look, like I’d done something stupid. But then he saw the kitten. After that, all expression left his face. He appeared neither angry nor upset. He just stared at it for a second.

  My mother managed a smile, wh
ich made me feel a little better.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Don’t forget you have an early meeting tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at two.”

  Dad walked away, back to his basement, leaving us alone with the cat.

  * * *

  —

  I WOKE UP the next morning with the kitten sleeping on my neck. I almost swatted at it before I realized it was him. Gently, I petted it just below his head. He arched and the rumble of his purr vibrated against my vocal cords.

  When I finally got up, he followed me around for the rest of the morning. Drew didn’t pay the cat any mind. When our ride showed up, I had to be careful to keep him from bolting out into the yard.

  “Dad’s pissed,” Drew said as we walked up to his friend’s Honda.

  “About what? The cat?”

  “What do you think?”

  That was the extent of our conversation. He got into the front seat and they ignored me the rest of the way. I sat in the back looking out the window and fighting the growing dread that I felt. It lasted the entire ride and most of the day, returning twofold as I got off the bus that afternoon. I walked up to the door as slowly as I could, somehow knowing something was wrong.

  My unease peaked as my fingers touched the cool brass door handle. I turned it, expecting some horrible, ghastly scene to slam through the crack in the door. Instead, the house was deadly silent. I stepped in, and for a second, thought I’d been wrong all day. Then my eyes went to where the cat tree had been when I left for school, by the bay window that looked out to the front yard. It was gone.

  I moved through the empty house, noting every absence. No food. No litter box. Even the tiny colorful toys that had littered the floor were gone. There was no sign of the kitten, either, no matter how hard I searched. For a time, I just stood in the family room, debating with myself. In a very surreal way, it was like the day before had never happened.

  Minutes passed. I haunted my own house, frightened to make even the slightest sound, like each step I took might trigger the chaos that I knew would follow. I moved from the kitchen to my bedroom and then back down to the foyer. I even tiptoed down to the basement, half expecting my father to be sitting in his workshop, tinkering with some model like he always was.

  Hours passed. I picked at some food while sitting at the kitchen table. I turned on the television and watched a rerun of M*A*S*H with the volume barely audible. The light grayed as the sun set behind the line of trees across the street. Gloom spread from room to room until I sat in darkness, the only light coming from the television as it quietly droned.

  I certainly did not want my father to come home. I dreaded that moment. As for Drew, it was more complicated. He wouldn’t care about that cat. Nor would he care much about the bigger nightmare that had crept to life inside my mind, the one growing with each passing minute. What I really prayed for was to see my mother walk through the door, returning from her 2:00 P.M. meeting. Smiling as if nothing had happened. Even if it meant losing that near perfect day before. I would have given it up just to see her.

  At 8:00 P.M., I went up to her room. It was empty, but the bed was made. I took air in through my nose, fully expecting that sour smell to fill my head and break my heart. Instead, I smelled her perfume and nothing more.

  Back downstairs, I thought about calling my father’s office, but didn’t. I even thought about trying to figure out where my mother’s “meetings” were held. I thought that maybe I could call there. But I had no idea. So I paced, and waited, my nerves fraying with every passing second.

  At 9:17 P.M., the front door swung open. I was in my room by then. I bolted out into the hallway in time to see Drew mounting the first step.

  “What?” he said.

  “Mom’s not home,” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “Dad?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then so what. They’re obviously somewhere together. Didn’t she have a meeting today?”

  “At two.”

  He shrugged. “Go to bed, Liam. And don’t make a fucking big deal when they get home.”

  He brushed past me. I turned, watching him, filled with confusion and an ominous sadness.

  * * *

  —

  AT 11:24 P.M., as I lay in the darkness with my eyes wide, the door opened again. Drew’s warning filled my thoughts. I slipped from bed but didn’t rush out of my room. Instead, I moved quietly to the door and opened it just a crack.

  I saw her coming up the stairs. Somehow, even in the darkness, I could make out the look in her eyes. It was distant and lost, like she stood on a cliff one second before making the decision to jump. It scared me so much that I just remained kneeling on my floor, peering out as she shuffled by. I heard her muttering something to herself as she passed, but I couldn’t make it out. The sound of her voice, though, shattered the moment. I threw my door open.

  “Mom?” I said tentatively.

  She turned. That look froze me once again. Even when her thin lips rose in a pantomimed smile.

  “Hi, baby,” she said, thinly.

  “Where were you?”

  Her head tilted. “I . . . He never picked me up.”

  “Dad?”

  Her head shook. “Good night, baby.”

  That’s when the smell hit me. It was faint, maybe even a trick of my mind. But it was as sour as my worst thoughts. I turned, walking back into my bedroom, and I realized she’d never said anything about the cat being gone.

  20

  You’re driving in circles, Liam.”

  God, I just wish she would shut up. No matter what I do, she just keeps going. Keeps digging. Keeps using her words like a scalpel—careful, efficient cuts. I see why she is so good at her job. Why Drew uses her. She is the kind of weapon he loves. Subtle and deadly. Unlike me.

  “Why don’t you just run away? Let me out and just go. I won’t tell them anything.”

  Her words slip into me. They gnaw at my resolve. Not just these, but everything she’s piled atop me since I took the tape off. I know what she’s doing. I can see right through it. She is spinning my reality into her story. But there is an allure to it, a kind of dangerous beauty. Like honey dripping from a bee’s nest. No matter how much it’s going to hurt, I want to grab hold of her tale. Taste its sweetness. And let it be real, for just a second. Let my life be something that it never was.

  “Are you okay?” she asks softly.

  Could she mean it? Could she care? I hold my breath, trying to shut her out. Keep myself focused.

  “I get it, Liam. All this back-and-forth. You’re just scared. But it’ll be okay. I’ve got your back. It’ll be okay.”

  Her hand reaches out. She touches my forearm. My tattoo. Every nerve in my body fires. My eyes shoot down.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Her eyes widen. And she recoils. Driving down the road, I turn on her, my words pouring over her like fire.

  “He told me what he does to you.”

  She stiffens. “What?”

  “He brags about it to me. Maybe to other people, too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you know what I’m talking about,” I say. “There’s a fine line between hurt and pain, right? Fun and danger? Excitement and fear?”

  She looks at me, incredulous. “Really? This is where you’re—”

  “Love and shame,” I finish.

  She has no answer to that. I don’t know the truth. He never told me anything. But I can guess. I can always guess.

  “Patsy knows, too, Lauren,” I say, staring at the road ahead.

  Her response is silence, so much so that I can hear her breathing just audible over the sound of the car’s tires on the pavement. This news shouldn’t surprise her. In his arrogance, my brother did nothing to hide the affair. But
from her response, I know already that it is enough. That no matter how much she knows it is the truth, that it was always going to be the truth, my brother’s web has her snared. His words hold her down as much as the strength in his hard, crushing hands. His promises lay heavier on her chest. His lies surround her as visibly as the heat rising from my anger.

  “And you let him do that to you,” I add.

  I see the nod. It is a wisp, but I see it whether she wants me to or not. And I guess that’s enough. My brother has her as deeply as he’s had me for so many years. I never expected anything else. At some point, she will betray me. Strange how little that seems to matter now.

  21

  I pull around to the back end of the apartment complex and park the Mazda beside the entrance to the access road. Coming back to this place is like stepping into my own grave. One I have spent months digging. It turns my stomach. But it’s time.

  With a quick look around, I get out of the car and unhook the chain that spans the trail. When I get back into the car, Lauren doesn’t move. She hasn’t since I laid into her. She just stares out the window again.

  I don’t bother putting the chain up. We won’t be here long. At the top of the rise, I crack my window. I let the sound of the birds fill the car, countering her discomfort. It calms me, a little. By the time we reach the cabin, I’m refocused. I will do what I have to do. It will hurt. But I can’t care about that. Not anymore.

  When I park the car, she inches away from me, leaning on her closed door. I get out and head to her side. Before I reach the door, though, my phone rings. The call is from Drew’s burner.

  “You stay here,” I say, though I’m not sure she can hear me through the closed window. Then I answer the phone. “Hello.”

  “We found your truck,” Drew says, his voice flat and hard.

  The adrenaline forces me to move. With my eyes on Lauren, I back toward the water’s edge. I can hear the soft lapping of the current against the bank. It calls to me like a forbidden whisper.