Taking a deep breath, I open a new message. I type in the number and, to my surprise, it shows up in Lauren’s contacts. Seeing the name appear on her screen turns my stomach, but my jaw tightens and I just send the text.
This is Liam. It’s time. Meet me at the emergency location. As soon as you can.
When I’m done, I look at Lauren. Her eyes avert, flipping back toward the ground. I slip her phone into my front pocket.
“Up there,” I say.
She looks up at the stone, then back at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and cloudy with tears. I nod, and she starts walking. I follow her close behind. A soft breeze picks up, running up the rise, blowing hair before my eyes. I brush it away and take a deep breath. It smells of pine and dried leaves. Like Halloween day, full of anticipation and a vague, unexplainable dread. I wonder, for just a second, if I would go back in time if I could. Return to my childhood, to the memories that ride that wind. Regardless of everything, how bad things were, where the years led, I think I would. Maybe just for a day. Just to feel that potential again. The chance that things could be good. Maybe.
Before I realize it, I am already standing beside her stone. I kneel, my hand running along the smooth, cold edge. I had intended to take a picture of Lauren in front of the grave. Then send it to my brother from her phone. Just another jab at him. But it suddenly feels wrong to me.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
The breeze answers me, slipping under my jacket and running up my spine. I feel at peace, in a way. But sad as well. I dig through the past, pulling at my oldest memories. It is there that I find her at her best, tall and straight, jet hair tied back in blue-and-white silk. I see her deep, big eyes, clear and bright. I see her smiling mouth, painted a shocking red. I hear my name on her lips, loving and so real that it hurts beyond belief.
A tear fills one eye. It is pain. And sadness. But also frustration, anger. I let it sit there, clouding my vision so that I don’t forget. I look at the face of her stone.
VIRGINIA EVANS BRENNAN
1948–1986
Nothing else is etched on the marker. No mention of being a loving mother. A wife. A daughter or sister. My eyes lock on to that one word, EVANS, and I remember her rare but beautiful stories about a family I never knew. I should have looked for them. Maybe they would have welcomed me, taken me in as their own. I could have joined that family. Why hadn’t I thought to try?
Because that’s a dream. This is real. As I remind myself of that simple truth, I feel a pressure against my lower back. Something slides up against my skin, catching on the waistband of my pants.
Reality slams into me. I jerk up, spinning, and look down the barrel of my own gun.
8
That night, standing in the darkness and looking down at my brother in his bed, I didn’t do it. I didn’t try to kill him. I didn’t even touch him. I just stood over him, watching him sleep for a time, and the pieces of the plan simply fell into place. I remembered that day I tripped him. The day I hit Carter with that stick. The police. The funeral. Our neighbors. And I knew exactly what I was going to do.
It took effort, but I pulled my attention off my sleeping brother. But I didn’t leave his room. Not right away. Instead, I moved to the far corner, where I knew he kept his lacrosse equipment. As my fingers wrapped around his crosse, I thought about what my father had said at dinner. I pictured him in the stands, feeding on the sympathetic glances and the words of condolence from all the other parents like some parasitic vampire.
I pulled the stick out of his nylon bag without making a sound. With it in hand, I snuck out of his room and down the stairs. I eased the front door open. The cold night air cut through the white T-shirt I wore to sleep. It probably glowed under the moon but I guess I didn’t really care. Or maybe I wanted to get caught. I just don’t know.
Like a ghost, I moved through the night. I wandered down the street, looking at the dark windows of our neighbors. I imagined them waking up in the morning, having breakfast together. Talking about their days. Sharing their triumphs and fears.
As I passed each house, I stopped feeling like the specter and felt more and more like the haunted. These lives that surrounded me hurt. They seemed so perfect. So blessed compared to mine. They scraped and clawed at me every day, every smiling face, every loving hug, every look of pity. I just needed it to stop.
Up ahead, the biggest house in the neighborhood rose at the top of a steep, perfectly manicured slope. I knew that the Clarksons lived there. Their boys, Eric and Billy, were star athletes. Presidents of their classes. Their father a successful lawyer. And their mother, Mrs. Clarkson, the biggest busybody in the neighborhood.
Eric’s new car, a blue BMW, sat parked against the curb. He’d just gotten it when Hopkins offered him a free ride to play lacrosse. He was my brother’s rival in all things. So I smiled as I reared back and swung the lacrosse stick at the driver’s-side window. It struck the glass and bounced off, barely leaving a scratch. I lashed out, slamming the stick into the glass over and over again. My mouth opened and I let out a howl like nothing I had heard before. I just kept swinging and swinging, harder and harder. I turned the stick and used the end. When the window finally shattered, I fell forward, my shoulder slamming into the frame. Beads of glass rained down to the pavement and I started to laugh. I couldn’t stop. My entire body shook as the sound just crashed out of my chest, filling the night air.
The car alarm shrieked to life, harmonizing with my manic laughter. I felt so high. So invincible as I left the stick in the front seat and sprinted all the way home.
9
Don’t move.”
Lauren’s voice quivers. So does the hand holding my gun. But her finger slips into the trigger guard as if she’s done it before. I stand frozen before her, but not for the reason she thinks. Instead, my brother’s voice fills my head, not hers.
You’re an idiot, Liam.
Don’t be stupid, Liam.
This is why I lose every time. This is why he wins. Drew never makes mistakes. Like a machine, he does everything right.
“Give me the keys,” Lauren says, her voice changing with each word.
Since seeing the bones, Lauren has looked lost. But right in front of me, I see her transform. Her back straightens. Her hands stop shaking. A smirk lifts one side of her mouth. And I realize that, at least to her, she is back in control. She’s calling the shots again, and she seems to feed on that power.
“No,” I answer flatly.
She takes a step back, but the look on her face doesn’t change. Her voice sounds shrill and too loud, but the smirk remains.
“I’ll do it, Liam. You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“Maybe I do,” I say.
She blinks. It’s my turn to smile.
“Maybe I know exactly what you’re capable of. Words. That’s it, Lauren. That’s all you have. And you use them to get what you want. Words are power. But only for so long. Then they fade away, and you’re left with the truth.”
“The truth?” She scoffs. “Like how you want to screw your own sister-in-law. Or how you live in a pathetic trailer down by the river. The truth, Liam, is that you’re a loser. You’ve always been a loser. Nothing more than that. You’re not some kind of tragic hero. Some misunderstood artist. You’re just trash. And for some reason, your brother refuses to throw you out.”
I absorb her words. They shake inside me, down to the core. I need to know if they are true. If my memories are real. I will, soon enough. That’s what this is all about, really.
I take a step toward her. She takes a half step back. My head is spinning. But I don’t feel angry, which surprises me. Instead, I’m just so tired.
“Give me the keys,” she repeats. “And my phone.”
I stare into her eyes. “Why do you let him hurt you?”
She shudders. It is slight, barely
noticeable. I recognize it immediately, though. In a way, it is like looking into a mirror.
“It doesn’t get better, Lauren. It never will. I know you want it to. I know you see this picture of him. He’s strong and bold. Some force just draws you closer. Makes you want to stand near him. Be a part of whatever it is he’s doing. That’s why he makes the perfect politician. That charisma just radiates out from him like ripples in the water. But then you get too close. You get to the center. The real Drew rises to the surface, and you see the darkness for the first time. You explain it away. You convince yourself. But when the truth comes out, you’re left lying there, feeling dirty and raw and empty. Like the world is staring at your shame. What is it that keeps you there? Lets you hang around until the next time?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, after another shuffle back down the rise, back toward the Mazda. “Just give me the keys . . . and my phone. Or I swear, I’ll—”
“Does he tell you about our father? Does he mention him?”
“Shut up! Goddamn it. Just shut up. Who do you think you are? Trying to enlighten me about the truth after all the shit you’ve done? Wake up. It’s over. I’m going to call the cops—”
“No, you’re not.”
“What?”
“You’re not calling the cops. You’re going to run back to him. Fall down at his feet and cry. Because he’s calling the shots. You aren’t. He’s in control.” I pull the keys out of my pocket. “Go ahead. Go run back to him. You can take the car. Just go. Tell him—”
“Give me my phone,” she snaps.
My eyes narrow. She’s standing in front of me, pointing a gun in my face. She’s been abducted. She’s seen the remains. But she’s going to stand here and tell me to give her the phone. She could leave. I’d let her. But the arrogance. The righteousness. It sparks the fire. I take another step toward her. Toward the gun.
“You think you’re so smart. So superior. You grew up in your perfect little house. Your parents told you how great you were every day. How you could do anything you wanted to do. That the world was yours. Your dad bought you that Jetta. Probably those perfect white teeth, too. It was all so easy for you, wasn’t it?”
I move closer. Her eyes widen. She starts to back up, but I notice her hands are shaking again.
“Stay back,” she says.
“What are you going to do, shoot me?”
I move quickly, swallowing the space between us in one smooth thrust. I feel the barrel of the gun strike my cheek. And I keep moving. Keep pushing into it. The force of it moves her finger inside the guard. It flirts with the trigger.
“Stop!” she screams.
“Do it!” I scream back.
She stumbles but keeps her balance. I keep going. The cold metal against my skin feels real. But nothing else does.
“Shoot,” I say. “Just do it. Do it!”
“I will. I’ll—”
“Do it!”
I could reach out and take the gun. I know I could. It would be easy. In a way, I think she wants me to. Action isn’t Lauren’s game. It’s mine. And Drew’s.
But maybe I just want her to do it. To end this all. I can feel my mother’s headstone behind me, like eyes on my back. It pulls, tugs me back off the ledge. But my momentum can’t be stopped. Nothing can stop it, I think.
“Just do it,” I whisper, reaching out. I grab Lauren by the front of her jacket. “Please.”
“Stop! Let go!”
Her finger moves on its own this time. It touches the trigger. It stiffens. She’s ready. I can feel it. My eyes close. And I see her. Her face appears before me. I try to cry out. To apologize for my weakness. For not being able to protect her. But it’s over now. Finally.
“Just do it,” I say. And a smile forms, despite everything.
10
Eric Clarkson’s father rang our doorbell at 7:00 A.M. the morning after I smashed his son’s car window. I had been sitting in my bed, vibrating from lack of sleep and a sense of what I was sure would be a raging storm. So when I heard the bell, I sprang to my feet, my entire body shaking with fear or excitement or dread. Whatever it was, whatever was to come, I think I wanted it. Like I needed it all out in the open, something real that I could confront and survive. Or not.
I thought I would just stand up in the hallway and listen. But I found myself moving to the stairs, taking each step downward as silently as I could. In contrast, my father’s steps from the kitchen into the foyer seemed to rock the foundation of the house like a series of earthquakes.
He didn’t see me as he opened the door. But I could see Mr. Clarkson. He was my father’s height, but larger. Where Dad’s face was gaunt and tightly drawn, his was prominent and full. His thick chin jutted like mine would one day.
At first, my father stood his ground. His back was straight and his shoulders back. He may have smiled, which would be typical when around the neighbors, but I couldn’t see his face.
Mr. Clarkson, though, did not. His mouth was sharp and set. I don’t even think Dad noticed Drew’s lacrosse stick in his right hand.
My father spoke first, his tone friendly and mildly inquisitive. “Hey, Jeff?”
Mr. Clarkson did not speak right away. Instead, he lifted his arm, holding the stick between them. My father’s head tilted as he looked at it. But he made no move to take it from Mr. Clarkson’s hand.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
When he finally spoke, our neighbor’s voice sounded like he could barely contain a desire to rip my father’s head off.
“I found this in my son’s car,” he said, his teeth barely parting.
“I—”
“The window was smashed in,” he continued.
Like I said, I couldn’t see my father’s face. I imagine that moment as if I could, though. He must have been dumbfounded. Desperately wanting to think I had done it. If Mr. Clarkson had left it at that, maybe Dad could have convinced himself. But that’s not how it happened.
“I’m tired of your son’s shit, Patrick,” Mr. Clarkson said. “Eric’s been putting up with it for years. What, does he think he can bully my son out of the starting lineup? Is that it? Is that how you raised him?”
My father’s shoulders slumped. He took a step back.
“I . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Get him under control. Or you’ll be dealing with me. You understand that?”
Mr. Clarkson thrust the stick into my father’s hands. He bumbled it and it fell to the ground, awkwardly striking the threshold before hitting him in the shin.
“And you’re paying for the damn window,” our neighbor said as he turned and walked away.
My father didn’t move. His hands hung limp at his sides. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. Then, as if nothing had happened, he reached out and slowly shut the door. When he turned, I saw his face and I guess I knew. His eyes were as fiery as his cheeks. Sweat shined on his forehead. The muscle above his left cheek twitched. Worst of all, he never blinked as he stared right through me. His yell shattered the stillness, rattling my skull.
“Andrew!”
My eyes widened. I turned and looked up the stairs, every nerve in my body firing at once. I had never heard my father speak like that, even to me. For it to be directed at my brother, I can’t fully explain how that felt. Maybe like a child waking up Christmas morning to find stacks of beautiful presents under the tree, only to remember that his parents can’t afford all of it. That these amazing gifts, all addressed to him, will break them, break all of them.
Drew appeared at the top of the steps. He stood there and I saw the look of confusion on his face. What surprised me, though, was that he didn’t look at our father. He stared at me. I started to shake, more on the inside than out. I had a second to think he would launch himself down the stairs, tear my eyes out, rend my
face to strips of bloody skin, all with that thin half smile on his face.
That never happened. None of it. My father yelled his name again and Drew startled. He hurried down the stairs, his mouth agape. I think he tried to say something, maybe a question, but I don’t know. Because my father went at him. He crossed the foyer to the steps as my brother reached the bottom. He never slowed. Instead, his fist reared back and he struck Drew in the face, either his orbit or the ridge between his eyes.
The back of Drew’s foot caught on the step and he went down. My father kept coming. He threw himself atop my brother, grabbing the front of his shirt and screaming into his face.
“How dare you embarrass me like that!”
He shook Drew and my brother’s head struck the edge of one of the steps. His eyes looked unfocused, dazed. But my father just kept screaming and screaming. He rained down obscenities and kept repeating that Drew had embarrassed him.
“Don’t you think? Are you that stupid? What? You expect me to drive through the neighborhood now, with everyone looking at me, thinking how bad a parent I am, how I have no control over my own son. Is that it?”
His fist reared back, but he didn’t strike Drew again. Instead, his rant ended abruptly. My father let go of my brother’s shirt and pushed himself upright. He stared down at Drew for a second, shaking his head. Then he turned and walked slowly away.
I stood there, finding myself suddenly alone with my brother. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked battered and broken on the steps, weaker than I ever imagined he could. Our eyes met. I saw his tears. And he knew I did.
That moment stretched out. After everything, after all the years of him towering over me, beating me down with his words, with his smile, you would think I ate the moment up. I should have devoured his pain, the fear in his eyes, the shock dripping off him like a sickness. But I didn’t. Instead, I felt an overwhelming panic. I fought the urge to cover my face, cower away from him. I imagined him flying off the steps, coming at me as I thought he would before. I couldn’t have been more wrong, though.
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