by David Bell
‘Mom said.’
‘I heard you. Do they live in Dover?’
Ronnie shrugged.
‘What are their names?’
Ronnie thought for a minute, then pointed at the children one by one. ‘That’s Skylar. And that’s …’ He scrunched his face in concentration. ‘Vanessa.’
‘And their mom or dad? Did you meet them? Who are they?’
‘The police think I hurt Mom,’ Ronnie said.
‘I know. They told me all about it.’
Ronnie didn’t say anything else. He lay there, still holding the photo. He stared up at the dingy grey drop ceiling.
‘Ronnie, you didn’t hurt Mom, did you?’
He took his sweet time answering me. I let him have all the time he wanted. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer. It disturbed me more than anything that I wasn’t sure what the answer would be.
Finally he said, ‘I got mad at her. Really mad.’
‘You mean the time the police came? The fishing trip with Paul?’
It took me a moment to realize that Ronnie was shaking his head, ever so slightly. No, he was saying. Not that time.
Had there been another time?
‘What happened, Ronnie?’ I asked, keeping my voice low. I had no idea who might be lingering in the hallway outside his room.
‘She didn’t want me to go to speech therapy,’ he said.
‘Again?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was this?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Ronnie, this is important. Was this before the police came that time or after?’
‘I’m tired, sis. Tired.’
‘I know. Just answer that question.’
But he turned away. He tucked the photo against his chest and rolled over, turning his back to me.
‘Ronnie? Are you going to answer me?’
Silence. He’d totally withdrawn. I asked one more question, but he didn’t answer that one either.
‘Ronnie?’ I said. ‘Who is Elizabeth Yarbrough?’
I wandered down the hallway and out to the parking lot, lost in my own thoughts. The sodium vapour lights were coming on, casting the lot in an artificial glow. I pulled my keys out and heard my name called.
‘Elizabeth. Hey.’
I turned. It was Janie. She was wearing her scrubs under a lightweight jacket. She was carrying a canvas tote bag that looked like it was holding a brick.
‘Hi,’ I said.
Janie came over. ‘How’s Ronnie doing today?’ she asked.
‘He has moods. Sometimes he doesn’t like to talk.’
‘I’ve noticed that,’ Janie said. ‘He’s probably overwhelmed.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you heading out?’ Janie asked. ‘Or home? I just got off, and if you want to get coffee or something …’
I looked at my car. Then I looked at the darkening sky. What waited for me in my apartment? Ungraded essays?
‘If you’re busy …’ Janie said.
‘I think there’s a Starbucks across the street,’ I said.
We settled with our drinks. The place was half full. Teenagers laughed at one table. An elderly man worked a crossword puzzle next to us. A family of four occupied another table. They seemed to be trying to set a world record for looking wholesome and happy.
Janie wore her hair piled on top of her head. I noticed that she used a number two pencil to hold it in place. She seemed the same as in high school – an open book. No secrets. No dodging or sugarcoating. She explained how she’d stayed in Dover after high school and attended Dalton for her nursing degree.
‘It took me an extra year and a half,’ she said.
‘Were you paying your own way?’ I asked.
‘No. I had too much fun when I was a freshman,’ she said. ‘I partied. I didn’t go to class. You know, the usual.’
‘Sure.’
‘I was a student nurse at a local general practitioner’s office. One of my professors came in and saw me there. The poor guy. He probably thought to himself, “How is this dummy who couldn’t come to class going to check my blood pressure?” I couldn’t blame him for thinking that.’
‘But you have your act together now,’ I said.
‘Well enough.’ She sipped her drink. ‘You seem to be doing well. That’s no surprise. I always thought you’d be the type to study abroad or go to grad school. I figured you’d be living in New York or someplace like that.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Did you come back for your mom and Ronnie?’ Janie asked.
‘No, it just worked out that way. I got an assistantship here. It’s a good program. I’m going to move on after I get my master’s.’ As I said the words, I realized that I wasn’t sure I believed them any more. Could I move on? What about Ronnie? What about all of it?
‘I saw your dad died too. In the obituary. I’m sorry. I remember he was sick when we were in high school.’
‘The cancer came back when I was in college.’
‘Shit,’ Janie said. ‘Fuck cancer. You know?’
I had to laugh. It reminded me of the stupid things we used to say when we were seventeen. Fuck cancer. Yes. Fuck it.
‘Are you married?’ I asked.
She held up her left hand. No rings. ‘Most people we went to high school with are married. And have babies. I’m in no hurry for that.’ She made a dismissive wave with her hand. ‘I have a boyfriend. We’ve been seeing each other for six months, but who knows? He’s nice. What about you?’
‘Single,’ I said. ‘Well, there’s a guy. It’s casual. Off and on. He’s nice. A good guy. Too good sometimes, you know?’
‘A good boy?’ she said.
‘A loyal pup,’ I said. ‘I’m lucky. He treats me well. But it’s hard with school and trying to focus on a career. And now my family.’
‘You used to say you didn’t want to have kids.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I still feel that way.’
‘You’ve got time to decide,’ Janie said. ‘We can have kids when we’re in our thirties.’
‘That sounds so old. Thirties.’
Janie laughed, and I did too.
I said, ‘I just looked at Ronnie when we were growing up, you know? My parents had him, and they were … I don’t know, trapped, I guess. I didn’t want to be trapped. By anyone. I wanted to have a career and get away from Dover.’ Janie was listening intently. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with staying here.’
‘I get it,’ she said. ‘I still think I might move away. I can go anywhere and get a job as a nurse. I can make good money. There are shortages of nurses in some places. I could name my price.’
‘Better than being a history professor,’ I said.
Janie smiled. ‘I do like it here, though. It’s home. There are memories.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My parents are here. My sister.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sorry. I hope that didn’t upset you. I’m saying, “My parents are here and it’s great.” And you just lost your –’
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I understand.’
The family across the way laughed together. I remembered Janie’s house. It was small and warm, and her mother always hugged me when I came and went. So unlike my mom. And so unlike my family.
I’d said I understood, but I didn’t. I really didn’t understand that kind of life at all.
28
The phone woke me the next morning. It was Saturday, and normally I slept with the phone off on weekends. But I was still waiting for Paul to call me back, so I’d left it on. Maybe, I figured, if he called while I was half asleep it would be easier to talk to him, to get past the awkwardness of our fight and move on. And the sooner we moved on, the sooner he might be able to answer the questions raised at the lawyer’s office.
But the phone call that woke me wasn’t from Paul. I reached for the phone and looked at the display screen. I saw a local number, one I didn’t recognize. I wondered if maybe it was the hospit
al, but I didn’t answer. My mind was too foggy, my brain and body too tired from the week. If it’s important, I thought, they’ll leave a message or call back.
A few moments later the phone chimed, letting me know I did have a message. But I rolled over and closed my eyes. I kept them shut, trying to drift back to sleep. I had slept surprisingly well, considering that it was my first night alone since the break-in, and my body and mind wanted more. Only, when I closed my eyes, everything from the day before tumbled through my mind. Elizabeth Yarbrough. Ronnie wanting to leave the hospital. The bank statement, the picture, the ‘cousins’ –
The phone rang again.
‘Okay,’ I said.
Maybe it was important. A message and a call back.
I rolled over and picked up the phone. The identity of the caller made my heart jump.
It was Paul. I held the phone in front of me, staring at the screen. My strategy hadn’t worked – I was plenty awake. And nervous to talk to him. For a split second, I thought about ignoring it, but I knew I couldn’t. He had reached out. And with everything going on, I couldn’t make it the way I always made it. I couldn’t do it all alone.
I needed help.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Elizabeth …’
He sounded tired, almost as if he too were still half asleep.
‘Paul? Are you okay?’
‘I’m here,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘I’m here. On the phone.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘Did the police call you?’ he asked.
I knew – the message I hadn’t listened to. The call I hadn’t taken.
‘Someone just called. But the police? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Ronnie.’
‘Oh, God.’
A burning pain crossed my midsection. It felt as if someone had placed a hot poker there, just rested it against my flesh and didn’t move.
Ronnie. What happened to Ronnie?
‘Is he dead?’ I asked.
A long pause. I heard Paul breathing.
‘Paul?’
‘He’s not dead,’ Paul said. ‘It’s worse. He confessed, Elizabeth. This morning he told the police he killed your mom.’
29
I expected to walk into a scene of chaos at Dover Community – police officers talking into phones and radios, doctors and nurses scurrying to and from Ronnie’s room. Maybe even television cameras, a reporter in front of the building with a news van and a live remote. Wouldn’t a murder confession, especially the confession of a man with Down’s syndrome to the crime of murdering his own mother, warrant all of that activity?
But the hospital corridor looked just as it did any other day. An elderly patient shuffled by me, muttering about the condition of her slippers. The nurses worked at their stations. The only addition to the scene was Detective Richland. He stood outside Ronnie’s room, talking on a cell phone. He didn’t move his eyes towards me as I rushed down the hallway. I was wearing the first clothes I had found on the floor of my apartment – a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, running shoes without socks. I hadn’t brushed my teeth and had only smoothed down my hair with my hand while I drove.
I tried not to make eye contact with Richland. I angled for Ronnie’s room, and as I did, he stopped his call and held his hand out to me, a traffic cop’s gesture.
‘You can’t go in there,’ he said. His hand was huge, the size of a dinner plate.
‘Why not?’
‘You just can’t,’ he said, sounding a little petulant. He didn’t meet my eye either. ‘We’re working on your brother’s case.’
‘Is he in there?’ I asked. ‘Is my brother still in that room?’
‘Why don’t you wait in the lounge?’ He pointed with his phone towards the consultation room where I had spoken to Dr Heil.
‘Did you take my brother away?’ I asked.
‘Please wait in there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
I stood in the hallway, hanging between two impulses. As a good girl, one who was raised to respect authority and always do what I was asked to do, I felt compelled to just slink off to the room and wait. My mother was gone and Ronnie in custody – did my family need any other drama, like a run-in with the police?
But I wanted to see my brother. It was bad enough for him to be left alone in that hospital for the past week, away from everything he knew, everything that brought him comfort, even at the time he mourned the loss of the most important person in the world to him.
Richland made another gesture towards the consultation room, his body language more insistent. He indicated that I wouldn’t be getting many more warnings from him. So I took the out he offered me. Why? Because I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to see Ronnie right at that moment after all. What would I say to him? And what would he have to say to me?
What if what he had confessed was true?
I turned away and entered the small room. As I did, I heard Richland go back to his phone call. I tried to listen to what he was saying, to pick up on some sense of what he was talking about, especially if it related to Ronnie, but he spoke in a low, muffled voice so I couldn’t hear.
Inside the room, I sat alone. There weren’t any magazines to read and no television. This room meant business. If you were in there, you weren’t supposed to be distracting yourself from whatever difficulties you were facing. I had my phone, though. Paul said he was coming to the hospital as well, but I hadn’t seen him anywhere. I texted him, asking where he was. I started to text Dan, but what would I say? At hospital. Brother confessed to murder. LOL. I thought about calling, but even then, how would that work? What would I want from him? Dan would insist on coming, on sitting by my side and riding the rapids with me. I wasn’t sure I could ask anyone to do that, not when things were getting as deep as they were.
I waited, my hands folded in my lap.
Why, Ronnie? Why?
And, Mom – why? Why did you let things get so far out of control?
I rested my elbows on my knees and brought my hands up to my face. I buried my face against my palms, which were sweaty and warm. I closed my eyes and tried to absorb it all.
Why?
I don’t know how long I sat that way. It felt like hours, but it must have been only a few minutes. I looked up when I heard the door open. Detective Richland came into the room, still holding his phone and nothing else. He didn’t make eye contact with me or offer a greeting. He took the seat across from mine, folding his extended frame into the compact chair. He didn’t pull out his little notebook or anything. I wasn’t sure why he was there.
‘Are you doing okay, Ms Hampton?’ he asked. He met my eye this time. He seemed to be trying.
‘No.’
‘Do you need some water?’ he asked.
‘Why do you cops always offer me water?’ I asked. ‘Do you think that’s going to make anything better?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I’m trying to be nice.’ His hands fluttered a little, then quickly stopped.
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’ I said. ‘My uncle called me this morning and said Ronnie confessed to killing my mother. That has to be a mistake.’
‘Just to be clear,’ Richland said, ‘we tried to call you first. You’re the next of kin, of both the victim and the perpetrator. We did call you, and you didn’t answer. That’s when we called your uncle.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘I’ll tell you what I can right now,’ he said. ‘We’re still putting things together and tying up some loose ends. But this morning I came by here to consult with Dr Heil about your brother’s situation. I had some follow-up questions about the report Dr Heil had submitted after he examined Ronnie. And let me just state this up front – Dr Heil’s report assured me that Ronnie is capable of understanding the difference between right and wrong and understanding the consequences of his actions. The report spoke very highly o
f his intellectual capabilities.’
‘I could have told you that,’ I said.
‘You understand we need to hear it from a professional.’
‘How did all of this lead to a confession?’ I asked.
‘When I arrived here at the hospital, Ronnie told the nurse on duty that he wanted to speak to me. I went in, and he told me that he had killed your mother.’
‘He just told you that.’
‘He did.’ Richland raised his right index finger as though to emphasize a point. ‘Dr Heil was present when I spoke to your brother, and after he made that declaration – what we call a spontaneous declaration – I informed him of his Miranda rights. In fact, I went over them three times with him. He understood them. Dr Heil felt Ronnie understood them and understood what he was telling me.’
‘And he just said it to you, just like that.’
‘He said, “I killed my mom.” Clear as day he said it. And he repeated it when I followed up.’
I closed my eyes. I tried to lose myself in the darkness behind my lids, to drift away and out of that room and that space. But I couldn’t. I could still hear the soft hum of the hospital’s heating and cooling system, could still hear the occasional footsteps in the hallway, the voices over the loudspeaker paging nurses and doctors to more trouble. I couldn’t escape it.
‘Why?’ I asked, opening my eyes.
‘What’s that?’
‘Why did he do it?’ I asked. ‘What did he say caused … this to happen?’
Richland paused. ‘At this point, I don’t want to get into any of these details. Like I said, we’re working some things out.’
‘So you won’t tell me anything except that my brother confessed to killing my mother?’
‘You know what the issues were we already had,’ he said. ‘We haven’t been able to account for your brother’s whereabouts on the night your mother died. We have a history of violent behaviour. And now …’
He didn’t say it, but I knew what he meant. Now, a confession. And I couldn’t help but think back to the night before, when I had spoken to Ronnie in the hospital. I had asked Ronnie directly if he’d hurt Mom – and he didn’t answer me. He didn’t confess, but he didn’t deny it either. And I wondered, sitting there with Detective Richland, if my question from the night before had set Ronnie on the path to confessing to the crime. Had he wanted to do it for a while, but couldn’t bring himself to say it to me?