She slid out a notepad from beneath the rubble of books. Using all capital letters, she filled the top margin with one word: TROY.
After Troy’s dinner performance and the Aidan save, and after she’d kicked Elle and Maggie out of the kitchen, she cleaned up the rest of the mess herself. By the time she’d made her way upstairs, Troy was standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing plaid sleep pants, and working winter mint toothpaste into blue foam. Her son was desperate for sleep and was smart enough to listen to his body. How could she tell, how could anyone tell, whether one fit on the anniversary eve of Jack’s death meant her son was sick?
She’d read every single manual on bipolar disorder, known as manic depression when Jack was diagnosed, and had memorized most of the symptoms psychiatrists used for diagnosis. Depressed mood, feelings of guilt and worthlessness, and recurring thoughts of death pointed to depression. On the flip side, pressured speech, flights of fancy, and Jack’s favorite, hypersexuality, highlighted mania.
She couldn’t imagine her son succumbing to a lifelong illness with no chance of a cure, just an endless array of hills and valleys regulated by doctors and tiny beige tablets. Even the supposed miracle drug lithium required constant monitoring of kidney functions as the therapeutic dose easily crossed the line into toxicity. Jack didn’t mind the weight gain and hand tremors. It was the foggy thinking that he couldn’t brook, the memory loss, and the overall mental sluggishness. Please, Laura, let me finish this novel on deadline, and I promise I’ll be good.
She saw not her late husband, but Troy, down on bent knee before her, begging for her help. Her belly trembled, signaling the feeling of helplessness she abhorred. From the foot of her bed, she took the red knit throw, another transplant from Jack’s studio, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She didn’t need Jack, not now. She’d taken care of their children pretty much on her own for their entire lives. Her husband had chosen to kill himself and take the easy way out of a tough situation. This wasn’t the first time she’d nicknamed him Slip-Out-the-Back Jack.
Where had that come from?
Unsympathetic, for sure, possibly even downright meanspirited. She fisted her hands, squeezing hard in a vain effort to squelch the negative energy. A restless sensation weakened her left arm, shoulder to wrist. “Four, two, three, seven. Eight, seven, six, three.” Laura spoke the last four digits of Elle’s phone number, and then Maggie’s, like a whispered prayer. Earlier this evening, before Maggie and Elle would agree to leave, they’d made Laura promise to call if she needed them, and she loved them for it. But she wouldn’t want to alarm them with a midnight call.
Besides, it wasn’t so much soul emptiness she was experiencing as a mild hunger centering in her belly. She hadn’t managed more than a few bites of dinner when Troy had initiated his sideshow, cutting the meal short. She touched her son’s name at the top of her jam-packed worry list, then added Jack’s psychiatrist’s name off to the side. She wouldn’t wait until things grew worse. She wouldn’t repeat the mistakes she’d made with Jack. One appointment didn’t mean a thing; Dr. Harvey could set her mind at ease.
She plucked her satin robe from the closet and slipped it over her nightgown. The garment delivered an all-over twinge of cold instead of the warmth she’d expected. A floorboard creaked under her weight. She clicked the closet door shut. The latch popped, the door creaked open on rusty hinges, and she startled.
It’s just a room, Laura. Relax.
After all, she didn’t believe in that sort of thing. Ghost stories were the living’s overintellectualization of what happened when a person died, myths to keep the fear of death at bay. You were alive, and then you were dead, so why worry about it? The dead didn’t walk around mourning themselves. They left misery to the living.
How many times had she wished misery would release its grip on her husband? She’d sail into the kitchen on an updraft of joy, only to find Jack sulking over his coffee, unaffected by the sunshine blazing through the windows.
Laura padded down to the kitchen. No sounds came from the studio, but the knowledge another stable adult was living in her house eased the edge off her worry.
Laura thought of the leftover gingersnaps and discovered their freezer container, empty save for a few crumbs. Instead, she slid three frozen chocolate chip cookies into the microwave for a quick defrost and gazed through the behind-the-sink window, searching through the night for the tranquil distant hills. Instead, the eight-by-eight panes reflected blue-black darkness. Troy was not sick.
She yanked the microwave door open before the third annoying bleep and released her cookies, her only visible moral support. She stood over the sink and bit into the biggest cookie’s chewy moistness, crunching salty roasted pecans. Rich chocolate melted on her tongue. Troy was not sick.
She never did find out where Jack had disappeared to after Troy’s birth. Jack had dropped her at their off-campus apartment with their toddler and newborn son. She spent the week in a blur of diapers and feedings, convinced that he’d never return, that at twenty-two, she’d become the sole parental support for her two children. Even after Jack had returned at week’s end, she held fast to her assertion, never letting down her guard. Tensed and at the ready. Troy was not sick.
A full glass of ice milk, transparent bubbles peeking over the rim of green-tinted hobnail, never failed to please her. She sipped through the tickly froth, and then sucked down the frosty liquid without pausing until she reached the transparent emerald bottom. An immediate brain freeze scraped across her forehead. She held her hands against her temples, trying to contain the pain. She had to smile. Worse than the kids.
The ceiling moaned above her head. Troy’s room. She counted five steps, not enough to take him to the hallway bathroom. A rumbling told her he was rolling his desk chair across the floorboards. If Troy couldn’t sleep, they should at least endure wakefulness together.
She nuked three cookies for her son and poured a brimming glass of milk. No ice this time; she’d learned her lesson. She carried the offering atop a hand-painted floral bed tray, careful to keep the surface steady as she climbed the stairs toward Troy’s bedroom. No sound through the barrier of Darcy’s closed door, although Laura couldn’t shake the conviction Darcy was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling.
Troy’s door stood open a crack, and a skinny line of light trickled across the hallway. Laura paused where the beam faded to nothingness, as though waiting to ford a stream into unknown territory. Ridiculous, for sure. Almost as irrational as the shudder splashing down her neck and washing over her shoulders.
She nudged the door with her hip and stepped into the dim room. “Troy, sweetie.”
Hard to tell if her son heard her or, really, how loudly she spoke his name, if she spoke it out loud at all. Troy sat at his desk, the twitching of his bare shoulder blade evidencing his swift jotting. He ran a hand vertically through his pillow-molded hair, and then continued on his writing rampage.
“Troy.” Laura was reasonably sure she’d said his name out loud this time. “I brought you some cookies and milk. Thought it might help you get back to sleep.” Okay, that was dumb. Her son was in no way interested in sleep tonight.
Laura slid the bed tray atop Troy’s waist-high bookshelf. “Do you want to talk? It helps when you say your worries out loud. I mean, in my opinion.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “That’s very funny.” Troy returned his attention to his desk, leaning over his work and shifting his back toward where his mother stood.
Troy chuckled to himself, as if he’d already forgotten Laura was standing behind him. He slouched over his work and blew gently across and down, setting the fresh ink before turning the page with exaggerated slowness. He ran his hand over the stark blank page, as if memorizing the territory he planned on desecrating. Another chuckle, and he fell upon the page like a lion on its prey.
In Jack’s most agitated manias, he’d plunged into the bottomless waters of hypergraphia, thinking he was writi
ng a best seller. But Jack’s so-called inspiration, when under the magnifying glass of his mood disorder, produced pressured writing, copious pages of nonsense.
Troy was not—
The undigested cookies churned within their milk bath in her belly, threatening to revisit her throat.
Laura tiptoed to the desk and peered over Troy’s shoulder. Her son had inherited her notoriously impossible to read cursive. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make out a single word.
“Do you think you could tell me what you’re writing? I’m just so curious.”
Troy swiveled his chair around and regarded her with the deliberate eyes of a pundit. The tips of his ears glowed scarlet; a telltale sign of her son’s extreme exhaustion. Charcoal pools rested beneath his black velvet lashes, making him appear like an older version of himself, one she hadn’t expected to see for another decade.
A smile flickered over his face. He nodded, coaxing the words, and his speech flowed at a normal rate. “I’m writing about Dad for the anniversary thing tomorrow. I keep waking up in the middle of the night remembering stuff I’d forgotten, like about watching him shave, and tapioca pudding, and camping, and even how we connected all those rubber bands end to end and stretched them across the house. All the good stuff I’d forgotten because I was always so pissed off at him.” He shook his head, and his voice thickened. “I’m still pissed off, Mom.”
“Oh, honey, it’s okay to feel angry.” Thank God! Troy was finally talking to her. Aidan was right. Nothing was the matter here, just a boy missing his dad. She breathed into her belly, then sighed.
She could smell him then, the unmistakable body odor of an adolescent who exercised without showering, and then added a second layer of sweat. Troy usually showered twice a day.
Laura rubbed his bare back, getting a moist palm for her efforts. Now she was perspiring, too, judging by the prickly heat needling the back of her head. “Can you read it to me?”
“Sure.” He hung his head and stared at the page, his back muscles tightening beneath her hand. “I can’t. I can’t read this. Stupid lousy handwriting.” He shook his head, and his gaze flitted around the room. “Fuck,” he whispered.
Her breath caught. “It doesn’t matter. Everything, all your memories are inside of you. Your dad’s inside of you.”
Troy looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you get it? I don’t want Dad inside of me! That’s the point. That’s the fucking point!”
Her chest jounced, and she pushed down the useless panic. She reached for Troy, and he stood to avoid her touch. “I’m so stupid! What an idiot!” he said.
“Troy. Stop that. Give yourself a break.”
“Imbecile, moron.” Troy zigzagged across the room.
Laura raced to block the doorway. “Troy!”
He spat out a slew of profanities, daring Laura to make him stop. Maintaining eye contact with Troy proved more challenging than listening to his self-abatement. Her son didn’t really hate her.
Behind Laura, Darcy’s voice rang out like a shot. “Quit it!”
Troy’s jaw worked, but no sound came from his lips. His face contorted, evidence of internal turmoil boiling not so far below the surface.
Laura’s gaze focused on her son, maintaining a measure of restraint, and she reached for Darcy’s hand.
Laura waited until his breath settled into a steady cadence. Agitated mania begged for assistance, the barest suggestion of support, although it rarely looked as if it desired company. “It’s okay. I’m right here with you. Your whole family’s here,” she said and squeezed Darcy’s hand.
Troy stared at Laura through downturned eyes.
“Your family,” Laura repeated, and Troy fell into her arms. His sobs broke against her chest. Hot tears pooled in her neck, and Darcy hugged her from behind.
Laura stroked Troy’s perspiration-damp hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let it go.” She’d make that call to Dr. Harvey first thing Monday morning.
“Why don’t you lie down? Hmm, Troy? Put your head on your pillow? You’ll be more comfortable.” Laura couldn’t tell if Troy heard her through his sobs, but he let her guide him to his bed. She helped him slide beneath the snug covers, a letter in an envelope, just the way he liked it, and he took a breath. “Do you remember the time Dad started that pillow fight?” Troy said.
“Sure I do,” Laura told Troy, and his sobs began anew.
Darcy leaned against the doorframe, her hair curling around her face. Her hazel-brown eyes glowed like amber under water.
“Bring me some tissues and a glass of water, please?” Laura asked Darcy, just like Laura had done countless times before when Jack had been in the midst of a crying jag, and she couldn’t leave his side. Petite powerhouse Darcy nodded and slipped from Laura’s sight.
Laura kissed Troy on the forehead, and her lips registered a low-grade crying-induced fever. Déjà vu all over again. She may not believe in ghosts, but she couldn’t deny Jacob Abraham Klein was haunting their son.
Chapter 10
Troy was missing.
Beside her son’s empty bed, Laura bolted to sitting. Daylight seeped around Troy’s shades. She threw off the blanket she’d used as a makeshift bedroll and scanned the room. Her gaze touched every dark corner.
No Troy.
Her throat clutched. She belted her robe and went into the hallway, poked her head into the empty bathroom. She even peeked into Darcy’s room. She wasn’t expecting to find Troy tucked in with his sister beneath her green-and-blue patchwork quilt, but on this day of days, she couldn’t rule that out, either.
No Troy.
She rushed down the stairway. No Troy in the living room, but her son’s chipper voice echoed into the kitchen. She followed the sound of Troy’s chatter through the studio’s open door. Menthol steam opened her airways, loosening the knot in her throat. A tingle cooled the back of her neck.
Yes, Troy.
With his back to Laura, Troy stood inside the apartment’s tiny bathroom. Laura hugged him around the waist, intending to make him laugh. Instead, she caught sight of Aidan standing over the sink and burst into hysterics herself.
“Easy there, you’re going to damage my delicate ego.” Face covered with shaving foam, Aidan’s bright smile crept all the way to his eyes. His right hand held his razor, while his left hand kept the towel around his trim waist from dropping to the floor. The well-defined contours of his chest told Laura he must do more than cycling. Cycling alone didn’t carve an upper body like that.
“Are you done laughing?” Aidan asked. “Got to give the kid a shaving lesson before my face hardens.”
“Yeah, you’re going to make his face harden,” Troy said.
Laura wiped at the corners of her eyes. “Up all night, punch-drunk,” she said by way of an explanation.
“Likely story,” Aidan told Laura.
Aidan turned to Troy, and her son leaned toward his voice. “Now as I was saying,” he said, glancing at Laura. “After a shower is best, when your face is nice and soft …”
A facial-hair shaving lesson was a male-only rite of passage, but Laura couldn’t bring herself to miss the event. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
“You angle the razor like so,” Aidan said.
Troy tilted his head to follow Aidan’s razor as it cleared the foam from his upper lip. Aidan raised his chin to reach his beneath-the-chin stubble, and Troy mirrored his movements.
Laura’s sleep deficit had really and truly left her punchy, a ball of laughter caught in her throat. In contrast, Troy’s exhaustion had served to reset his mood back to its familiar from-the-day-he-was-born mellow.
“Any questions?” Aidan asked Troy.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ve got your basic Barbasol cream,” Aidan said, shaking the barbershop pole-striped can. “Some guys prefer gel. Got a razor?”
“Nope.”
“Hang on a s
ec.” Aidan reached down into the vanity cabinet and handed Troy a can of Barbasol with an attached disposable shaver.
“How did you—?”
“Bought two, got one free.” Aidan rinsed his razor under steaming-hot water, tapped it against the counter, and laid it on the side of the sink.
Troy gave the can of shaving cream a couple of shakes. “Thanks for the stuff. I’m off to shower,” he said. “I mean, soften my face.” Troy blew past Laura, and she smiled after him, committing his boy-mustache to memory.
“You may need some Band-Aids,” Aidan said.
Laura stepped into the bathroom. Steam cushioned her like a whole-body hug. “My first-aid kit is full. The rest. The shaving supplies—the advice—words seem insufficient. Once again, how will I ever thank you?”
Aidan’s dimple grinned at her a beat before his eyes brightened. “You’ll think of something.” The intimate tone of his voice teased like a feather down her body, crossed the line of friendship, and, sure enough, had her thinking about a very specific something she could no longer deny.
He liked her.
The urge to connect with Aidan prickled Laura’s cheeks. He took a hand towel from the rack and patted his face. With his features covered, he could’ve been Jack standing in his studio bathroom, freshening up after a deadline-induced all-nighter.
Only Jack and Troy wouldn’t have been discussing shaving. A conversation required two parties, and somewhere along the line, Troy had decided his father wasn’t worth the effort.
A dab of shaving cream shone along the sharp edge of Aidan’s jawline. “You missed a spot,” she said.
Aidan swiped a hand above his lip, then swiped more when Laura shook her head. For some reason, men could feel neither food nor shaving cream on their faces.
“No—it’s—let me.” Laura touched her fingers to his newly smooth skin, noted the strong shape of his face. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips and back up to her eyes. Heat ached between her legs. Her mouth fell open, and Aidan’s lips parted, a whole conversation.
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