by Jo Crow
I glanced to my phone and, out of desperation, brought up the emails from Dr. David Rosen, his doctor. Dr. Rosen and his team of specialists had reserved a place for James, and they were ready and willing to start treatment as soon as I had secured the money to pay for the procedure. Nestled beside the email was the message I’d sent myself—links to alternate treatments, and all the research I could find about them. I opened the message and scrolled down the list of links and my notes about each one. The more I read, the more I was reminded of why I’d agreed to take part in the documentary—there was no other way.
Getting James in for the experimental procedure was his only shot. We’d exhausted all other options, and we didn’t have much time left.
With a heavy heart, I left the kitchen and headed down the darkened hall. The night was quiet—the McNair estate was private property, and we weren’t bothered by traffic or light pollution from neighboring buildings, not that there was much of it. At the end of the hall, I pushed open my bedroom door, grabbed the blankets and pillows from my bed, and took them back to James’s room.
He was already asleep. His slow, steady breathing put me at ease. A few more weeks was an eternity to a sick child, and it pained me to know James had to suffer through it until I’d gathered together the funds for his treatment; but I knew he would keep fighting.
And if he could keep fighting, I could keep fighting, too.
I tossed around the idea from earlier of leaving, but I knew if I turned down the money from the documentary and headed off without a concrete plan on how to earn the funds I needed, I would waste time James didn’t have. Most children with DIPG only lived nine months following diagnosis. Nine months. James was on month seven, and even though chemo had bought him more time, it hadn’t bought him enough.
I nestled into the bedding on the floor and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of his breathing. Each tiny exhale pinned itself to my memory until I’d internalized the sound. On a logical level, I knew, one day, my memory might be the only place his sounds existed. On an emotional level, I refused to acknowledge such a chilling loss was possible.
Eventually, eyes closed and body giving in to the stress it had been put through, my thoughts began to wander. I let go of the pain and fear I kept locked inside my chest, and it escaped as a single teardrop that found its way through my closed lid to slide down the side of my face.
No matter how hard life got, I would not stop. I couldn’t. I recalled what Amanda had said: I was strong; I could do this.
Hickory Hills had already taken my parents—I wasn’t going to let it take my son.
7
A blinding flash of light. I lifted my arms to block my eyes, but my hands were weighed down by something heavy.
Something hot.
It burned me as I grasped at it, and a choked cry snagged in my throat, and tore at my vocal cords. Vibrations ran through my palms and up my hands, tingling so much it hurt. I wanted to drop what I was holding, but I couldn’t let go.
Frozen, I could only endure.
Noises.
Shadows. Sounds.
The scent of something metallic met my nostrils, then faded. The hot heaviness was pried from my hands, but what or by who, I didn’t know.
But I knew who was screaming.
My mother.
Screaming and screaming.
Movement woke me. Slow and creeping, it disrupted the sheets and put just enough pressure on my side that I jolted from a dead sleep and scrambled backward with a scream. Heart pounding, I clutched at my chest and squinted through the dull light of daybreak to see what it was as my hand frantically looked for something—anything—I could use as an impromptu weapon.
There was no need for violence. As my blurry eyes adjusted to the light of morning, I saw what had woken me, and my hand fell still.
James, face screwed up like he was going to cry, clutched one of my blankets to his chest. The fear twisting my stomach disappeared as quickly as the nightmare that had disturbed my sleep, and I scooted back over and drew him into my arms.
“It’s okay, baby.” I rubbed his back, coaxing him down from his potential upset. “I was just having a bad dream and I got startled. It wasn’t you. You’re okay.”
James clutched my shirt in both fists and tugged, keeping us close together. I held him, not intending to let go. He hadn’t said a word, but I trusted him to express if something was wrong. Despite his young age, he knew how to communicate his discomfort effectively through non-verbal language. After the ordeals he’d been through, it was almost second nature.
“Do you feel better today, little man?” I kept him close to me, rubbing his back in small, circular motions. The more I pretended nothing was going on, the easier it would be to relax him. I couldn’t let him know how afraid I was—I’d become used to hiding the truth. “I can make some breakfast if you are. Do you want peanut butter and jelly?”
“Mmhm.” James sighed against my shoulder, depressurizing, and I knew I’d fooled him into comfort. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Do you feel up to helping me?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get started with our day. We’ve got a lot to do before we go see Mr. Lowery, don’t we? Breakfast, bath time, getting dressed to go…”
James’s hands loosened, then fell. He wormed away from me and climbed to his feet. The Sesame Street pajamas he wore were still a little big. It was sweet to see him look so frumpy. With a billowing shirt slouched down one shoulder and pants whose drawstrings were pulled as tight as they could go, he looked like a little kid playing dress-up.
I tried not to think he might never grow to fit them.
We started our morning routine. I picked him up and carried him to the bathroom, and he tightened his arms around my neck and slumped against my side like he usually did. I drew his morning bath, and as the water pooled, I took off his pajamas and removed his diaper. He was tired this morning, and he let me wash him without any fuss.
Rinsed and cleaned for the day, I patted him dry, put him in a new diaper, and dressed him again. James was starting to wake up now, his eyes a little brighter and his expression energetic. But when I fished the pill bottle out of our travel bag in the medicine cabinet, the joy disappeared from his face.
“No.” James stepped away from me. His back hit the wall.
“I know you don’t want to, but you have to. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” I twisted the lid of the bottle around with my thumb, feeling the beginnings of a blister from my gardening exertions. Tension tightened my shoulder blades. “It’s only for a little while, baby. We’re only going to be here for a few weeks.”
“No!” James shouted. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and I had to step in and stop him before he hurt himself.
“Just one pill. Just one. You’ll feel better.”
“No!” James shrieked. He pushed at my chest, but he was too small to knock me away. “NO!”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second—just for a second—and pulled him close to me as he fought with everything he had. But cancer and chemo had ravaged his body, leaving him too weak to fight me. He couldn’t stop me from squeezing his jaw until he opened his mouth, then introducing the pill to the back of his tongue until his body took care of the rest and swallowed of its own accord.
James cried as the pill traveled down his throat, and I held him to me as he let it all out. I had to do it.
One day, maybe he would understand.
It took a while, but eventually James stopped struggling and went slack against my chest. The pill would run its course. I released him, and he took an uneasy step away from me and toward the bathroom door.
“So, peanut butter and jelly,” I said aloud. With any luck, I’d be able to drown my guilt with the monotony of daily routine. “What are we going to need?”
“Peanut butter!” James murmured.
“Yep. And?”
“Jelly.”
“And?”
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“Um…” James paused. His hand hit the doorframe, and he leaned against it like he might fall over. For a while, he clung to it. When he didn’t respond, I prompted conversation.
“What do we put the peanut butter and jelly on?”
“Bread.”
“You got it.” The bread had been left on the kitchen table, well within his reach. I wanted to get him moving, so I prompted him to action. “Can you bring the bread to the counter?”
“Yes.” James parted ways from the doorframe and headed sluggishly for the kitchen. I followed behind him and watched as he climbed up on the kitchen chair and reached for the bread.
While he worked, I disinfected the counter and laid down a few paper plates. It wasn’t long before James was beside me, shoving the bread up to me blindly. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the countertop.
“Here, ma.”
“Thanks. You want to go wait in the living room while I make you a sandwich?”
“Yes.”
“Go ahead, then.” I took the twist-tie off the bread and set it aside. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Breakfasts were always easy but, this morning, gloom sullied the moment and clung stubbornly to my ribs. No matter how light I kept the conversation, I knew we were running on borrowed time.
Bread hit the plates. I smoothed peanut butter over two slices, then jelly over their partners. James’s sandwich was sliced twice on the diagonal, four little triangles perfect for tiny hands.
James wasn’t on the couch. He stood on the platform of the bay window, eyes wide.
“What’s happening outside?” If it had been any other day, I wouldn’t have been concerned. Two-year-olds enjoyed strange things, and the older and more expressive James became, the more I knew it to be true. Spots of light on the wall or the movement of leaves in the wind captured his eye. Maybe he was looking at a squirrel, or a rabbit, or…
I moved to his side to find out, dread coalescing inside. Sunlight streamed through the window, momentarily blinding me, but as I squinted and let my vision adjust, I saw what James was looking at.
It wasn’t a squirrel.
In the driveway, scrawled in bold, dripping white paint across the driver’s side of my car, were five letters.
BITCH
“Paint,” James observed.
“Yep. That’s paint all right.” Keeping my cool was difficult, but I pulled myself together for James’s sake. What would he think if he saw me break down in tears? I didn’t want to frighten him or cause him any stress. The less he knew about the hostility toward our family, the better. “You ready to eat your breakfast?”
I didn’t get an answer, but James climbed down from the platform and stumbled across the room to the couch. I handed him his plate. As he picked and prodded at his breakfast, I set my own plate on the table and tried not to think too much about the graffiti outside.
I’d lost my appetite.
The McNair estate was private property, yet someone had sneaked onto the grounds in the middle of the night so they could tag my car. I was nervous.
What if graffiti wasn’t the end to this invasion of privacy? What if some of the angrier, more vindictive residents figured out all that separated me from them were a few panes of glass and a locked door?
What if they realized I had a child I cared for more than anything else in the world?
But more worrying still: Whoever kidnapped and killed my parents was still out there. Someone had left their remains on the estate for the police to find—a warning? I had no clue what they wanted, or what their purpose was with me, but Elkins’s words at the morgue had disturbed me.
It wasn’t coincidence. Someone was making a statement.
Someone was unhappy I was back in town, and they were letting me know in the strongest, loudest way they could.
“Ma?” James asked softly from behind me. I’d been leaning in front of the sink, head lowered as I struggled with my panic. James tugged at the hem of my shirt. “Done.”
“Good boy.” I drew in a deep breath and put on a courageous face. James held his plate up to me, and I put it on the counter. “You ready to get dressed for the day?”
“No.” James scowled.
It was going to be one of those mornings. A smile turned the corner of my lip upward. “No?”
“No clothes.”
“Really?” I turned to James, pushing the fear down until it was packed tight in my gut. I was mom first and foremost. Panic would have to wait. “Well, I heard the tickle monster is on the loose right now, and she’s rounding up little boys who refuse to take off their pajamas…”
Both hands curled into claws and positioned by my chest, I wiggled my fingers in warning. James shrieked with laughter and jumped back, his eyes bright. I knew it could very well be the last time in weeks I’d see them that way.
“No!” James shouted. “No, ma!”
“Well then, you better get in the bedroom before the tickle monster gets you!” I lunged weakly at James, only intending to tease. He cackled with laughter and danced away, then sprinted for the bedroom.
No matter what horrors threatened our way of life, some things would always stay the same.
“What happened last night, Clara?”
It was no surprise a cameraman followed Samuel as he approached, shooting the scene as it unfolded. I stepped out of my car, glad Amanda had been available to take James for the day so he wouldn’t be witness to more of this insanity. I’d barely pulled myself together after what had happened the day before; Samuel was testing my weaknesses and trying to find the cracks in my armor.
I wasn’t going to let him get the better of me.
“What do you mean, what happened last night?” I closed my car door and stood with my back to my vehicle, arms crossed over my chest defensively.
“I take it you didn’t drive home and spray paint your car yourself.” Samuel gestured at the graffiti. “You have a run-in with the locals? Why don’t you tell us how you feel?”
“How about I don’t?” It pained me to come across so abrasively, but Samuel wasn’t giving me much choice. “When I agreed to take part in this documentary, I was told there would be no candid footage included in the final cut. I signed a contract. But this isn’t what I signed on for.”
“Whoa there, Ms. Hollywood Starlet.” Samuel held up his hands, fingers outstretched and palms facing me. “I didn’t realize I was working with a movie star. You want to tell me what I’m allowed and what I’m not allowed to do in my own movie? Because I’m pretty sure I went over the contract with my legal team last night, and there is nothing obstructing me from taking candid shots when and where I want.”
I didn’t have time to try to debunk Samuel’s lies. Keeping my family safe was my first priority, and if that meant I had to keep my thoughts to myself and play along, I’d do it.
“In answer to your earlier question, I don’t know what happened last night.” I kept my eyes on Samuel, but I was well aware the cameraman was filming my every move. “When I woke up this morning, my car was like this.”
“After yesterday’s debacle on set and the crowd waiting outside the morgue, I think it’s safe to say Hickory Hills isn’t overly fond of you.” The lilt of Samuel’s voice hinted at artificial, like he was putting on an interview rather than following up about my shitty day. “Can you tell us what’s caused this tension? I get the feeling it didn’t start yesterday.”
The camera lens glinted in the sunlight. I resisted the urge to look at it, keeping my attention focused on Samuel.
“The McNair family owned the McNair Furniture factory in town. When my father disappeared, the factory was left scrambling, and the whole thing fell apart. Hickory Hills was dependent on the factory for employment, and since everyone believes I kidnapped my parents, and since I inherited the factory after my father’s disappearance and essentially left it to fail, everyone blames me for how the town fell apart.”
“I can see how that could create tension.” Sa
muel arched an eyebrow. He leaned forward, invading my space. “So, the plot thickens. You return to a town you fled ten years ago, your parents’ remains appear from nowhere, and now the police are following your every move.”
“Following?” I abandoned the side of the car to head for the trailers, brushing by Samuel without looking back. “What do you mean following?”
“You have to know Detective Elkins is on your tail, don’t you?” Samuel asked. He shook his head. “It’s not exactly a secret operation, Clara. Even if I hadn’t interviewed him at the station, you would have found out eventually.”
Rage throbbed in my temple, and I tightened my fist. I was in no mood to play Samuel’s games. “You interviewed Detective Elkins?”
He really does have no decency.
Samuel shrugged. “It’s not like he told me anything. What little we’ll be able to use for the documentary isn’t going to enhance much. He only told me what I already know.
“Since Detective Elkins wouldn’t tell me anything, why don’t you tell me what happened at the morgue? What did they tell you about the bones found on the McNair estate? Do you at least have some kind of suspicion about how it’s connected to you returning to your hometown?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.” I tightened my fists and shook my head. Anger bubbled up inside of me, dangerous. Once, I’d let it lead my life, but I didn’t want to be that person any longer. I would not let it win now.
Samuel wasn’t taking the hint. The cameraman guided the camera into a new position, but my attention stayed trained on the director. “Well, if they called you to the morgue, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the police are suspicious the remains are of your parents… and if they’re bringing you in to see the carnage, then I’m going to go out on a limb and say the remains do belong to good old Mom and Dad. So, now you know the fate your parents suffered, do you have any idea why someone would want to kill them?”
It was a difficult question to answer, and I regretted my decision to play nicely just to get filming out of the way. While the cameras rolled, capturing my every move, I pursed my lips and shook my head. “I don’t know.”