Sixteen
Hannah continued to scrub Galen’s plate, but the flake of salmon skin on the edge of the rim refused to dislodge. Stupid plate. She dumped it in the trash can, on top of the dinner Galen had barely touched.
Normal people threw out perfectly good plates all the time, right? Besides, one less plate in her cabinet meant nothing. She owned a dinner service for twelve yet lived a cater-for-one lifestyle. Hannah dried her hands with the yellow towel. Too cheerful, too soft, it made her think of daffodils and the rejuvenation of spring. Maybe she should dump the towel, too.
Reading people had always come easily, but tonight she’d offended her celebrity tenant with a simple reference to his mother, and had prepared a dinner her son was unable to eat. Apparently Galen had told her out in California that he was a vegan. What else had she forgotten? Had Will warned her off his mother, too?
The interaction with Will was a blessing—really, a blessing. One more reason to have even less to do with him. But this thing with Galen... She’d welcomed him home with a fridge full of fish and his once-favorite cheese.
When Galen was little, she knew he was going to cry before he did. And wasn’t that the definition of a good mother—to anticipate your child’s agony? How could she do that if she no longer understood his most basic needs? Gone were the days when she could find jeans on clearance for her son and drive home to a hug and “Awesome, Mom. You’re the best.” She couldn’t even feed him.
She stared through the uncovered window into the black wall of trees. The forest had inspired and terrified Galen since he was little. His best poems contained imagery of light through the trees; his worst nightmares played out in the forest. They both believed Saponi Mountain to be haunted, but the ghosts he encountered came straight from hell.
Hannah kicked the trash can back into its cubbyhole.
She should have answers; she should know how to reach her son. When life fell backward into a repeating pattern, the way forward should be obvious. Or maybe the second time was worse because you understood the price of failure.
Galen had chosen to stay with the therapist in California, which didn’t sit right. Surely he needed a mental health care professional in the same time zone, one he could talk with face-to-face. The nuances of depression were easily missed over the phone. She knew better than anyone. But they’d reached a compromise: Galen could keep the out-of-town therapist provided she drove him to and from A.A. meetings. When Galen was a teenager, car journeys were a time for confidences, especially given the way her job could intrude on their lives. Starting tomorrow, once a day for two twenty-minute car rides, he would have her undivided attention, and she would have his.
If she could just find the starting point, then maybe she could help Galen rebuild his life. She knew only the bare facts that made up the iceberg of her son’s mental collapse: his growing uncertainty about the future; his belief that he would never get a job—You should have talked me out of poetry, Mom; his girlfriend dumping him.
Until they’d met a month earlier, while Galen was in the hospital, she’d cast the girl as the villain. Hannah had watched a young woman walk into the trendy Californian coffee shop and had known, without doubt, that she was staring at Galen’s former lover. Soul mate was not a term Hannah liked—it was reserved for people who believed in true love—but she hoped the future would bring these two back together. They seemed to be a fit.
The girlfriend had explained, stopping to cry, that she still loved Galen, but that she, too, struggled with depression. She had tried to persuade him to seek help, to stop drinking. But when she’d finally told him she could no longer cope with the toxicity of the apartment, he’d acted blindsided. But then again, the girlfriend had said, he could have been drunk. Drunk Galen and sober Galen were one and the same. Hannah had been unable to comment, since she didn’t recognize the person they were discussing. He certainly wasn’t the little boy who had once created whole worlds out of Legos.
Hannah sighed, retrieved the plate from the trash and left it in the sink. Tomorrow she would try harder.
She tiptoed into the living room where Galen was curled up in the fetal position on the edge of the sofa, a cushion clasped to his chest. As a baby, Liam slept sprawled out as if to say, I can’t walk or talk, but I own this world. Galen, however, always slept in a self-protective huddle. Much as she did.
When did she stop thinking as a mother and start settling for throwaway conversations? Sure, first day of classes were great. Translation: I had a monster hangover. How’s life? Oh, you know. How’re your courses? Fine. What happened to that girl you liked? Which one? After twenty-two years of worry for her boys, she had allowed empty-nest syndrome to trump everything, to torpedo maternal instincts.
One tear escaped, followed by a second. She had told herself she wouldn’t cry, but she was moving through a world where there was no correlation between what she wanted and what happened. And she had never been this scared in her life.
When had Galen decided to give up on himself? Did self-loathing just slam into him one day like a piece of space junk falling from the sky, or had it always been there, festering in his DNA, and she’d been too busy to notice? If he were bleeding, she could fix it. If he were a client seeking answers, she could give them. But he was dying inside, and she was lost.
Rosie licked her hand, and Hannah sank to her knees for a hug.
“Stay with him, baby,” she whispered.
Then she stood and switched off all the lamps except one—to guide Galen back upstairs to his childhood bed. Rosie padded across the wood floor and flopped down by the sofa. Daisy and the other dogs followed. Nothing bad would happen tonight, not with her girls on watch. But what about the next night and the one after that?
Seventeen
Hannah wasn’t sure about this, but then again, she wasn’t sure about anything right now. She fastened her thumbs through the belt loops of her jeans as Will opened the door. He looked neither pleased nor surprised—merely sweaty. Thank God he favored baggy shorts and a muscle shirt for his workout. Lycra would have been far too distracting.
Will leaned against the doorjamb, blocking her entrance to the cottage.
She shivered. Yet another sultry afternoon in the longest, most dangerous month of her life. It was as if she and Galen were snared in a time loop with the thermometer stuck in the red zone. And now Jacob and Will were stuck with them.
“Cold?” Will said, frowning.
“Bad mojo in the air.”
He nodded in silent agreement; the frown stayed in place. She almost inquired about his sleep, but the answer was obvious.
“Things seemed a little out of whack between us last night,” she said, “and I can’t help but feel I touched a nerve when I mentioned your mother. I’m sorry if I offended. It wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s cool.” He stared at the deck floorboards.
“Is your mother off-limits, like your son?”
He glanced up, and she wished he hadn’t. “Yeah.”
Good to know. “How’s your dad doing?”
“Great.” Will crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating his biceps. “Poppy’s great with him. That all worked out...great.”
Stunning articulation from a world-class author. “I was hoping to catch her, before she left for the day.”
“She’s gone.”
“But her car—”
“Some guy picked her up.”
“Right. The possible stalker. I thought that was tomorrow.” Hannah paused. “It’s hard keeping track of other people’s lives.”
Will stood up straight. “Poppy’s on a date with a nutjob?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s perfectly nice. But they met online and he seems rather intense. I’ll catch her tomorrow.”
Hannah started to walk down the cottage steps.
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“Wait. Can I help?”
She glanced backward and her body, unbidden, turned.
“I owe you,” he said, and gave an uncertain smile.
How much had it cost to make that offer?
Instinct told her Will would be a good confessor, if she ever needed one, and maybe she did. When Galen was stronger, she planned to share the family medical history with him. But the timing had to be right, since the truth came with potentially devastating consequences. She would have to orchestrate the perfect, wrinkle-free moment, and Will might be a good test subject. He lived a private life without melodrama and, parent-to-parent, he might understand. Besides, he would soon be gone, which gave her nothing to lose. Tentative thoughts worth considering. But right now she needed help on a smaller level.
“I was going to ask Poppy if she could keep an eye on Galen. Not that he needs looking after, and I won’t be gone more than an hour. I have to run to the store, do a food shop.”
“You’re feeding him up?” Will said.
“Trying.”
Will hesitated. “Has he been sick?”
Sick sounded so much better than recovering from a major depressive episode. “Yes, that’s why he’s home.”
“Would you like me to walk over in a bit, see how he’s doing?”
How curious, that he hadn’t asked for an explanation. She’d been right, then. Will was someone who understood discretion.
Hannah gave a long sigh. “Thank you, but no. He’ll think I’m fussing. I feel better, though, knowing there’s a responsible adult around.”
“Between me and Dad, you’ve just about got one of those,” Will said. “Give me your cell number, and I’ll call if I see any delinquent student activity—drugs, rock ’n’ roll, hookers. Sorry. That was totally...”
She almost laughed. What she wouldn’t give to have a problem as simple as catching Galen with a prostitute.
“I should be quiet now.” Will snagged his bottom lip with his teeth.
Hannah wasn’t sure she’d seen a grown man, even a young one, blush quite so impressively. She smiled.
“I doubt he’ll do anything but sleep, but call me if your parenting hackles rise. You can use the number from the powwow text.”
And once again, Will focused on the floorboards.
* * *
Hannah wandered the aisles at Trader Joe’s with a shopping list of vegan delights and a basket so laden it felt as if her arm were about to rip out of its socket. Her current mind-set—if in doubt, buy it—was not her usual shopping mode. She was trying too hard, and Galen would realize.
The store’s cinnamon-spiced air spoke of seasonal comforts, and the cheerful calls of the staff—three bells!—jolted her into the world of ordinary people living ordinary lives.
She moved to the front of the store and picked out six green bananas.
A little boy, probably around the age of Will’s son, pointed at the huge carton full of pumpkins and squealed. “Please can I have my own pumpkin, Mommy? Pleazzzzzze!”
The mother snapped out a reprimand and dragged him away. As the boy’s wails disappeared down the dried-fruits aisle, Hannah tightened her grip on the basket. She wanted to rush after them, tell the mother to buy the blasted pumpkin, tell her to make her son smile and treasure a moment that would never come again.
Hannah pulled out her phone, then slid it back. She’d checked on Galen four times in the past twenty minutes, using his new eating habits as the excuse. By the second conversation, he’d figured out that she was, in his words, “Treating me like a suicidal son left home alone.”
Did he have to use the word suicidal?
Maybe she should ban all big-picture thinking, shrink her world into one small, obtainable goal—cook a meal Galen could eat.
Her phone vibrated, and tucking the basket next to a display of decorative gourds, she walked outside into the dying light of the gloaming. Life always seemed brighter, more auspicious, at this time of the day. Something to do with the quality of the light, she supposed—so soft, so gentle—and the way it illuminated the treetops with gold. But right now the gloaming spoke of lives suspended, of an endless sense of waiting. But waiting for what—for things to get better or worse?
Part of her dreaded, but also hoped, her caller would be Will. She remembered his voice on the phone—quiet and heavy with pauses. Had they moved beyond pauses?
“Hello?”
The person on the other end of the phone sucked in his breath and released a sob. Not Will, then, but a call Hannah had been expecting for days. It was time to euthanize Lucky, the hundred-pound shepherd who hadn’t walked in a year. Until his disc surgery, Clay, a Vietnam vet, had carried his dog into the yard several times a day to pee. In the past few months, Lucky had peed on pads placed beneath him.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said.
She tried calling Galen, but his phone went to voice mail; she tried the landline—the same. Concern prodded her, but she refused to listen. Galen was probably asleep. She would rush back into the store, check out and, with any luck, dinner would only be an hour late. He might not even realize she wasn’t there.
She slipped on her reading glasses, which, for once, were where they should be—on top of her head.
Pet emergency, she typed with one finger, home bit late. Mom. xox
* * *
Galen woke up crying. He wanted to feel something—anything—but anxiety. Anxiety wasn’t even a true emotion. It was the space between emotions. And it was feasting on him like a parasite.
He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and looked at his bedside clock. Eight. As a kid, he had resisted sleep. Now it was his drug of choice.
He heaved himself up, walked to the bathroom, pissed.
The house responded with silence. No banging in the kitchen; no cooking smells. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since a piece of burned toast at 11:00 a.m. He never used to eat burned anything, but scraping toast involved effort. Besides, he couldn’t taste.
He tugged on the sleeves of his T-shirt and rocked. Mom should be home by now. He needed a hug; she gave good hugs. She’d promised him a gourmet vegan dinner, too. Not that he cared about the gourmet distinction, but she was trying, even though her optimism dragged him down. Everything he tossed at her, she batted back dressed up in the finery of positive thinking. Was she capable of understanding what he was going through? Did dogs and cats suffer from depression?
Buzzing in the distance. His phone. Must have left it in the living room.
Galen schlepped down the stairs.
He removed pillows from the sofa, one by one, then shoved his hand between the seat cushions. His fingers hit something solid. His phone. He pulled it up close. Thanks to the crap of genetic inheritance, he had Dad’s eyesight. Couldn’t read unless his nose was touching the paper. He should have his contacts in, but he hadn’t worn them since he arrived. Remembering to brush his teeth was hard enough. No energy reserved for contact lens care.
He shook back his hair, which Poppy had offered to trim—after she’d teased him for looking like a caveman. He hadn’t taken her up on the offer, although he had shaved off the beard. He trusted Poppy’s opinion. She had no parental agenda. Besides, the beard itched.
Poppy treated him and Liam as men. Mom still saw them as kids. Not that she’d ever treated them like kids, but she’d typecast them, adhered labels that stuck: Liam was her little imp; Galen was her little thinker. Liam was wild; Galen was sensible. Trying to kill himself hadn’t prompted a role reversal in her mind.
He squinted at his phone.
Pet emergency taking longer than expected. Fix yourself some toast. Home later. Mom. xox
From gourmet dinner to toast. Why could his mother never say no to others? Yet again, she was putting clients before family.
His grandfather’s clock ticked on the mantel.
People didn’t want to be around him, which he understood. Hell, he didn’t want to be around himself. But he couldn’t be alone in this empty house, in the middle of nowhere. Reaching out to others meant dragging them into his contamination, but he wanted to talk to someone; he wanted someone to listen. The staff on the psych ward never left the crazies alone. He’d found that comforting.
Will had told him to stop by. If he talked to Will, maybe he would care enough to write again. He’d been too smashed to attend Will’s lecture in the spring, even though he’d planned to go and heckle.
Galen dropped the phone back onto the sofa. Then he went into the kitchen, dragged a chair across the floor and positioned it in front of the fridge. The liquor had vanished from the pantry—cleared out and dumped before he came home, no doubt. But his mother should have placed a little less trust in her son, because he knew about her hiding places. There were only two—under her bed and at the back of the cabinet above the fridge.
He stood on the chair and started pulling out relics of failed family life: a waffle maker, a deep-fat fryer, an ice-cream maker. Why did she keep this stuff? It belonged in the salvage shed at the dump where another parent could claim it for a fake family montage. He reached up on the balls of his feet. Hands gripping the neck, he yanked free a bottle of red wine. Thirty-two days sober, that was his life’s achievement. And he was about to wash it down the drain.
He stared at the bottle. If his parents had brought him home so they could find the old Galen, they’d blown it. He was either gone or hiding so deep that no one could find him. Just how deep, they were about to find out.
Eighteen
Will was washing up the dinner things when he heard a hesitant knock, one that almost said, Don’t answer me. Hannah, no doubt, to tell him she’d returned. Longest trip to the store ever. By seven o’clock, he’d been worried enough to consider firing off a text, but if he expected her to honor his privacy, he owed her the same respect. Anyway, doing nothing was preferable to a go-round with female anger. Why did some men find the pissed-off-woman thing a turn-on? To him it yelled, Hide! through a bullhorn.
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