They hadn’t even been coming home. They were heading to a 9:00 p.m. reservation. What else had she and this guy been doing in her apartment before the crash? Having sex while they got plastered? With Freddie in the next room?
8:21 p.m.
Will threw himself onto his bed, missing his laptop by less than an inch. Maybe he should spend a few minutes clearing out messages on Facebook. Follow some of the psychobabble he’d thrown at Galen about fighting self-absorption. Of course, when your main reason for using Facebook was to promote your author persona, you couldn’t pretend you were doing it to take an interest in other people’s lives.
Pushing up with his knees, he crawled backward to lean against the mound of pillows. Legs bent, feet rooted in the comforter, he pulled his MacBook Air onto his lap and typed in his password—the name of Freddie’s favorite Build-A-Bear. Freddie’s face grinned back at him. Spreading his fingers wide, Will touched the screen. Hannah had talked about before and after rituals. This was definitely a habit borne of grief. Four months ago, he would never have done something as irresponsible as put his hands on his laptop screen.
Daddy loves you, Munchkin.
Will logged on to Facebook. He rarely checked his author page before eleven every night, but even so, fans responded to his posts within minutes, as if they were just hanging out in cyberspace, waiting. Jeez, there was some form of fan blitz. No way could he find the energy to deal with so many messages. He clicked onto his personal page, opened “friend requests” and accepted all of them without checking. Ally would be pissed. The message icon was red and somewhere in the double digits. With a sigh, he clicked. Some website share from his agent. Why hadn’t she called to berate his lazy ass?
A message from Ally. Call me, you doofus. Followed by a smiley face.
A message from Galen, or rather a poem, a poem called “To See the Face of God.” And one sentence underneath that read: Don’t let Mom clean it up.
“No...no... Ohmyfuckinggod, no.”
Will threw his laptop aside and ran.
Twenty-Seven
The screaming inside Galen’s head had stopped. He was ready to step outside the awful responsibility of being, ready to accept his inheritance.
The gift of genetics. Depression flowed in his blood.
The plan was memorized. He knew it by heart.
No more failure, no more.
Trepidation fluttered. Pain, there would be pain, but death was the anesthesia. And at the end—salvation. And Papa waiting? Not that it mattered if he wasn’t. Thoughts had no consequences. Only one thought still mattered: tomorrow didn’t exist.
Galen unzipped his old camping duffel, pulled out the scalpel taken from his mother’s supplies, touched the edge. Yes, it was sharp enough. He placed it on the side of the bath, then dug back inside the bag and found the two gray towels. Mom kept these for the dogs; they could be tossed afterward. He flattened the towels alongside the tub. A preventative measure. Less cleanup.
The bathwater rose slowly. Lousy water pressure, as always.
Mom would forgive him. She had tried to understand, but depression was his nemesis. No amount of parenting could change that fact. Eventually Dad would forgive her. Liam would have to manage his anger before he could find forgiveness. Anger was the prism through which Liam saw the world—his first emotion and Galen’s last.
He swept his hand through the water. The temperature was perfect. Hot enough to dilate the blood vessels and make it easier for the tainted blood to pump out. Not so hot that he couldn’t relax. Relax—he breathed—he must relax. Forget the pain of slicing into his flesh, of cutting deep to find the artery.
Warmth traveled up his fingers, into his chest. Reached his heart. The future and the past no longer existed. Life had gone full circle, back to the womb. The end had become the beginning.
Cut with weakest hand first.
No crying out.
Physical pain has purpose.
Water will stop the blood from coagulating so keep arms in the bath.
A lot to hold in his mind.
He stood and dried his hands, and pulled a Ziploc of pills from his jean pocket: his benzodiazepine, some leftover Lunesta and his mother’s Tylenol. A cocktail of oblivion.
If he chickened out of cutting, he would leave the world drunk and stoned. Pills—the worst kind of déjà vu for Mom. He held up the plastic bag and counted. Then he counted again. Order was vital. He placed the Ziploc by the scalpel.
Returning to the duffel, he tugged out the bottle of vodka he’d picked up while buying dog food. He unscrewed the top and swigged. The taste exploded in his throat like a star going supernova. Swallowed, licked his lips, took another gulp—enough to help numb the pain, not enough to make him sloppy.
A.A., something else he’d bombed.
He lined up the bottle next to the pills and the scalpel, and started removing clothing. Folded his T-shirt—refolded, didn’t fold evenly—then his jeans, then his boxers. Yes, that would do: a neat stack on top of the toilet seat. Would Mom keep his clothes or donate them to the thrift store? She never gave up on anything that held the possibility of being recycled.
Sorry I wasn’t strong enough, Mom.
He slid into the bath and sank under the warm water. Holding his breath, he opened his eyes and stared up at the white ceiling—a mosaic through the ripples. Then he imagined his depression-ridden blood seeping out of his veins and hauled himself up through the surface like a sea monster waking from hibernation.
It was time to begin the process of ending his life.
* * *
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed with her iPod, Hannah unplugged the world by plugging in her Chrissie Hynde mix. “Hymn to Her” started playing, and the dogs went crazy.
She tugged out her earbuds and jumped. Will was weaving around in the threshold of her bedroom, barefoot and looking unhinged. Or rather terrified.
“Did something happen to Jacob?” She leaped off her bed and tripped over Daisy.
“No.” Will panted. “Where’s Galen?”
“Working on his poem, he asked for peace and quiet, he...”
Will shook his head vigorously, and Hannah shuddered. Someone just walked over your grave, her mother would say.
“Shut the dogs in my room,” Hannah said.
She sprang up the stairs, two at a time, calling Galen’s name. Blood hammered in her throat. The bathroom door at the end of the hall was closed.
Hannah rattled it. Locked. “Galen?” She pounded with her fist. “Open this door.”
“Go a-wwway.”
He was drunk! Thank God, he was just drunk! Flunking out of A.A. was a setback but not insurmountable. She would put him under house arrest—twenty-four-hour surveillance, sleep on his beanbag as she’d done when he was a boy crippled by night terrors. “Sweetheart, I know you’re drinking. You need to let me in so I can help.”
No response. Keep him talking. “What are you doing in there?”
“I’m having. A. Bath.” Galen’s voice grew quieter.
“You haven’t had a bath since you were a kindergartener, sweetheart.”
Will appeared and moved her aside. “What did you say, dude?”
Galen swore and then there was a thud as something hit the bathroom floor.
“We have to get inside, Hannah,” Will said. “Now.”
A frenzy of splashing came from the bathroom—the sounds of desperation. Was Galen trying to drown himself? She looked at the locked door separating her from her son.
“Break it down,” she said to Will, and stepped back.
Will threw his shoulder against the door. He aimed a kick, then another one. Strong, methodical kicks delivered with calm, well-harnessed force.
The door buckled and Will jettisoned himse
lf into the bathroom. Hannah followed and stumbled over a bottle of Grey Goose lying on the ceramic tile floor. Galen had taken the time to buy the good stuff?
He was frantically searching for something in the bathwater.
The pink bathwater.
Hannah screamed, but Galen ignored her. He grabbed a Ziploc of pills from the side of the bath, opened it and shoved a handful into his mouth as if he were eating a fistful of Skittles. Blood from the three-inch gouge that ran down his forearm to his wrist smeared over his face. For an instant, he looked like a vampire.
There was nothing halfhearted about the slash.
Galen reached for the vodka, even though the bottle was nearly empty, but Will was faster and sober. He kicked the bottle backward, snatched the plastic bag from Galen and threw it into the hallway. Pills scattered.
Galen slumped into the water and slurped like a wild beast drinking from a stream. Then he tossed back his head and swallowed. Hannah tasted vomit and breathed hard.
She grabbed Galen’s right arm, but her fingers slipped through the blood. A spatter hit her across the chest.
Clean cut, fresh wound. Blood hasn’t had time to coagulate.
“Go. Away.” Galen’s words were heavy.
She lunged for his left forearm, held on and flipped it over. Not even a scratch. They’d interrupted him, but one severed radial artery could still prove fatal. He could exsanguinate, bleed to death. She must raise his arm.
Galen teetered to standing, sloshing water over her.
Please God, please Dad, help me, please help me.
Will sprung at Galen, half catching, half restraining him. Galen moaned, clearly from pain, but Hannah wanted screams. She wanted a battle cry that shouted, I will fight to live.
“It’s over, buddy.” Will’s voice was almost melodic. There was no judgment, no anger, no horror. “I’m going to help you get out of the bath.”
Galen went limp in Will’s arms.
Will tugged his iPhone out of his back pocket and handed it to her. She couldn’t take it, couldn’t send her son back to the psych ward. She’d promised....
“Tourniquet.” She wiped blood down her leg and took the phone. Her son had slit his wrist and she was worrying about cleaning off her fingers before using Will’s phone?
“On it,” Will replied. He unbuckled his belt with one hand and whipped it out through the belt loops.
Belt, good. She wouldn’t have thought of that.
Will wrapped his belt around and around Galen’s bicep. He pulled tight, and the blood flow slowed to a trickle.
“Please. Don’t.” Galen rested his head on Will’s shoulder and stared at the phone in her right hand. “Can’t go back.” He closed his eyes.
Hannah started hitting bumps on the side of the phone. All that Apple technology yet nothing said on. A round button, at the bottom of the screen. She pushed, and the screen lit up with the face of a giggling brown-haired boy. Will’s son, unlike hers, was full of life. Slide to unlock, the screen said. She did.
“You. Promised.” Galen’s voice faded; his arm had begun to turn purple.
Hannah turned her back on her son and hit 9-1-1 on the keypad. Galen was an adult, but he had relinquished the ability to look after himself. As his mother, she was claiming that right. She was picking up what he had tossed away. One day, he would forgive her. And if he didn’t? She would know that she had saved his life.
Hannah’s right hand began to convulse.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” The woman sounded nice. Was she a mother, too?
More splashing. Hannah glanced over her shoulder as Will hauled her naked son out of the bath. Galen had a superficial wound on his calf. Had he cut himself while fumbling in the water for the blade? Will took a step back and lost his footing in a spill of fresh blood. He and Galen landed in a heap.
She needed to find the pills, give them to the EMS as evidence. How much blood had he lost? Enough to bleed out? How many pills had he swallowed? Enough to prove fatal? How much vodka had he drunk? Enough to poison himself?
“Hello?” the operator said.
“My son tried to kill himself,” Hannah said. The words came from someone else—another mother talking about another son.
Will yanked off his T-shirt and held it over Galen’s wound. Will’s torso was muscular, toned; Galen’s was skeletal. She could count his ribs. Two bare-chested men huddled on a once-white bathmat. An embrace in blood spatters.
She answered the operator’s questions, but her eyes moved up to Will’s face and stayed there. He stared back until she finished the call.
“Why?” she said to Galen. “Why did you do it?”
“Why did you stop me?”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to protect your life.”
“You succeeded.” Galen sniffed. “Panicked. Dropped the scalpel.”
“Scalpel?”
“Yours. How about that?”
Hannah stared into murky bathwater and there, on the floor of the tub, was a familiar, shiny object. “No,” she whispered, then swallowed. “I need the number for your therapist. Right now, Galen.”
“Don’t have one.”
“You lied?”
“Lot of that going around.”
“But I trusted you.”
“Yeah. Well. Trusted you, too.” Galen began to shiver. “Cold.”
Hannah yanked one of the white bath sheets from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and, squatting down, wrapped the towel around Galen and Will. Will gave her hand a quick squeeze. She leaned forward to touch Galen, but he retreated into Will.
“Stay. Away.”
Had she saved her son’s life but lost him, anyway?
There was a large puddle on the floor—a soup of water, vodka and blood that needed cleaning up before it leaked through to the kitchen ceiling. And why was there a neatly folded stack of clothes on the commode? Galen would never fold his clothes.
Galen crumpled and Hannah gasped. Will eased him to the floor, keeping the slashed right arm raised above his head.
“I need you to go down to the kitchen and find a wooden spoon,” Will said. “Something I can use as a dowel to tighten the tourniquet.”
She didn’t move. The bathroom was quiet, but outside the open window the night was alive with the sounds of crickets and frogs. The owl hooted four times.
“Now, Hannah. You understand?”
She nodded.
“Then I want you to wait on the porch for the first responders. One of us needs to tell them where to come,” Will said. “Okay?”
Okay? Her breath came in short, angry bursts.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”
“How do you know, Will?” All her medical knowledge, and she was seeking advice from a novelist. “How do you know?”
“I think we found him in time. I’m going to position him on his side, in case he vomits.”
Right, good.
She tried to move but her body refused. This wasn’t meant to happen, not to her baby. She had pictured death as an old friend, welcomed it with peace, built her career around that belief. But there was nothing peaceful about the scene in the bathroom. Hell, they were in hell.
“Go now.” Will’s voice was stronger.
His face was unreadable. Had he done this before, with his mother—held her through some uncontrollable fit of madness? Because this, surely, was madness.
“Keep talking to him.” Hannah swiped the back of her hand under her nose. “Tell him to fight. Tell him I love him.”
She ran down the stairs, Will’s phone still in her hand. Call Inigo, she must call Inigo. Have him meet her at the hospital. Call Poppy, have her call Liam. Someone had to call Liam. Find out which hospital. Could they deny her entry
if Galen refused to see her? She had no legal rights; Galen was over twenty-one. Would she ever hug her son again? Would he ever choose to hug her?
She raced into the kitchen and tugged open the large drawer next to the oven. A wooden spoon, she needed a wooden spoon. Tongs, spatulas and pasta servers clattered to the floor as she discarded them. No spoon.
“Fuck!” she screamed, and dumped out the contents of the drawer. “Fuck!”
The cat shot from the window seat with an indignant meow.
She stood still and stared at the mess. Game over. She was exhausted, exhausted from the effort of tiptoeing through Galen’s life, exhausted from breathing through the tension that pressed on her chest day after day, exhausted from worrying about her own mental state as well as her son’s. She was exhausted, and she needed help.
She punched numbers into the keypad.
“Well, well, well.” Poppy answered straightaway. “And why is Will Shepard calling me at nine o’clock at night? Want company in the outside shower?”
“I need—” Hannah sobbed “—help.”
“Han? Are those sirens in the background?”
“Galen tried to...tried to... I have to call Inigo—”
“No. I’ll deal with Inigo. Be there in five.”
“Thank you,” Hannah whispered, but Poppy had hung up.
The sirens were getting closer. Hannah ran back into the hallway and out through the front door. The night heaved with humidity, and heat lightning flashed over Miss Prissy’s pasture.
Red lights appeared and disappeared and then the first vehicle pulled in front of her house. It belonged to the volunteer fire department.
* * *
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