Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  I wonder what else he wants from me. “Uh-huh.”

  “You didn’t say we were drinking?”

  “No,” I confirm with a light shake of my head. “But that’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? There are empty bottles everywhere.”

  He moves closer. “They might not believe you.”

  “About what?”

  “Slipping. The deck wasn’t that wet.”

  It strikes me as odd that he’s turned the conversation this way—and away from Owen. “Well, I did,” I maintain. “Not that it matters.”

  He stares at me for a long while, as long as it takes to force one’s mind to accept the unacceptable, to forgive the unforgivable, to form the most tenuous peace. “He can’t be…” he says so softly I think I may have imagined it. “This isn’t…”

  If I tell him Owen wasn’t his, it may blunt his pain. And I will. Eventually. But now is not the time. “I’m sorry,” I say again, not just to Tim but to Owen. Hoping the universe will deliver my message, I add, I love you, sweet baby boy.

  Tim recognizes the footsteps on the stairs before I do and closes the gap between us. It’s the female deputy, checking in. “How are we holding up down here?” she asks, directing the inquiry less at me than at Tim, who is, from outward appearances, the more distraught of us.

  In a show of solidarity, Tim pulls me to his side, nestles me under his arm. It’s a move that says, even now, he senses what’s to come. With a shallow nod, he reports, “As good as we can be.”

  The deputy delivers the update, which amounts to nothing, while surveying the stateroom with a methodical eye.

  I feel the fingers of justice tighten around my throat.

  “Anything I can do for you folks?” the deputy offers in a congenial tone.

  As much as I don’t want the police to locate Owen, I do. “When will they…?”

  “Stop?” she asks.

  I study the floor and nod.

  She shakes her head. “Not any time soon, unless they find him.”

  As if the words have shot from her mouth to God’s ears, a flurry of activity breaks out above. From the dock, a man’s voice barks, “Hold up! We’ve got something here!”

  I feel as if I’ve swallowed a leaden brick and donned a suit of ice. “Where’s Ally?” I blurt at Tim, panic the only thing left for me to feel. If we’re lucky, we can still save her.

  Tim fails to answer for Ally’s whereabouts or anything else, the final thread of his calm unraveling. Tightly he hugs me, then tighter.

  The deputy backs away from us, turns an ear to the commotion overhead. A look of recognition dawns across her face. “Stay here,” she directs, her hand raised as if she’s directing traffic.

  There is not a motivation on earth strong enough to pry Tim and me from this bed, where we have collapsed in a tangle of sadness and regret. A dark hole of my making. “Our daughter,” I squeak as the deputy’s feet hit the stairs. “Can you bring her?”

  The answer is easier than I expect, especially in a case like this. “Will do.”

  * * *

  Tim identifies Owen’s body while Ally keeps me company in the salon, lets me lean on her precocious sense of responsibility. “You should rest,” she tells me, noticing the twitchy way my leg shakes and my vacant, dead-eyed expression.

  Someone has left the Breakfast at Tiffany’s DVD running on the screen in front of us, and the more I stare at it, the less real anything seems. “Did you like the movie?” I try asking, unsure whether the words exist anywhere outside my head.

  Ally glances at the door as if she awaits rescue. Or perhaps protection. From me. Softly, she says, “Uh-huh.”

  I wonder how old Audrey Hepburn was when she made this film, her youthful energy the opposite of my haggard, defeated spirit. As I watch, she flits through an alley in the rain, shrieking for the cat she has, only minutes earlier, abandoned callously. And even though I know the ending, for a moment I hope she searches in vain, suffers a fraction of the empty sadness I now feel. Yet when the end comes, it’s the same: tied up with a neat, happy bow.

  When I next see Tim, the look on his face is nothing short of heartbreaking. Destruction, I think, as he steps out from behind the female deputy, is what I have wrought.

  “Mrs. Fowler,” the deputy says, her posture softened, the corners of her eyes crinkled in an understanding frown, “I’m afraid we need to ask you a few more questions.” Seemingly by reflex, her hand drifts to the pistol on her hip. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  I mind only for the fact that she may confront me. Or arrest me. “All right,” I agree, because I must. Right now, the worst she can do shrinks in comparison to the idea of withering under Tim’s accusing gaze.

  I follow her above board, then off the boat and onto dry land, where the hypnotic flash of police and rescue lights lulls me into an irrational state of calm. “Here,” the deputy says, signaling at the tailgate of an ambulance as if I should make myself comfortable.

  The closer I get to where she directs me, the sicker I become, because now I am within striking distance of something hideously cruel. Through the open ambulance doors, I glimpse a familiar tiny form, draped in a sheet and tucked under a blanket: my baby.

  Instinctively, I turn away, but the deputy stops me. “Your husband made a positive ID.” Her fingers clasp around my wrist like a trial handcuff. “I’m sorry.”

  I bobble my head, force a wad of saliva down my throat and say nothing.

  We linger for what seems an eternity at the cusp of those doors, in wait of something that becomes clear only when a ruddy-faced official in twill pants and a polo shirt struts our way, a spiral-bound notepad in hand.

  He shoots the deputy an inscrutable look and grumbles, “Mrs. Fowler, I’m Detective Hanscom.” He extends a hand in my direction but withdraws it when I fail to reciprocate. “There are a few things I’d like to go over with you.” He thumbs through the notepad two and three pages at a time, his freshly licked fingers tearing the flimsy sheets as they go. “You say the deceased went into the water when you slipped and fell?”

  “Yes.”

  I note the explosion of flash bulbs in my peripheral vision, cut my gaze around to find the police eagerly documenting the scene and a smattering of rabid newspaper photographers jockeying to scoop the story of Owen from behind a barricade of sheriff’s cars.

  “What did you slip on?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It was wet.”

  “Were there any obstacles in your path?”

  “I don’t know. It was dark,” I reply, noticing the rubber-neckers who have sprung up to gawk from the perimeter.

  “So you could have tripped?”

  I shake my head, and the detective scribbles away, recording more than seems possible with the little I have said. “I didn’t see anything. It was dark,” I repeat.

  “What time did the incident occur?”

  I want to answer truthfully, if only to satisfy his thirst for the concrete. But I can’t. “Around seven o’clock,” I assert instead.

  “Seven this morning?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And that’s when you called 911?”

  The deputy answers for me. “The call came in at seven fifty-two.”

  “Was it seven or seven fifty-two?” the detective says, furrowing his brow.

  I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t help it. Owen’s body seems to crave my touch. I mutter, “Somewhere in between, I guess. My husband made the call.”

  His tone turns reproachful. “And why was that?”

  This question stumps me. “I don’t feel well,” I say. “Are we almost done?”

  It appears as if this is the wrong response. Abruptly, he says, “There’ll be an autopsy. We’ll need you to stick around until the results are in, then we can release the body.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A day or two,” he tells me, “depending on how busy the medical examiner is. Usually they’re pretty quick.”

 
“Is that really necessary? We know how he…”

  “It’s the law,” the deputy informs me, “in the death of a child under three. Standard procedure.”

  Nothing about this process feels standard to me, but I’m in no position to argue. “Fine,” I say. “We’ll be at six sixty-nine Seafarer Way.”

  Chapter 12

  We stay with Jenna and Carson overnight, but then I convince Tim that we should head back to Rhode Island until Owen is ready for us. The police I leave in the dark.

  “Are you going to work?” Jenna asks, as Tim slings the final piece of luggage into the backseat of the van.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “You should take a leave.”

  “I know.”

  Ally is already fast asleep, buckled in and ready to go. With Tim’s approval, I have kept her calm the last eighteen hours with steady doses of cough syrup and comforting religious perspectives on death and the afterlife. Perspectives that ease my mind too, solidify my belief that Owen is in the best place possible. Then again, I know I will not join him there.

  Jenna leans in and pecks Tim on one cheek, then the other. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

  “Nah,” he says weakly. “I’ll be all right.” He glances at me. “Claire can take over if I get tired.”

  My husband is emptied to the core, more exhausted than is fair for any human being. “Don’t worry,” I say as I slip into the passenger seat. “We’ll call you by six.”

  * * *

  It has been quiet for so long I nearly forget Tim is driving and Ally is dozing in the back. Yet I sense them with me, fellow travelers on an uncharted path, slashing through the brush one machete whack at a time, carving a common way. “Can you stop at the next rest area?” I ask, my aching bladder besting my indifference.

  Tim says, “It’s thirty miles.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I want to ask him how he’s holding up, but my guilty conscience forbids it. Instead, I let the silence speak volumes of its own. Briefly, I rest my eyes, but sooner than I expect, I hear the blinker ticking.

  “Friggin’ idiots,” Tim grumbles under his breath.

  When I open my eyes, I see an RV blocking our path, its elderly driver struggling to park in an unauthorized spot. I suggest, “Go around.”

  Tim huffs. “No shit.”

  He cranks the wheel, but it’s obvious we can’t make it past. He lays on the horn, powers the window down and shouts, “Any day now, asshole!”

  The RV remains frozen with indecision, but Tim is done waiting. He bangs the van into reverse and zooms us backwards, nearly clipping two cars that have lined up behind us. With a little screech, he spins the van into an empty spot, stomping on the brake just in time to avoid flattening a small child who has wandered into our path from between two pickup trucks.

  I suck in a breath, glance over my shoulder at Ally. She is still asleep, which, for a moment, spikes a shard of panic through my gut. Maybe I have overdosed her, killed her too. “You coming?” I ask Tim.

  He sets his jaw, stares out the window and shakes his head.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  * * *

  We are an hour from home when Tim finally has something to say. “I keep hearing him,” he announces out of nowhere.

  Without asking, I know what he means, because it’s happening to me too. Every foreign sound my brain transforms into a plea from Owen. “The tunnel was the worst,” I say, “with all the echoes. And that goddamn low-pitched hum.”

  Ally wriggles around in the back, yawns through her slumber.

  “I like it.”

  While I’ve had months to prepare for this reality, Tim is only hours in. “You do?”

  “He sounds happy.”

  I can only pray this is true. “I don’t know.”

  He waits a while before giving voice to my biggest fear. “Do you think he knew what was happening?”

  My throat tightens, chokes any response I may have uttered. Once the question has long passed, I whisper, “No.”

  There is a lengthy lull in the conversation that neither Tim nor I are willing to break, but then a lead-footed driver shatters it for us. “What the hell?” Tim spouts, his eyes fixed on the rearview.

  My gaze darts to the side mirror, where I notice a jacked-up SUV, its tires half as tall as our van, zigzagging inches off our bumper. I glance at the speedometer, but we are already doing ten miles over the limit.

  “Back off, fuck-face!” Tim growls.

  I reach up and twist the mirror sideways, so he cannot see. “Just ignore it.”

  But there is no way to ignore what happens next, because when Tim taps the brake, he inadvertently pulls the pin from a live grenade. Instead of slowing behind us, the SUV lurches ahead, bumps us in the rear with enough force to send us skittering into the breakdown lane.

  We are lucky Tim is such a practiced driver, all those grocery runs and doctor’s office visits having stacked up in his favor. In as controlled a manner as possible, he coasts us to an easy stop on the shoulder of the highway. Then he bolts out of the van.

  There is not enough time for me to stop him, even if I had the composure to do so. And my primary concern is Ally. “Are you okay?!” I spin around and holler, my eyes wide with fear.

  Ally is awake now, dazed but intact. “Uh-huh,” she mutters.

  I make a move toward my cell phone, a 911 call at the forefront of my mind, but an avalanche of shouting male voices gives me pause. I order Ally, “Stay here.” Then I scamper out of the van, prepared to do battle on Tim’s behalf.

  Before I can intervene, though, my husband catches sight of me and barks, “Get lost!”

  I freeze where I am, steal a moment to ponder the scene. In Tim’s shadow stands a younger guy, maybe in his early thirties, his chest puffed out, his stumpy arm cocked as if he may try to drop Tim with a below-the-belt punch. The bumpers of both vehicles, I notice, are trashed.

  “Come on,” I urge, as Tim spits a string of obscenities at the twerp’s face. “Let’s go.” This lowlife has earned whatever verbal lashing Tim wishes to dole out, but I’d rather not risk a knife to the gut or a sawed-off shotgun to the back of the head.

  Tim waves an arm my way. “Beat it!” There is power in how he speaks, strength fueled by pain and rage. A dark force he is preparing to unleash.

  The twerp gets off half a step in Tim’s direction before Tim cold-cocks him in the face. A spurt of blood issues from the twerp’s nose and falls in thick gobs to the pavement, where Tim drags his foot through it as he winds up for the next strike. But the twerp moves faster, charges at Tim’s midsection and wrestles him to the ground. And now a second man springs from the SUV, leaving the passenger door gaping in his wake.

  “No!” I screech. “Stop!”

  It’s now two on one, and Tim is on the losing end of the scuffle. I move in, chance a couple of quick jabs at the twerp’s kidneys with my sandals.

  The commotion brings Ally from the van, sets her on the sidelines staring in horror. It’s not enough that her brother is dead, but now these strangers aim to erase her parents too? “Daddy!” she cries. “Don’t!”

  Our daughter’s presence spells the beginning of the end for these thugs, because now Tim cannot lose. Will not. With the strength that possesses only those in grave danger, he throws one man aside, then the other.

  I rush to Ally, draw her quivering frame to mine, invite her to sob openly at my chest. My mouth moves separately from my brain, screams things that drift back to me as the disconcerting tones of a record album played backwards: devil speak.

  With three or four more wild punches, Tim leaves the twerp writhing on the pavement and his buddy scurrying toward the onramp for help. “Go!” he shouts at me and Ally, and this time we obey.

  * * *

  Muffin is waiting on the doorstep when we arrive home, a fact that sends Ally, albeit reluctantly, to cloud nine. “Oh my God!” she squeals, after the appropriate amount
of dour silence. “He’s back!”

  I can’t decide if this is a good turn or a portent of strife to come. I squint. “Is that really him?” But there is no doubt about it: Tim’s horse of a dog has risen from the dead.

  Ally throws her arms around Muffin’s neck and peppers his nose with sloppy kisses, which he returns on a grand scale. I glance from Tim to Muffin and back again, noting two unlikely things: First, Muffin is as portly as ever, and, second, Tim appears none too pleased to see him.

  The four of us rumble into the house as we have thousands of times before, our ease together painful for how it both amplifies Owen’s absence and smoothes it over. It’s not until I spot the blinking light on our answering machine that I register our failure to share the news of Owen’s death.

  Tim pauses by the phone, stares down that red flash as if he has the power to will it away. “I’ll start calling people,” I say at his back. “Why don’t you take a shower?” On his face are nicks and scrapes, fresh bruises and splotches of blood.

  He drops his head in his hands, falls to his knees and releases a guttural wail. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him.

  * * *

  The call from Det. Jack Hanscom comes fourteen hours later, moments after I have dropped Ally at school. I am officially on bereavement leave, but my daughter must push through the final weeks of fifth grade.

  I veer into the lot of a McDonald’s and knock the van into park. “Hello,” I blurt, narrowly saving the call from ending up in my voice mail box.

  There is an empty pause before I hear, “Mrs. Fowler?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Detective Hanscom.”

  I already know this from the caller ID. “Uh-huh.”

  “We have some news about your son.” He stops and waits for me to inquire, but I don’t. “Trouble is, we’ve been having a hard time getting ahold of you.”

  Flatly, I say, “Our daughter had school.”

  “When we told you to stick around, it wasn’t a request.”