by Jessica Pack
Once Robbie had realized that no counterargument could trump her position, he had put an Aquabats poster over the stickers. The band was ridiculous—a bunch of grown men dressed as pseudosuperheroes singing ska music—but it preserved the door, which was what she’d wanted. She wasn’t sure when that poster had come down, but at some point Robbie had decided that an uneven warning about a danger zone was better than the Aquabats.
Amanda ran her fingers over the letters, imagining his little-boy fingers putting them in place. He’d have had his tongue poking slightly from the left side of his mouth, like it always did when he concentrated. He’d have been focused and determined—she had loved the way he could be so intent upon a task.
The walls of Robbie’s old room were empty save for some nail holes. All the furniture had already been donated, but she’d thrown personal items into boxes as she’d disassembled the room. History. Memories. Bits and pieces of life from better days. Four boxes containing the sum of her son’s life were lined against the wall, the tops gaping open like the mouths of baby birds. Rather than waiting to be fed, however, they were waiting for her to sift through the personal objects of her son’s life and determine what was reasonable to keep. She considered taking the boxes to Cincinnati and going through them when she didn’t feel so raw, but she wanted to arrive in her new condo without so much baggage—literally and figuratively. Crossing the South Dakota border without the burden of this task heavy upon her shoulders would be a big step on this new journey toward living. Wouldn’t it?
Amanda had already decided to allow herself only one box of mementos, which meant that each item in the four boxes would need to be weighed against every other item. She had decided to keep photographs, but certificates, trophies, and things without sentimental value would be discarded.
Was it a chore to go through Robbie’s things, she wondered, or was it an indulgence?
Robbie would laugh to hear her thoughts—or would he? She hadn’t heard his laughter for years. Prison and declining mental health had changed him. Had there been room within him these last years to find humor in anything at all? Should there have been after what he’d done?
She didn’t know. Would never know. Robbie was gone. Dead. Yesterday she had two children, and today she had one. Did that make her half the mother she’d been?
Had it been today when that changed? Or had she lost her son years ago when the voices in his head became louder than hers? Or had the change been at some different juncture entirely, a choice she’d made along the way that turned him that fateful degree away from the man he was supposed to be. Too many shoot-’em-up video games? Not enough chores? Too much sugar? Not enough discipline? Was not properly punishing him for sideswiping a post at the drive-through responsible for his having become so callous about human life? Amanda let the familiar thoughts move through her as she settled herself on her knees in front of the first box and carefully poured the contents onto the sand-colored carpet. She emptied the second box too. She’d use one now-empty box for garbage and the other one for things she wanted to keep. She pulled a marker out of her back pocket and wrote “Robbie” on the keeper box to make it official, then attached a yellow sticker so that the movers wouldn’t accidentally load it into the van.
Within the hour, this would be all that was left of Robbie’s life. She took a breath and got started.
6
Larinda
Four years, one month, five days
Larinda shifted into drive and pulled up behind the car in front of her. She turned the radio back up, but when the commentator started talking about the execution she changed the station. No sense dwelling on the negative. She’d gone to the prison like Barbara had wanted her to—though she had stayed outside—and it was over now.
A car ahead of her got their order and pulled away, allowing Larinda to pull up to the payment window. She shifted sideways as best she could and handed over her credit card. The cashier had to lean halfway out the window to take it. Larinda avoided eye contact, not wanting to see the judgment in the girl’s face. When the cashier returned the card, Larinda put it in the change compartment of the middle console—it was her “fast food” card and she left it there so that it was easy to find.
Larinda’s cell phone pinged and she picked it up with her right hand, glancing at the screen as she pulled forward a few more feet. She was the next car in the pickup line now and her mouth watered. Cheese, potatoes, and white flour were her love language.
The ping was indication of a new voice mail, and the fact that she didn’t recognize the number meant it was probably another reporter. After the shooting, she’d done a few interviews, but that was almost a hundred and twenty pounds ago, and she hadn’t ever been what one would call slender. Plus, she knew that dwelling on the greatest tragedy of her life was not in anyone’s best interest. Whenever her mind seemed to get bogged down in the memories of losing Nora, she forced her thoughts somewhere else—once she was back home she would make that dipping sauce she liked out of salsa, sour cream, and lime juice for the hash browns. So good!
Larinda reached the pickup window and leaned over to take the bag and the drink holder that would keep her shake and Diet Coke from spilling on the drive home. She was breathing heavily once both items were on her passenger seat. She shifted into drive again and pulled forward, anticipating how she would navigate the few blocks to home, turn on the TV, and eat while she watched whatever mindless show might be on. She liked the fixer-upper shows and the ones about dogs. She didn’t like the commercials that talked about weight-loss programs and health crises—there were always a lot of them when the new year started. It made her think of how her toes were getting tingly more often and the headaches that seemed to come on every afternoon. She didn’t complain to Ken because he’d want her to go to the doctor, and the doctor would tell her she was sick and getting sicker. He would tell her to lose weight. Like that was the big solution to everything.
The new radio station began talking about the execution and she changed the station again. She hadn’t avoided cameras completely at the prison this morning and Larinda was anxious about how she’d looked. A few weeks ago, she’d passed a former coworker when she’d stopped to pick up a couple of pizzas. The woman had made eye contact, smiled like she would to a stranger, and gone back to whatever she was doing on her phone. And Larinda had been relieved. She didn’t have to answer the inevitable “How are you doing?” that everyone asked her all the time. She didn’t have to push on that smile and say, “Things are good,” while pretending the other person didn’t notice all the weight she’d put on since they’d seen each other last.
Larinda had worn a turquoise blouse and black pants under the long black coat she hoped was more slimming than it felt— the waistband of these pants were killing her. She would change into her pajama bottoms as soon as she got home. Before she ate? She made a face, not sure which was better—eating in comfort or eating as soon as she could.
The food smelled amazing and it took all her willpower to keep from ripping the bag open with her free hand and downing all the greasy goodness right now. But she’d promised herself last week that she wouldn’t eat in the car anymore. It was one promise in a string of promises she’d made and broken over the years, but she was determined to keep this one. It was the first step to getting things under control. She just had to get through the stress of the execution, the increased coverage and renewed attention to the man who had killed her daughter. After things died down she’d feel less confused and she’d get some help putting her thoughts back in line. Maybe she’d take down some of Nora’s pictures—over the years she’d framed every photo of Nora and put it on display in the house. Ken had called it a shrine, and even though she knew he had meant it in a bad way, she had kind of liked the word. It kept Nora alive somehow. Sometimes Larinda talked to her daughter when she was home by herself. “I think the girl completely manipulated that man,” she’d say regarding the Judge Judy episode she was watching. “P
oor guy.”
When the garage opened, Larinda was surprised to see Ken’s car was still on his side. He hadn’t come to the prison with her because he had work. “I don’t need to be there when the man dies to move past this, Lari. I’ve made my own peace.” Larinda had said she had, too—it wasn’t like she was a rage-monger like Barbara Hansen, or was drinking herself into oblivion like Valerie Simperton’s mom. Larinda donated to the Boys & Girls Clubs, made care packages for new mothers at the hospital, and had faith in a plan bigger than this one. She knew where Nora was and it gave her peace.
Larinda parked her car next to Ken’s and looked guiltily at the food on the passenger seat. Maybe she could convince Ken that she knew he’d be home and so she’d bought breakfast for both of them. And she’d gotten fast food instead of coming home and making something healthier because . . . it had been a long morning at the prison. He’d see right through that, but he wouldn’t want to fight, so he’d let it go after giving her a reprimanding look. Maybe she could just eat it all right here in the car before she went inside. But what if he came out and found her shoveling fast food into her mouth? Plus, she wouldn’t even enjoy it if she scarfed it down, and that would make her want to get more. She let out a breath and then lifted her chin—it was what it was.
She moved the seat all the way back, then opened the door and put out first one foot and then the other, awkwardly turning her bulk in the seat until she was facing sideways. She grabbed the side of the door with one hand and then pushed up on the dashboard with the other to get to her feet. First try—that was success. Maybe she was down a few pounds since making her no-eating-in-the-car promise. She closed the door and lumbered to the passenger side, where she picked up the drive-through bag and decided to leave the shake and the drink in the car. It was cold enough that they would be okay for an hour or so. Until Ken left. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice them as he crossed the garage to his car. He wasn’t staying home all day, was he? She couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that.
With the bag in one hand, she used the other hand to help her climb the three steps that led to the kitchen door. She pushed the button to lower the garage door.
“Ken?” she called as she entered the kitchen, putting the bag on the counter next to a collage of Nora’s dance team portraits. Larinda kissed her fingers and pressed them to the glass as was her habit, then looked longingly at the bag of comfort she had to leave on the counter for now. She hoped the burritos wouldn’t be completely cold by the time she was able to eat them—the hash browns could be warmed up in the microwave easily enough, but eggs never reheated right. “You didn’t go to work?”
She put her keys on the counter and made her way toward the doorway into the living room, where the computer desk was that Ken worked from when he worked from home. Fifty photographs of Nora filled that room—every bit of shelf and wall space filled with her beautiful smile. It was a happy place. “Ken?” She was taking off her coat when she reached the doorway, looked up, and froze.
“Hey, sweetie.”
Larinda held her husband’s eyes for a moment before scanning the other faces in the room—each of them dear to her. Each of them a betrayer. Her face instantly caught fire with embarrassment at the sure knowledge that they had gathered here to confront her. She started to turn in a vain attempt to pretend this wasn’t happening, but Ken was beside her in a flash, one hand on her back, another on her arm, pulling her gently into the room. “Let go of me,” she hissed through her teeth.
“No,” Ken said, simple and bold. He led her to the couch, where their sons waited. They stood to hug her, but she remained stiff as a board. Had she ever felt so humiliated in her whole life? Her eyes met the only unfamiliar set in the room—a woman with red hair and sharp eyes. Over the woman’s shoulder Larinda could see a collection of Nora’s baby pictures. She’d been such a pretty baby. Can you believe what they’re doing to me, sweetie?
“Have a seat, Larinda,” the interventionist said.
Larinda wanted to argue as she looked from the face of her sister to her best friend to her mother, brother-in-law, daughter-in-law, and then Ken again. All the people who loved her best gathered in one room for the purpose of saving her from herself—she watched the shows, she knew the drill, but she’d never in a million years expected to be the . . . addict being confronted.
She sat, but closed her eyes, unable to look at these people. Ken started. Ken, who was supposed to love her unconditionally but wanted her to change. She waited for him to say that he only wanted what was best for her. That she was eating too much and he was afraid of losing her to health problems that would inevitably result from her lack of self-care. She knew all that—it was why she’d made the promise not to eat in her car anymore. She wasn’t stupid. She knew she’d let things get out of control, but she didn’t need to be shamed into doing better. She was already doing better this week than she had last week. Except she had enough fast food for four people in the kitchen.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he said, then sniffed and looked at the paper in his hand. “I won’t keep doing this, Larinda. You’re killing yourself slowly and I can’t watch it anymore. I need my wife back, and our kids—the ones who are still with us—need their mom.”
“I’m right here,” she said, but she was crying too. Each of her boys took one hand. Derrick had come from California for this?
“No, you’re not, Mom,” Randy said. “You’re stuck in what happened, and it’s killing all of us. Nora’s gone.”
“I know that,” she snapped, then took a breath and stared at a spot of carpet rather than make eye contact with anyone. Their oozing pity was too much. “And I’ve made my peace with it. She’s in God’s care and there’s comfort in that.”
Ken was shaking his head. “We all admire your faith, Larinda, but it’s not enough. There’s more that needs to be addressed. You’re out of control and—”
“I’m dealing with it,” she snapped. “I’ve formed some bad habits, but I’ll get them under control.”
“I don’t think you can do that until you properly mourn Nora.” Ken waved his hand around the living room. “There’s no room for anyone else anymore, Lari. You’re completely lost to us.”
Larinda wanted those breakfast burritos more than ever and wished she dared make a run for them, sprint into the garage, and lock herself in the car until her stomach was full and her thoughts were mellowed. The irony that she couldn’t sprint because of the many times she’d numbed herself out that way was stark.
“And we can’t risk you not getting better, Mom.” This was from Derrick. He gave her hand a squeeze and she was tempted to pull it back.
“They feel like they’ve lost you,” the interventionist said. “An—”
“They want me back,” Larinda cut in. She’d meant to speak first in order to put the woman in her place, but instead the words pierced her. They want me back. Her loved ones had come from all over the state, some from other states, to tell her that they wanted her back. She still wanted to defend herself, but she also wanted them all to leave so she could eat her food and watch TV and numb out. She didn’t want to think about the piece of her heart she’d lost the day Nora died. She didn’t want to think of the years Nora didn’t have, the accomplishments she hadn’t made, and the motherhood Larinda had lost. She didn’t want to think about any of that.
“We’re here because we love you,” Larinda’s mother said, speaking for the first time. “And we want you to be happy again.”
Happy? She couldn’t see that happiness was possible, and that’s what scared her the most. That’s what kept her eating and eating and eating some more. What if she tried to be happy and couldn’t? It was better not to try than to try and fail. The arms of her sons encircled her. Someone else took her free hand.
The interventionist began talking about a facility in South Carolina. Larinda stared over the woman’s shoulder at a picture of her daughter on the day of her junior high graduation. She wondered
how many pictures of Nora she would be able to bring with her and what kind of food they served. Who was going to end up eating those burritos?
7
Amanda
Eight hours, forty minutes
Pokémon cards, progress reports, and sports memorabilia went into the garbage without much hesitation even though she ached a bit with each item—these were the type of things she’d expected to pull out and show Robbie’s children one day. She would have told his son what a good runner Robbie had been, and a math whiz—always an A student. The never-to-exist grandchild would finger the old paper and smile proudly—his dad had been great. His dad had always had greatness in him. See what he achieved? See how he put his mind to things?
Amanda had naïvely expected branches upon branches of his family tree—her family tree—spreading out for generations behind him. Children for Robbie. Grandchildren for Amanda who would one day give her great-grandchildren. Robbie would grow into a man and become a husband and lose his hair and thicken around his waist and have to get glasses and learn how to grow tomatoes. That’s what she’d always expected. Not believed. Not hoped for. Expected. It had been her God-given right as a mother to have these things.
These expectations had been fulfilled by Melissa, Amanda reminded herself as she threw away Robbie’s high school graduation program. Amanda had only seen her granddaughter four times in two years, though.
Amanda thumbed through a folder containing the career testing Robbie had done in high school—accounting, business, design. He was naturally analytical but had good people skills. He would be a good manager and should pursue graduate school so as to maximize his potential. Mass killer was nowhere on the list of future occupations. She threw the folder out.
In the keeper box went items that had been important to him—like the purple rock shaped like an egg. Her memory banks were oiled up now and quickly connected the memory with this rock. Robbie had found it when they’d stayed at a KOA in the Black Hills. Robbie would have been six or seven at the time—she remembered that both kids had missed a day of school so they could take the trip to Mount Rushmore for Labor Day weekend. Dwight was supposed to go with them but at the last minute decided to get some work done around the house—they’d lived in an older house in Watertown at the time and there was always something to be fixed. That Amanda hadn’t minded leaving her husband behind, was actually relieved, in fact, reflected the state of their relationship, though it would be six more years before they decided to legally acknowledge their distance. When Robbie had showed Amanda the purple rock, she’d put aside the novel she’d been reading and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.