"Alex was an incredible kid, with these amazing blue eyes. Looking at us you would never have guessed where he got them." He looked at Alina; she gave him a sad, lop-sided smile. "He was really smart, and I know everybody says that about their kids, but it was really true. But most of all he was a great person. He was only five, but he was so outgoing and friendly. For a five-year-old, he was incredibly selfless." He huffed. "Shit, for a thirty-year-old he was incredibly selfless. He never had a problem learning to share, or make friends. He was friends with anyone he met, instantly."
A familiar image burst in his thoughts: Leroy Eston, pulling up alongside Alex as he walked toward home, asking the boy for help finding his way around the neighborhood. "I'm lost. Can you help me?"
That's all it would've taken.
His throat closed. He forced his way past it. "Someone shot him in the face and dumped him in a ditch," he said. "That's it."
Shauna gasped and shook her head. It sounded fake, and it made Ian want to jump out his chair.
Please don't act like you care. I realize you hear these stories all the time, but for fuck's sake, he was my son. Don't fake it.
But when the group's response ended, Harvey leaned forward and said, "Did they catch the guy who did it?"
He looked earnest, hungry. "No," Ian said. "But he got shot in the stomach. They think it happened while he and Alex were fighting. Alex fought back." He couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. "The guy died."
Harvey gave a sharp nod, leaned back. "Not the guy who killed Lana," he said. Unlike his wife, he had a slight Cantonese accent. "He was in a giant truck, one of those with the really big tires? He was barely scratched.
"She had a green light. He hit her at eighty miles an hour.
"She was being a good girl, doing everything right. He was barely scratched." Harvey locked on to Ian's eyes. "He lucky to be in jail. You know?"
Ian nodded. He knew.
"Anger is a natural reaction to loss," Shauna said, head bobbing as if they had all made some kind of breakthrough. "Even when we don't know what happened" - she gave the Bensons a condescending smile - "we get angry."
There was that we again. Just like Justin. Ian's back prickled.
"Who have you lost?" he asked.
It caught her off guard. Surprise or annoyance flashed in her eyes. "I lost my mother, when I was fifteen, to cancer."
"But I thought this was a group for parents."
The smile came back. "It is."
"Do you have kids?"
She pursed her lips, trying to figure out how to handle him, as Alina hissed his name.
"No, Alina, it's okay. As a matter of fact I do have two boys. These sessions have made me appreciate them even more.
"But we aren't here to discuss me. We're here because of the terrible loss each of you has suffered. And I think a great way to begin exploring that loss is exactly the way you did, Ian - by remembering the positive things, the wonderful things, about your loved one.
"Alina, Ian said some beautiful things about your son Alex. Would you like to add to that?"
She'd handled him deftly, he had to give her that.
"Sure," Alina said at once. "Ian was right about Alex's personality; he was the friendliest person I have ever known. And he was really well-behaved. Well, most of the time. Sometimes he could be a handful at bedtime." Another lop-sided smile. "He said he was scared of the dark, but I think he just wanted us to leave the door open for him so he could play with his toys in the light. If we shut the door he would howl and scream... he sounded like he was..."
getting murdered. That had always been their joke.
"...like he was miserable. But as soon as you went in, you know, he was fine."
There were tears standing in her eyes. Ian felt something give way when he saw them. They had been fighting so long now, she had been pushing him to move on for so long, that he wasn't sure he'd even still believed she hurt. He put his arm around her. He didn't weigh it or think about whether he should do it; he just did it.
But she reached down for some tissues from her purse, and he had to pull it back.
"He was a good boy," she said after wiping her face. "I miss him."
They went around the circle. The Bensons and the Nguyens talked about their kids. Evan Benson sounded like a little hellion, as far as Ian could tell, and Lana had been too old. Ian couldn't comprehend sixteen. He had barely been able to comprehend the fact that Alex was going to be starting kindergarten.
"She sounds beautiful," Mary Ellen said when Rachel Nguyen finished talking about her daughter. "You must have loved her so much."
"At least you know," George put in. "The not knowing... it ain't easy. I don't want my son to be dead. You know? But I want to know."
"Yeah," Ian said. A block of ice had formed in his chest. He looked at George. "At least we know. Everyone says that, but I'd give anything to be in your shoes. To still have hope. You might think you want to hear that your son's dead, but trust me, you don't."
George recoiled. Shauna said, "I think everyone handles that question differently. For you, Ian -"
"No," Ian said. "No one wants to hear that their child is dead, and if you think they do, you're deluding yourself. These guys are hurting. Don't... trick them. Until they see the body, they still have hope. It's completely different."
18
He didn't get a kiss good night. She would barely look at him. In the parking lot, he said to her back, "Next week?"
"Sure." She got in her car and slammed the door.
19
It was 10:30 when he got home. He flipped the switch in Alex's room, and the light sizzled on, then popped. He caught a single, incandescent view of the room, like he'd just used a flashbulb. It was empty. He didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed.
He went to the bathroom with the door open. While he was washing his hands, his son screamed, "Daddy!"
He jerked as if electrocuted. The soap shot onto the tile.
Alex was standing in his room, vivid and real despite the darkness. Ian shouldn't have been able to see him.
"Donnie went off the road," he complained.
"Yeah," Ian said, carefully. The evening's session or his sense of déjà vu served to ground him. "I see that." He knelt and tried to look into his son's eyes, but the boy's gaze was unfocused - or focused on something beyond his father. "Alex, is that really you? Are you there?"
Alex grinned. His lips didn't move. "I not dere! I Ay-es!"
I'm not "there!" I'm Alex! It was his voice as a toddler. He'd said that when he was two.
The hairs on Ian's arm stood up. "Please, Alex. Listen to me. Why are you here?"
"Donnie went off the road," he repeated, pointing at the red car.
"Alex, Jesus..." Ian's voice trailed off. "Please. Talk to me."
In a blink, Alex's clothes disappeared; he was again naked and dripping with bathwater, his drying hair curling on his scalp. "I'll just call for you and Mommy!"
"Alex, oh..." Ian put a hand to the wall as the hallway swam.
This can't be happening.
You told him to call.
This isn't real.
He must have called a hundred times for you.
You are losing your mind.
He called, and you never came.
"Right, Dad?"
"Alex, honey. I tried. I swear. I tried. I went to Rita's house. I went over every inch of her house. I looked up and down all the streets for you, for any sign of what happened to -"
Shorts and a t-shirt again. "Donnie went off the road, Dad!" When he was really tired, these pretend disasters truly alarmed him. He looked like that now.
"I know. I know, honey, but I can't help."
Alex didn't repeat his complaint. He didn't throw a tantrum. His face just fell, disbelieving and hurt, the way it would when he'd ask his father to play with him and Ian said he was too busy. It was a look of absolute dejection, and it wrung Ian's heart.
"Alex... god,
I would help if I could. But Donnie..." He pointed at the red car, impossibly visible in the room's blackness, lying on its side on the carpet. Off the road. "Donnie isn't real, Alex. He's not real."
Alex looked up, and he was wearing pajamas - the plaid, flannel two-piece Alina's mom had bought him just before he'd gotten strep throat last year. His cheeks were flushed; fever glittered in his eyes. Ian knew what he was going to say before his mouth opened. He remembered it distinctly.
"I need a hug," Alex moaned.
Ian couldn't resist that request. He would have died to honor it. He lurched forward, arms open, but his son was gone.
20
He went through the charade of bedtime: took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, climbed into bed and lay there for an hour.
Finally he threw off the blankets and stalked, naked, into the hall. Peered into Alex's dark room and found it empty, except for the boxes standing silent vigil.
In the living room, he turned on the TV, then slunk into the kitchen to make some coffee. He appeared numb. But his thoughts were churning.
Do I believe in ghosts? He had, once, when he was young. When he had still believed in God and UFOs and Santa Claus. Before he had gained a healthy respect for rational thought.
Rationality would indicate he was going mad. Unless...
Can other people see him? Does Alina ever see him? If he had truly come back to haunt his dad, wouldn't he haunt her, too?
No. She wasn't the one who had told him to call. She had even been upset with Ian for having the talk about strangers. She had thought it was too early; she didn't want to scare him.
An old, reflexive fury kicked in his chest at the thought. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.
That left other people. And no, no one else had ever seen him - but Ian had also only seen him when he was alone. At home, and at the hotel.
His knowledge of schizophrenia was just this side of complete ignorance, limited to horror movies and A Beautiful Mind. But he remembered a scene where Russell Crowe had thought he was getting better, and then he found a shack where all his imaginary friends had set up shop. He'd been alone.
Fuck. If he was going crazy, he had to tell someone. But didn't they say that if you know you're going crazy, you aren't?
Was that true?
He went to the basement door and put his hand on the knob, ready to go downstairs and do some amateur online research. Then he wheeled back toward the living room.
Fuck it.
He didn't want to know.
21
Jack McCoy delivered his closing arguments. He swayed the jury. The bad guy went to jail.
As the credits streaked past in a tiny corner, the next episode began. Ian flipped the channel; he didn't want to watch another murder.
But the next station was worse. Instead of a fictional tragedy, he was confronted with a real one.
"- missing since April first," the voiceover was saying. A grainy image of Silvia Kalen's face filled his screen. "We are offering a one hundred thousand dollar reward for any information leading to her whereabouts or status."
She was pretty, smiling, all dimples and dancing brown eyes and dark curls.
"Bitch," Ian murmured.
"Please call 888-55-KALEN if you have any information. That's 888-55-KALEN."
Missing since April 1st. And since her father was Jarrid Kalen, a man who could afford to do things like buy airtime on cable channels, the local news had latched on to her case at once. The police had thrown a net twice as large as the one for Alex. Ian hadn't heard anything else about his son until Alex's body was found the next week.
"God dammit, Jarrid," Ian said to the empty room. The voiceover ended, and for a moment Silvia's face hung on the screen in awkward silence, smiling sweetly, 888-55-KALEN quivering just above her eyes and $100,000 beneath her chin. "There are other kids who need help, you fucker. Get off the fucking airwaves and let the other kids have a chance."
Silvia's face started to fade, but her dramatic departure was abruptly replaced by Vince Shlomi hawking the ShamWow.
"You can't just push everyone out of your way because you're rich," Ian said. "Alex was still alive, you fucker, he was still alive when you decided - !
"Or maybe you can. I don't know. Obviously you can. You did. You decided fuck the Colmes kid, right? Fuck him, he ain't rich."
Shlomi was soaking up spilled pop with an incredible towel that sold itself.
"Fuck you!" Ian roared. His throat burned as if he'd vomited fire. "Fuck you! You fucking son of a bitch!"
He lurched to his feet, cast about for something to break, and grabbed a throw pillow. It glanced dully off the wall when he threw it.
"Why don't you tell him to get over it?" he demanded, picturing Alina. "Why aren't you calling fucking Jarrid Kalen everyday and telling him to get the fuck over it? Why is it okay for him to look for his kid?"
Okay, some part of Ian's mind said. That's enough. You're acting like a child.
"I bet his wife is still living at home. I bet he can talk to her without her hanging up on him and slamming her door and looking at him like he's fucking... going crazy."
He can afford to run ads, and they haven't found his daughter dead in a ravine. If you were him, you'd run the ads too. You wouldn't care about anyone else's kid but your own.
But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that they had been looking for Alex, they had been looking for Ian's son until that son of a bitch had come along and -
"You'll find her, you shithead. It's gonna kill you like it killed me. I hope they find her in a ditch like they found Alex, with her face..."
But he couldn't finish that sentence. When he realized that, the anger drained away. It left him wasted and empty.
When had this happened to him?
Who the hell was he?
22
His cell phone buzzed an alarm at 6:30 the next morning. He slapped it quiet and fell back against the couch, his head throbbing.
Alex said, "Daddy, I'm dressed."
"Good," Ian murmured, his eyes shut. "Did you brush your teeth and go potty?"
"Yes." He sounded proud.
"Did you flush the toilet?"
"Yes. Can I go play now?"
"For a little bit."
23
The sun streamed through a crack in the curtains. The clock on the wall said 8:17.
"Shit!" He leapt up, pounded into the bedroom. "Shit, shit, shit!"
He fumbled his shirt buttons closed, pulled on boxers and socks. His pants drawer was empty. "Fuck."
Nothing in the dryer. It was all towels. He dug out a worn pair from the hamper, pulled them on, and grabbed his coat.
As he pulled out he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Alex in the house's front window, waving goodbye in a red turtleneck and jeans. It was the same thing he'd done on the day he disappeared.
Ian's hands started shaking so badly he could barely keep a grip on the wheel. He kept driving. He wanted to get the house out of view.
When he rounded the corner, he pulled over. His heart hammered like it was gasping for air. Palpitations. He'd never had them before, never read the definition, but he'd heard the word. It described perfectly what was happening in his chest.
Jesus, he thought like a whimper. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe deeply, tried to calm down. Jesus Christ.
Finally he was able to pull out his phone and call his boss. He barely had the strength in his hands to press the keys.
"Ian?"
"Justin, I'm sorry, I overslept - last night I had my first counseling session with Alina and it didn't go well. I'm on my way."
He sighed. "Okay."
"I'm sorry."
"Ian, this really can't keep happening."
"I know. I'm on my way."
"We'll talk about it when you get here."
Ian glanced into the rearview mirror. He couldn't see the house. "Okay."
24
He had expected some kind of
reckoning: a final warning, if not a final dismissal. Justin gave him neither, just the same tired bullshit. On a different morning, Ian would've actually felt his opinion of the man drop. Today, he didn't care.
"Ian, you look terrible." Billi Swanson, kneeling at Sheila's desk to help her with some problem. "Are you okay?"
Ian nodded.
"He looks like that every morning," Sheila scoffed, and glanced at the clock. "Ten after nine. New record for you, Colmes."
It didn't even get a rise out of him. Something is wrong with me. I need to get checked out. He thought about the counseling sessions. Wondered if they would help him.
"So, what do you think?" Sheila asked Billi. "He obviously screwed something up pretty bad, but I'm not sure it's hardware. Should I try to walk him through the system restore first?"
"Yeah," Billi said. She was an ample woman, out of shape: levering herself back to her feet was a production. She blew out a breath. "If that doesn't work, shoot it up to tier two."
"Kay."
Ian listened to his computer grind through its morning ritual. The screen flickered once and presented him with an image of himself, Alina, Derek, and Alex last Halloween. Brown eyes, brown eyes, brown eyes, blue. He had the weird little thought every time the screen appeared.
"Hey," Billi said, resting a hand on his desk. "Everything okay?"
He glanced at her. "Yeah. Sorry."
She scoffed, waved his apology away. "I don't care when you come in. That's Justin's problem."
"I know." He shrugged and lowered his voice. "It's just hard not to feel like shit about it with..." He nodded toward Sheila, who was working her best high-pitched I really care voice with her caller.
"Screw her," Billi whispered back. "She ain't gonna be perfect forever."
Ian managed an amused snort.
"Really though. How are you holding up?"
He debated how much to say. Billi was cool; probably the only person at Smartlink he even trusted. "Not well," he admitted. "Couldn't get to sleep last night. Passed out on the couch. I set my cell alarm but it must not have gone off."
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