Helen nodded, directing her to a room across a narrow hallway. Jackie splashed cold water in her face and leaned over the sleek sink, cool tiles under her palms. It will be okay, she told herself. Everything is going to be all right. She straightened up and looked at her reflection—the circles under her eyes, the sunken cheeks, the stress and lack of sleep turning her into a mirror image of her oldest son . . .
“Oh my God,” she whispered, her gaze shifting from her own face to the bathroom wall behind her.
“Are you okay in there, honey?” Helen called out.
“Yes,” Jackie said, taking it all in: The big mirror. The pale pink walls. The framed black-and-white photograph of the Eiffel Tower. “Wade was in this house in May!” she called out.
“What?”
Jackie opened the door. “He was in here, Helen. He took a picture in this bathroom.”
“I’m telling you he’s never been with—”
“You need to talk to Stacy.” Jackie’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She plucked it out and glanced at the number on the screen—a number she didn’t recognize. She answered it.
“Mrs. Reed, this is Sergeant Black calling.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you called.”
But he kept on as if she hadn’t said anything at all. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your son Wade is at the county jail.” He hurled words at her: auto theft, manslaughter.
“What’s going on?” Helen said.
As Sergeant Black continued speaking, Jackie focused on their images in the mirror, hers and Helen’s, the Eiffel Tower between them. The photo had been taken back in May. Stacy wasn’t even in it. It proved nothing, other than the unsettling fact that her son had been in this house, possibly without Stacy even knowing it. “Wade is under arrest,” she said.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, Jackie.”
Black was giving her directions to the county jail when she stopped listening altogether. She let go of everything—the phone, her hopes, her mind—and collapsed onto Helen’s bathroom floor.
Twenty-Seven
From the secret Facebook group “RIP Liam.”
October 22 at 12:00 PM
Thank you all so much for reaching out to Chris and me during this time. I know that many of you feel powerless to help us. I’ve heard this a lot. But please know that your thoughts and prayers and especially your stories of Liam have done more for us than you will ever know.
There’s no guidebook for losing one’s child. That’s a good thing. If there were, it would make the loss of a child something common, and Chris and I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.
But your stories have shown us what an impact Liam made on this earth during the very brief time he was here. He made his friends laugh; he helped them get through tough times. He taught them to enjoy life and that anything could be an adventure. There are many young people who told me how much he meant to them, as well as grown-ups who still remember what a sweet little boy he was. His third-grade teacher, Mrs. Epstein, gave me a poem he wrote in her class that she’s kept to this day. The poem is called “Always Be Kind.”
I can’t tell you how much all of your memories mean to Chris and me. If you can, though, I’d like you to do one more thing for us: Please remember Liam always. Especially the young people. After you graduate high school and go out into the world and figure out who you really are, keep him in your thoughts. Hold him in your hearts. Take him along for the ride.
With love,
Sheila Miller
95 people like this
October 22 at 5:00 PM
Liam has been cremated. For those interested, there will be a memorial service tomorrow, October 23, at St. Gregory’s Church at 5:30 pm. We look forward to seeing as many of you as possible.
With gratitude,
Sheila and Chris Miller
Twenty-Eight
It was strange how quickly you could grow to love another person if you opened your heart and allowed it to happen. Amy had known Sheila Miller barely a day, and their paths had crossed under the most terrible of circumstances, but Amy now considered her one of her closest confidantes. They reached out to each other. They clung to each other. They gave each other strength. Over the past twenty-four hours, in person but especially during their many phone conversations, Amy had probably shared deeper thoughts with Sheila than she’d ever shared with anyone, even Vic. It made her realize how lonely and lacking her life had been before, and as she stood waiting to see Sheila and her husband in the long reception line at St. Gregory’s Church at Liam’s memorial service, hugging fellow mourners, signing memorial programs and, yes, telling them that story again and again, Amy felt so much gratitude for Sheila, her best friend. She couldn’t see her soon enough.
Chris too, of course. Chris was a dear. But to be honest, she hadn’t had that much contact with Chris. He’d spent most of the time locked up in his room sleeping as Sheila and Amy gabbed in person or on their phones, sharing everything from stories from their youths to philosophical beliefs to recipes, both of them terrified of silence, both fighting it off as their men lay unconscious. The last time they’d spoken, it had been three in the morning. “You’re the only person I know I can call at this hour,” Sheila had said. “My other friends might pretend they don’t mind. But with you I know it’s real.”
Amy was reaching the front of the line, where Sheila and Chris stood, Chris in a dark suit with sad, drugged eyes, Sheila in a black sheath that hung on her, her weight loss obvious. Amy wore a black dress too, a satin shift from the 1950s with a high collar, but seeing the Millers she felt inappropriate, too fat and festive for the occasion.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” Sheila said, throwing her frail arms around Amy and pulling her close. Amy inhaled her lily of the valley scent, a touch of spring on this cold day, and her awkward feelings faded.
She gave Chris a quick hug. He smelled of cigarettes. “I heard they arrested someone,” Chris said—as many words as she’d heard out of him since they’d met.
Amy nodded, eager to answer. “It was based on my ID,” she said. “They showed me pictures of a bunch of suspects, but I picked him out immediately.”
“Good.” Chris had a direct, honest gaze that probably served him well in business. Cerulean eyes, much like his son’s. “He’ll be brought to justice.”
The minister smiled at them on his way up the pulpit steps. “If you could all please take your seats,” he said as he made himself comfortable behind the lectern, tapping the microphone and clearing his throat. The reception line broke into bits and started to fill the pews.
Most everybody here was in couples or families. Amy thought about Vic. He’d been more out of sorts than usual today, wishing her good luck at her Whisky gig, his mind back in L.A. Part of it was that she’d been gone so often lately, but there was more to his confusion, she knew. She needed to bring him to the doctor soon to adjust his meds. But that would mean taking him out in a car that wasn’t Baby, and she wasn’t sure how he’d survive that or even if he would. Turning to find a seat, she felt a shot of panic. But Sheila grabbed hold of her hand. Her grip was firm and cool. “No, no, no,” said Sheila, who had lost everything that life had to lose and still had it in her to reassure a lonely woman. “No, Amy. You are sitting with us.”
JACKIE HAD LOST fifty friends on Facebook. An odd thing to be thinking about while coming out of a panic attack, but that was the first rational thought she had as the dizziness started to lift and she felt that heavy wetness over her closed eyes—a cold compress, soft hands patting her face, a voice, Helen’s voice, saying, “Honey, are you okay . . .” Fifty friends, some of them clients from years ago, others whom she’d known since high school. She’d noticed it back in Wade’s room, when she’d logged on to her page from his computer, but at the time she’d been too blinded by hope to care. How petty. They hear a few rumors and they run . . .
But it was more than rumors now. Her son had been arrested, charged with auto theft and mansl
aughter. Was that what the sergeant had said to her over the phone? And also . . . God . . . something about drugs . . . Her mind was still fuzzy, the dizzy feeling threatening to return. She needed a Xanax. Had she remembered to put the bottle in her purse before leaving the house? Could she take half of one and still drive to the county jail?
“Can you hear me, Jackie?” Helen said.
She pulled the compress from her eyes. “I didn’t pass out,” she said, a little embarrassed in spite of everything. “It was a panic attack. I’ve . . . I’ve had them and they feel like fainting, but they’re not.”
Helen stroked her hair. She was too close to her face. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart.”
“I have to get to the jail.”
“It’s okay. I’ve called someone.”
“I need a lawyer.”
“I got you one,” she said. “He’s on his way. He actually happened to be nearby, in Rhinebeck, so he should be here soon.”
Helen handed her a glass of water. Jackie gulped it. She’d never felt so thirsty in her life. She pulled herself up to her feet and saw her reflection in the mirror—blotchy skin, mascara streaks on her face. A true sight. She peered at herself, noticing again the Eiffel Tower picture in the mirror behind her.
“Stacy might know something,” Jackie said. Her voice sounded thin and distant, as though it were coming from somewhere else. She hadn’t completely recovered. She could hear her own pulse. She needed to sit down again, but she fought it. She forced the words out. “I know it’s a long shot, but if you could please just talk to Stacy . . . Even if she wasn’t with Wade that night, he cares for her. I know that. She might know something that could help him.”
Helen put a hand on her shoulder. “Jackie, I need to tell you who I called.”
Jackie blinked at Helen. Why was she ignoring everything she was saying?
A buzz interrupted Jackie’s thoughts—a loud, alarm-like thing that cut through the fog in her brain.
“That’s the doorbell,” said Helen. “Look, Jackie. I called Bill.”
“You . . . Wait. What?”
“He’s going to be Wade’s lawyer. He wants to be Wade’s lawyer. It’s the least he could do.”
“You called Bill?” She could hear her pulse again.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“That’s an interesting question.”
The doorbell exploded again. “Don’t be mad at me,” Helen said. Then she ran to get it.
Jackie struggled to her feet. She was very thirsty. She went to the sink and put her lips to the faucet and sucked down cold water until she felt alert, almost normal. She wiped the mascara off with a tissue, splashed water in her face, dabbed at it with a towel. Bill. She called Bill.
She heard voices coming from the entryway. A man’s voice saying, “Is she all right?” Bill’s voice. She wasn’t upset. Helen had been right to call him. Wade needed a lawyer, and Bill was as good a lawyer as he was a bad father to his sons. Well, maybe not that good. But he was well connected. After nearly twenty years of practicing in this area, he knew the judges, the cops. Everyone.
“Jackie?” Bill was in the living room now, saying her name for the first time in person in she didn’t know how long, probably since he’d taken Wade to that Yankees game.
She left the bathroom. Bill was standing next to Helen. His hair had gone gray. He wore an expensive-looking suit and a trench coat that hung at his sides. And he looked older. So much older. “I’m sorry,” he said.
AMY SAT NEXT to Sheila as the minister spoke. He started out by describing the many summers Liam had served as a counselor at church camp, how he’d carved walking sticks for the young campers and taught them to swim. Amy found the stories heartwarming and sweet—more memories for Sheila to treasure. But when he launched into his own interpretation of Isaiah 57:1, talking about how “good men often die before their time and for good reason,” she tuned out what he was saying. Amy was never a great fan of organized religion, but she found it particularly cruel when it insisted that everything—no matter how awful—was a part of God’s master plan. Isaiah would have you believe that God had taken Liam in order to protect him from the evil in the natural world. But what did that say about Liam’s parents? Shouldn’t they be the ones protecting him rather than some power-mad, micromanaging deus ex machina who couldn’t trust two perfectly decent people enough to let them do their job? To Amy, there was far more comfort in chaos, and she wanted to tell Sheila as much. But Sheila was nodding slowly, listening to the words. We all take comfort from wherever we can find it.
Amy started paying attention again when the minister announced Liam’s best friend, Ryan Grant, and a boy emerged from a group of kids that was sitting a few rows back. He was tall and wore a letterman’s jacket and khaki pants, his head shaved bald. “He did that for Liam,” Sheila whispered. “All the boys shaved their heads for him.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know. Probably so they could feel like they did something.”
The boy pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He spread it in front of him, hands shaking, and when he spoke, his voice was barely audible, even from the front row where Amy and the Millers sat.
“This is a letter Liam sent me from camp, the summer between seventh and eighth grade. Liam and I loved Camp Arcady. At that point, we’d been going there together every summer for three years, but my grandma was sick, and my parents said we had to go and visit her. Being a selfish thirteen-year-old kid, the only thing I could think about was missing camp. I was really upset.”
Ryan dragged a hand across his eyes. The minister tried to hand him a Kleenex but he waved it away. “Anyway,” Ryan said. “They don’t let you text from Camp Arcady unless it’s an emergency. They make you write letters. Liam sent me this letter when he was away, and I’ve kept it ever since . . .”
He grasped the lectern for several seconds, as though he was trying to stay steady on his feet. There was an uncomfortable silence, a few people coughing to fill the void, until finally he began to read. “‘Dear Doofus,’” he said. “‘Camp sucks. It won’t stop raining and they got all new counselors and every one of them is mean. All we do all day is clean toilets, except when they give us a break and make us peel potatoes. With a butter knife.’”
Ryan paused. There was a hum of soft, polite laughter, Sheila and Chris included, of course. They were kind people, and this boy was so clearly struggling. His back straightened slightly but his head stayed down, the crown so pale and vulnerable from the shave.
He continued. “‘None of our friends are here. Just a bunch of big, mean girls who keep beating me up. And I can’t hit back because they’re girls. I tried telling on them, but the counselor socked me in the eye. She was a girl too.’” More laughter, louder this time. “‘The food sucks too, by the way. Nothing but vegan stuff. When they remember to feed us.’” Louder laughter. A few kids applauded. Ryan smiled at the paper, and when he started to read again, his voice was louder, more confident. And slightly familiar to Amy. “‘Are you feeling like you dodged a bullet, dude? Good. All that stuff I told you was a lie. Except the part where I said: Camp sucks. It does. But only because you aren’t here.’” He cleared his throat and looked out at the crowd for the briefest of moments. Amy caught sight of Ryan’s eyes, his dark, glittering eyes, which seemed familiar too. She tried to imagine him with hair, with a black hoodie, a bag of pills in his hand . . . No. You’re being crazy. “‘Your friend, Liam,’” Ryan read, and Amy pushed the thought away. It wasn’t possible, and when he walked up to Sheila and Chris, hugging them both, she decided she had definitely been seeing things; her mind had been playing tricks on her. She’d picked the right boy back at the station. She knew that face. And the way the detectives had looked at her, as though she’d given them the correct answer . . .
“Ryan’s parents are the nicest people,” Sheila whispered as the minister returned, and Ryan went back to the pews, a couple coming forward, the
woman wrapping him in her arms. “I’ll have to introduce you later.”
Amy said nothing, Sheila’s whisper a breeze on her neck as the room grew airless. She started to sweat. For there was Ryan’s father in his expensive suit. His shaved head. His diamond earring glittering, even at a distance. I’m a big fan . . . There was his young, plump wife with her luxuriant hair, hugging her son, a son she’d never mentioned that night Amy had spent with them at their lovely Tudor home, though Amy had walked by a boy’s room at one point during the four hours she’d spent there. Opened the door thinking it was a bathroom. Sports pennants on the wall, a neatly made bed. Empty. At the time, Amy had assumed they had a son who was off at boarding school, or college.
Twenty-Nine
Posted on the secret Facebook group “RIP Liam.”
October 23 at 8:00 PM
Thank you all so much for coming to our memorial for Liam. It is lovely to know that Liam had so many caring classmates, teachers, and even former camp counselors who showed up for what was a very special evening. Chris and I count all of you as our extended family. We’d like to offer special thanks to Father Charlie from St. Gregory’s for putting on such a lovely service, to the church auxiliary for the delicious treats at the reception, as well as Tamara Hayes, Ryan Grant, and Stacy Davies for their heartfelt, deeply moving speeches about Liam. Liam chose mature and admirable young men and women to be his closest friends—this is very clear. Kids, your parents should be proud. I would also like to thank Amy Nathanson, aka Aimee En, for joining in the memorial. While she had to leave before it was over due to an emergency at home, she did want me to remind you all of her benefit concert on the 29th. (See the link below.)
As I get through the end of another day, my heart is full, as I never thought possible. As hard as I know the future will be, Chris and I will cherish this night, and all of you, always. At the reception, a few of you asked me about that poem Liam wrote for Mrs. Epstein’s class.
If I Die Tonight Page 26