There was a Mr. Bubble bottle in the back—she had used it when her boys were little and there was a bit left, so she had kept it, years past the time of her children’s baths, the way people keep such things—because some part of her thought that maybe she could also keep some piece of Tommy’s childhood intact, as if it was bottled, too, in the bright pink container.
When the truth was, it was already gone. Gone where?
Mr. Bubble grinned at her, an insane smile.
She turned on the water. It thundered in her ears. Her mind flashed back to Tommy, gasping for air, calling out for her in the watery blackness. Mama!
Focus on the water. You’ll be all right.
She put her hand under the stream to ground herself and poured the remains of the Mr. Bubble into the water, the bubbles proliferating in the tub, bursting to life.
“Is that—bubbles?” Noah jumped off the toilet and leaned over the side of the bathtub.
“Yep.”
“Oooh. Can I get in?”
“Sure.”
He stripped off the rest of his clothes and then seemed to hesitate. He perched on the edge of the tub. “It’s not too cold, is it?”
“No, honey, it’s nice and warm.”
“Oh. Okay.” He nodded to himself, as if making a decision, then lowered himself into the tub and began swatting at the bubbles. “When I was Tommy we always did bubbles.”
It never ceased to amaze her when he said things like that.
“Yes. You two boys always made a big old mess.”
He laughed. “We did.”
Focus on the love. You’ll be all right.
She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered Charlie and Tommy going at each other in the tub with the bubbles, the soapy water oozing onto the floor. She held on to that feeling until the whole room seemed to vibrate with the force of her love for them. How much there was.
The water was still pouring down over and through her fingers, changing moment by moment. As a child, she’d seen a movie about Helen Keller, how she had felt water running from a pump and had finally connected the name to the source of the name—but now she was going in the opposite direction, and names were losing their sense. What was Noah or Tommy, and who was she? Her head roared with a bright confusion.
“Hey, look!” He was calling for her. Whatever she was to him, she wasn’t a stranger. There were no strangers.
“Look,” Noah said. “Look at this bubble!”
The shine of the faucet pierced her eyes. Denise looked over, a beat too late.
“Oh! Popped. Sorry,” Noah said.
“Okay.”
“Look! Bubble!” This time she looked over quickly.
“I see it,” Denise said. “That’s a big one.”
It was a big one. It spanned the distance between his knees, growing bigger and bigger as he moved his legs apart, shimmering like crazy for its split second of existence.
“Look!”
The bubble grew larger still. In the ever-changing map of its colors, someone was drowning and someone was being born.
“Oh! Popped.”
“Yes.”
There was nothing to hold on to anymore. Only everything.
Noah looked down, then, and put his whole face in the water. He lifted his head. He had a bubble beard and a bubble mustache and he was grinning away like a demonic baby Santa Claus. “Guess who?” he said.
Denise smiled. “I don’t know,” she said. “Who?”
“Me!”
Forty-Two
It was late by the time they got home from the airport. Charlie sat next to his mom as they pulled into the driveway. Another night on Asheville Road; same old sounds of crickets and the Johnsons’ TV playing an Indians game. Crazy that it seemed the same when what was in his head had changed so much. He guessed that was how life was. Who knew what was in anybody’s mind? And meanwhile people died and had whole new lives, like the fireflies that arrived in June, flashing here, then gone, then here again. It was like some kind of batshit magic trick.
Charlie had spent hours catching fireflies with his brother when they were little. Tommy would run around the yard with a jar, Charlie right at his heels. Once they’d caught a few, they’d put the jar on the steps and sit, watching them buzz and spark. They always pitched a fit when it was time to let them go. They wanted to keep them as pets, even though their mom explained that they’d die that way, that they belonged in the wild. One night Tommy and Charlie couldn’t take it anymore—they lied and hid the jar under Tommy’s bed, and the next morning they had woken up to find themselves the owners of three dead bugs in a jar: dry, ugly, black-winged things that looked like ordinary beetles, as if someone had come in the night and drained the mystery right out of them.
Now Charlie wondered if the kid, Noah, ever saw fireflies in the city. Or if he remembered them. Even though he wasn’t Tommy. Not really.
He looked sideways at his mom. What was she thinking? He knew it was probably about his brother, but sometimes, lately, she surprised him. She’d ask his opinions about things, like what kind of food they should serve at the reception or whether they should ask his dad over for dinner. Why so curious what I think all of a sudden, he wanted to say, when you haven’t given a rat’s ass for the last seven years? And it was a problem, too, because it meant he couldn’t get stoned as much. He’d had a quick toke or two in the garage the day before the burial and she’d noticed in, like, half a second. Not even. She’d looked him right in the eyeballs and he was grounded before he even knew what hit him.
* * *
Denise stared out the windowshield into the darkness, pondering gradations of loss.
She would always miss Tommy—there was no stray piece of her that wasn’t always missing him. But this other child, this child who was not Tommy, had brought a sweet taste to a mouth that had been filled with bitterness. They had been through it, the two of them, and there was that bond that she knew would always be between them.
When they’d said good-bye at the airport he had held on to her for a long time, and she was surprised to realize she couldn’t speak for a minute. Finally she’d said, “I’ll see you in Brooklyn.”
“Okay.”
“Will you show me your room?”
He nodded. “I’ve got stars in my room.”
“Stars? Really?”
“They’re glow-in-the-dark stickers. On the ceiling. All the constellations. My mom put them up there.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see them.”
She made herself smile. She was still holding Noah by the shoulders and he had his hands on her waist, as if they were dancing. She didn’t want to let go of him. She wasn’t sure she could. Around her the other figures were insubstantial, blurry: she saw Janie glancing at her watch and Dr. Anderson speaking softly to Charlie. Then Charlie put his heavy hand on her back and said, “C’mon, Mama, they’ve got to get to their gate,” and she knew she had to do it (Let go) and she let him go.
The three of them walked away from her and stood at the end of the security line: Dr. Anderson, a stiff man like her father had been, of that same breed—farmers and doctors who took their jobs seriously, who had kindness in them under all that proper bearing; and Janie, another mother who was doing her best with the job she was given; and that little boy with the yellow hair for whom she had some love in her heart, no use denying it. (Let go.)
For goodness’ sake, Denise. She’d kept her shit together while the winds of hell were blowing fiery sparks into her mouth, she could certainly keep it together now. She forced herself to watch as they joined the line of people carrying whatever they were allowed to bring with them on their way from this place to the next. Beside her Charlie stood up tall like a man and she was grateful for his steadying hand.
Now she glanced at him in the car. He was looking out the window, having his Charlie thoughts—what did that boy think about? She’d have to find out. She’d have to ask him. He was drumming a beat with his fingers on the windo
wpane.
Maybe he was thinking about Henry. All these years he’d been the one insisting that she had to face it, that Tommy was dead and never coming back, and yet the discovery of Tommy’s bones had completely undone him. He’d never believed in the death penalty, thought it was unfairly applied and racially skewed, but now he was bitter that the prosecution wasn’t talking about it for Tommy’s murderer, who had been so young at the time. Death consumed him. Still, maybe she’d call him and ask him to come over for dinner. And if he said no, she’d keep trying, and one of these days he might do it.
What she had said to Henry at the graveside was true: she did miss Tommy every second of every day. She missed him and yet she felt his presence at the same time, not in the other child but all around, and she couldn’t hold on to it or make sense of it, any more than she could hold on to Tommy, any more than she could understand why she opened her heart so instantly to Noah or why her love for Henry was an ache she couldn’t get rid of.
“You okay, Mama?”
He’d been watching her. He was always watching her, her Charlie. She turned around to face him. “I’m fine, honey. I truly am. I just need another minute.”
“All right.”
She turned off the engine and they sat in the driveway in the dark.
Forty-Three
Only the good-byes to get through, Anderson thought, as he passed into the busy throng of humanity waiting for loved ones at the baggage claim. All around them families craned their necks eagerly, or fell upon their relatives with cries and hugs and handfuls of balloons. Fathers lifted daughters high up in their arms.
People used to reunite at the gates, but that was a different era. Now people claimed each other and their luggage in this grim, cavernous space, calling out “Mine.” This is mine, the blue one. You’re mine. A young beauty in cutoff blue jeans searched the crowd; an older, heavyset woman stepped forward and enveloped her in her arms.
Only the good-byes to get through—and then—
“All set?” Janie put a hand on his shoulder. They knew each other better now, had achieved that intimacy, whether he liked it or not. She was worried about him. He looked away.
“My car is in the parking lot.” He gestured with his chin. “Do you want a lift?”
“We’ll just take a taxi,” she said, and he nodded, his mind crowing with relief. He would not have to speak then, not after the next few minutes. In his mind he was already on the road in his car, moving through the quiet night. “It’s the wrong way for you,” she added. “Or, if you want, it’s so late to drive, you can stay the night with us until morning. We have a pull-out couch—”
“I’ll be fine.” He avoided her eyes. There was too much warmth there. He didn’t want her to care about him. He was already gone.
He squatted down next to Noah. “I’m going to say good-bye now, my friend.”
“I don’t like good-byes,” Noah said.
“Me neither,” said Anderson. “But sometimes they are … good.” He’d meant another word, but no matter.
“We’ll see him again soon, though, bug,” Janie said, attempting a reassuring briskness. “Won’t we, Jerry?”
“It’s possible.”
“Possible?” Janie’s voice was higher than usual. He kept his focus on Noah. Noah seemed to be managing this separation better than his mom. Maybe by now he was used to it. “You mean, probable, right?”
No, Janie, he thought. This time I said the word I meant to say.
“I think you’ll be so busy having fun you’ll forget all about me,” he said to Noah.
“No, I won’t forget. Will you forget me?” The boy looked anxious.
He put his hand on Noah’s head. His hair was soft beneath his fingers. “I won’t. But it’s okay to forget, sometimes,” he said gently.
The boy took this in. “Will I forget about Tommy, too?”
“Do you want to?”
Noah considered. “Some things I want to. Some things I don’t.” His small clear voice was barely audible among the people milling around them. “Can I choose which ones to remember?”
He’d miss this child.
“We can try,” Anderson said. “But we can’t forget about now, Noah. The moment we’re in. The life we’re in. That’s more important. We can’t forget that.”
Noah laughed incredulously. “How could you forget that?”
“I don’t know.”
Anderson was still squatting, and it was hurting his knees. The boy touched his forehead to his and seemed to peer right into him. He smelled like the lollipop the flight attendant had given him on the plane. “You don’t know a lot.”
“That’s true.” He looked at Noah. The case was almost complete. There was only one thing left. How fascinating that he had not asked about it before.
“Can you do something for me? I know it’s odd, but can I see your—chest and your back? Just for a second? Would you mind? Is it okay?” He turned now to Janie, who had been listening to their conversation. She nodded. He stood up, pulled Noah away from the people, against a dormant carousel, out of view.
An adult would have asked why, but Noah simply lifted his T-shirt.
Anderson turned the child around carefully, looking at his pale chest and back. Two birthmarks, faintly visible: a faint round circle on the back, slightly reddish, and a ragged star of raised skin in the front. The path of a bullet, written plain on the flesh.
At another moment, he would have taken a picture of it, but now he simply let the T-shirt fall. The evidence was there.
A large family at the next carousel was counting baggage. Two boys in soccer shirts were running gleefully around the carousel. His good-bye over, Noah ran and joined them in an impromptu game of airport tag.
“You can use it,” Janie said in a low voice.
There was a certainty in her voice he hadn’t noticed before; she had seen the marks on her son’s skin. “For your book. You can write about Noah. You can use his first name.”
“Can I?” It was a question for himself.
“I’m sorry I doubted you before. You have my permission,” she said formally, “to use his story any way you like.”
He tilted his head in thanks. Perhaps there was enough juice left in him to finish this chapter, if he did it quickly. He owed that much to the man he had been. The man he was now, though … who was that?
“Do you think Noah is—getting better?” Janie asked haltingly. The trust in her eyes as she looked at him both touched and alarmed him.
“Do you?”
She thought about it. “Maybe. I think so.”
Noah and the soccer boys were doubled over with laughter.
“Why did Tommy decide to come back in the States, do you think?” she said, her eyes on her son. “Why wasn’t he reborn in China or India or England? You said once that people often reincarnate in the same area. But why?” She was puzzling over it earnestly, and he felt a kind of bemusement, as if all the questions that had buzzed about him for so much of his life had found a fresh new field to swarm.
“There does seem to be a correlation.” He spoke slowly, picking each word with care. “Some children speak of spending time in the areas in which they died, picking their parents from the people that pass by. Others are born into their own families, as their own grandchildren or nieces or nephews. We have speculated that may be due to … to love.” There was a different word he wanted, a more clinical one, but it was out of reach. “Perhaps personalities love their countries, the way they love their families.” He shrugged. “How a consciousness migrates is not a question I’ve been able to answer. I’ve been stuck on establishing its existence.” He shifted his feet impatiently. “Listen,” he said. “It’s been—”
“But I’m not sure what to do now.” She touched his sleeve, and the gesture startled him. “How do I go back and raise Noah now?”
“You rely on your intellect and your…” Again, the word eluded him. “… feelings. Your feelings are good.” He was whitt
led down now, either to banalities or simple truths. Either way, they would have to do. “We have to say good-bye now,” he murmured.
“You’ll need to follow up with Noah’s case, though? Right?”
I don’t know, he thought, but he said, “Sure.”
“So I can e-mail you sometimes? If I have more questions?”
He nodded, but barely.
“Okay.” They eyed each other, at a loss for how to part. A hug seemed out of the question, but a handshake seemed too formal. At last she held out her hand to him awkwardly, and he held it briefly in his own large one and then on impulse raised it to his lips and kissed it. The skin was soft beneath his lips. It was the kiss of a father at a wedding, releasing his daughter from his care. He felt a pang of some obscure loss, either for her companionship or for womankind, so far behind him now.
“Be well,” he said, releasing her hand. He grabbed his battered bag and headed out the doors into the warm night.
He was free.
That’s who he was.
Free. The cars and taxis slowed, pulling over to pick up relatives and customers, and he passed by them as he headed for the parking lot, enjoying his momentum, the way his legs swung smoothly, efficiently, his mind stretching out gratefully in the dark.
He cared about Janie and Noah, but they were receding from him rapidly. His last case, and it was done.
They were back there on the ground and he was—buoyed up.
He had fought with everything he had to hang on to his life as he had once known it, and now it was gone, and he floated on the lightness of his defeat. He had applied the full force of his mind to his attempt to understand the unfathomable, and maybe he’d been able to extract one or two teeth from the maw of infinity, and now he had only to write out this last case.
He had thought that as he grew nearer to his own death the unanswerable questions would pierce him unbearably, and now he found to his shock and delight that he had no need for questions. What would happen—would happen.
How ’bout them apples?
He would finish his book now and then he could do what he liked. And when one day he could no longer read the Bard … then he’d go over the parts he had committed to memory, remembering the depth and cadence if not the lines themselves. He could babble Shakespeare to himself under the oaks all day like a crazy man.
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