by David Bell
Post guided Ronnie to the door, and I allowed myself to think that Paul was right, that this was for the best and Ronnie needed the extra attention and counseling a professional could give him. And just as the thought crossed my mind, Ronnie’s body froze. Every muscle grew rigid, and if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he was suffering a seizure of some kind. He locked up, refusing to move past the doorjamb.
“Paul!” he cried. “Elizabeth! No. No no no no no no.”
“Oh, Jesus, Ronnie,” I said.
Paul stepped in. He went to Ronnie and placed his hands on Ronnie’s shoulders. “It’s okay, bud,” he said. “We’ll see you real soon. Remember what we talked about? Remember?”
“Elizabeth,” Ronnie said, his voice lower and weaker.
“Ronnie?” Paul said. “Remember.”
As the words came out of Paul’s mouth, the resistance seemed to drain from Ronnie. His body sagged; his shoulders slumped. He allowed Richland to place a hand on his arm and guide him through the door and onto the porch. Richland towered over my brother, practically casting him in shadow. When they were out of sight, I went to the door myself, with Paul right beside me.
Ronnie shuffled down the walk with the detectives on either side of him. A couple of the mourners, Mrs. Porter included, still lingered on the sidewalk, chatting before they headed in their separate directions. They stopped their talk and watched as the police placed Ronnie in the back of the cruiser, which remained parked beneath the trees on Mom’s street.
If I’d cared more about what other people thought in that moment, I would have been mortified, knowing the way gossip and rumor and misunderstanding spread in a town like Dover. But none of that mattered to me. All I heard in my own head was the sound of my brother’s voice calling my name, saying to me, How could you let this happen? How?
Chapter Ten
Paul and I waited for close to an hour when we reached Dover Community. Before we were allowed to see Ronnie we were given a number of forms to sign. Since I was his next of kin, the admitting nurse told me I was able to sign them. I asked what they were for, and she said they gave the hospital and doctors permission to provide care for Ronnie. Medication, counseling, food, everything.
“Medication?” I asked. “Do you mean sedation?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at Paul, who shrugged. I turned back to the nurse. “I don’t want him zonked out like some zombie.”
“I doubt that will be an issue,” she said.
I looked at Paul again, and he nodded. So I signed.
When we were finally allowed into his room, we found Ronnie sleepy. He looked as if he’d been sedated. His eyes fluttered and then closed as we talked to him. Paul could tell I was angry, and he told me to trust the professionals.
“Mom would hate this,” I muttered. “She’d hate if they put him on drugs. She’d hate him being in the crazy hospital.”
Paul and I decided to leave. Before we did, I bent down and kissed Ronnie on the forehead. He didn’t stir.
In the hallway, we ran into Detective Richland. He held a cell phone to his ear, but put it away—somewhat reluctantly—when he saw us coming. I didn’t bother with formalities or greetings. I simply asked, “How long is all of this going to take?”
He cleared his throat. “The doctor should be by sometime tomorrow to get the ball rolling,” he said.
“I don’t want anyone coming by and asking him questions without one of us being here,” I said. “What time?”
“I can’t predict what time,” he said. “The doctor has a lot of patients to cover.”
“Call us then,” I said.
“Don’t you have to go back to school tomorrow?” Paul asked me.
“Yes.”
He turned to Richland. “Why don’t I give you my cell number? You can let me know when something happens. I may be here anyway just visiting Ronnie.”
Richland made an elaborate display of taking out his phone and then entering Paul’s number into it. When he was finished, he nodded. “You know, Ms. Hampton,” he said.
I noticed that his hands had stopped fluttering. The tall detective seemed grounded and centered for a moment, leading me once again to wonder whether the whole thing was an act, a put-on to lull people into a false sense of comfort and security.
“What?” I said.
“I’m sorry about earlier, taking your brother from the house that way. We thought everyone would be gone and… we just thought it would be easier.”
I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to accept the apology, to see Richland as a well-meaning, overworked public servant, trying to do his best in difficult circumstances. Like all of us.
But I couldn’t.
“I guess that can’t be undone, can it?” I said.
I walked away with Paul following me.
• • •
We stopped next to Paul’s car in the parking lot. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, and for the first time since Detective Richland called my apartment on Saturday night, no immediate, pressing concerns weighed on me. Mom had been buried. Ronnie was in custody. Paul had his own life to return to—card games with former colleagues, the harvesting of his summer garden, his books, his friends. I expected to feel some measure of relief at that moment, but I didn’t. How could I?
“I know I should have just accepted his apology like a nice little girl,” I said.
“It doesn’t do any good to antagonize the police,” Paul said.
“Any other advice?” I asked.
Paul didn’t say anything. A sound, something between a deep breath and a hiccup, came out of his mouth, and when I turned to look at him more fully, I saw that he was crying. He raised his fist to his mouth, and his chest shook with a couple of deep sobs.
“Oh, Jesus. Paul? Are you okay?”
And that was enough to start me again. The tears welled up in my eyes, burning them, and I felt them spilling over and stinging my cheeks. But I tried to focus on Paul.
He wiped tears off his cheeks. “I want you to know something,” he said when some of his composure returned.
“What?” I asked, struggling to keep my own emotions in check. I wiped my tears away with the backs of my hands, making a smeared mess across my face.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to Ronnie,” he said. He swallowed and coughed. A siren sounded and then wound down on the far side of the hospital. A new tragedy arriving. Some disturbed soul who had had enough of the world and flipped out. He said, “I’ll be here. Nothing bad’s going to happen to him.”
“I know you’ll look out for him,” I said. “We both will.”
He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and eyes some more. “We’re all on the ropes here, I guess.”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want to go get something to eat?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m tired. I’m a tired old man. I need to go home and take a nap. The next couple of days could get kind of crazy.”
“Are you sure?”
He put the handkerchief away and nodded, regaining his usual certainty. “I should be worried about you,” he said. “Are you taking care of yourself?”
“I’m trying to.”
“You should take a nap.”
“Maybe I will. I have to get back to campus tomorrow. I was going to deal with the will, but it doesn’t seem that important now.”
“That’s good.”
“Unless you think the lawyer can help with Ronnie,” I said. “Are we being idiots here, Paul? Are we just going to let them put him in there and examine him?”
“Who drew up the will? Frank Allison?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how much criminal law he does in a town like this,” Paul said. “If that’s what you’re thinking. Beyond that, I guess we’re all in over our heads. Look, he’s more in the care of the doctors than the police now. That might change if the police get more
serious, but I take some comfort in thinking about the doctors more.”
“Sure,” I said, not wholly convinced. “But if more trouble comes down, I’m calling a lawyer. I might do it anyway.”
“That’s fine,” Paul said. “Do what you think is best.”
He held out his arms, and we hugged. We held each other a long time. I didn’t want to let go. When we finally did, I stepped back and looked up at him.
“Tell me this is all going to be okay,” I said.
He didn’t hesitate. “Sorry, kiddo, but I just can’t do that.”
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t call Dan before I went to his apartment. I knew that if I called, he’d offer to come meet me wherever I was, and I wasn’t sure yet that I wanted to see him. I wanted to still have an out. My escape plan amounted to showing up unannounced, allowing myself the option of turning around and leaving if I wanted.
But when I arrived outside the dingy brick apartment building Dan lived in, I realized I did want to stay. Dan lived on the second floor, alone. Half the lightbulbs were burned out, and with evening coming on, the stairwell was uncomfortably dark, especially for someone whose mother had just been murdered. Music twanged behind one of the apartment doors, and I heard the unmistakable drunken whoop of a college boy. For the first time in my life, that sound brought me comfort. There were people around. And life. I wasn’t alone.
Dan opened the door to my knock, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”
For a brief, terrible moment, I worried that someone was in the apartment with him. “I didn’t call,” I said.
“It’s okay.” He stepped back, opening the door all the way. “Come in.”
I knew the place well. He had lived there in the cramped, run-down space for just over a year, ever since we both entered the graduate program in history as members of the same class. For six months of that year, he and I had been a couple. Intensely. Crazily. We burned for each other like two hormonal teenagers, but we also possessed enough brains between the two of us to examine every flaw with our pairing, which meant we fought a lot. We broke up a lot. We got back together a lot.
I followed him into the living room. Ever since we’d broken up—and in the wake of two very temporary reunions and their accompanying breakups—we hadn’t known how to act around each other. Do we hug? Do we shake hands? Do we nod at each other like strangers passing on a narrow sidewalk? I bypassed the dilemma by moving quickly to the couch and sitting down. He stopped in the center of the room.
“Do you want something?” he asked. “Coffee? Wine?”
“You know me well enough,” I said.
“Beer?”
“Amen.”
He left and came back with two opened bottles. He sat on the far end of the couch from me, respectfully giving me my physical space. He’d finally learned to do that on the day I needed him not to.
“Are you doing okay?” he asked. He quickly added, “I know, that’s a silly question.”
“I don’t mind you asking,” I said. “And thanks for coming to the cemetery today. It was really sweet.”
I took two long drinks from my bottle. It tasted good. Really good.
Dan drank from his too. A flush spread on his cheeks, but I knew it wasn’t from the beer. Even when we dated, when we were in our most intense periods of romance, an uncertainty, a nervousness hovered around Dan. No matter how much time we spent together, it still seemed as though he didn’t know what to say to me or exactly how to take me. He said, “I know you well enough to know that you don’t want to discuss what happened, but I feel obligated to say out loud that I’m willing to listen to whatever you need to say.”
“That’s what I want to talk about,” I said. I jabbed my finger into the space between us, trying to emphasize my point.
Dan jumped a little. “What?”
“That. That quality of mine you just mentioned.”
“Are you saying it’s not true?” he asked.
“It is true,” I said. “And I need to talk about it.”
“Okay,” he said. “But I’m not a licensed therapist.”
“You know, I really appreciate the sarcasm today.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” he asked.
“No.” I drank more of the beer, almost finishing it. Too fast. I suppressed a burp and patted my chest. “Well, get ready for an awkward transition. My mother was murdered,” I said.
It felt like the first confession of a long recovery. Something had pivoted in my life. I had gone from being a person who read about families affected by violent crime in the newspaper to being a member of such a family. I no longer needed to understand such things from the outside. I needed to process it from the inside.
“Jesus,” Dan said.
“But wait—there’s more.”
I told him everything, finishing the first beer while I revealed the details about my mom’s death. The fact that there had been no sign of forced entry. The violent encounter with Ronnie over the fishing trip. The inability of the police to account for Ronnie’s whereabouts. Ronnie’s trip to what I could only think of as the mental ward. The fight I had had with my mother and our six weeks of silence.
Dan didn’t interrupt. He let me get it all out, and even rose once when I paused to take a breath in order to walk out to the kitchen and get two more beers. I happily started the second while I finished my tale of woe.
When it was all out, Dan said simply, “I’m sorry, E. I’m really sorry.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.”
“But I get the feeling that’s not really what you wanted to talk about,” he said. “You said something about some quality you possess…”
“I didn’t know any of these things were happening,” I said. “My family—my mother and my brother—were deep in a crisis, and I didn’t know anything about it. I was cut off from it.”
“You can’t blame yourself for all of this,” he said.
I stood up, beer bottle in hand. I paced across the worn wooden floors. “Don’t,” I said. “I’m not looking to be let off the hook.”
“All right. I was just trying to help. Did you come here to flagellate yourself?”
I kept pacing. I didn’t look at him. “Did I ever tell you what it was like to grow up with Ronnie as a brother?”
“Tell me?” he said. “Your mother and brother live across town. We dated for six months, more or less, and the first time I ever laid eyes on a member of your family was at the funeral. No, you almost never talked about them, except to say you didn’t want to talk about them.”
I grunted. I hated to hear my own words repeated to me, even though I knew they were true. I drank from the bottle. “Let me just say this,” I said. “Ronnie took up a lot of mental space.”
“Because of his disability,” Dan said.
“Because of that, yes. And because my mom was determined, absolutely determined, to give him the best life possible, she devoted herself to him. One thousand percent. I was closer to my dad. I’m more like my mom, but I was closer to my dad.” I felt like an idiot pacing. Every time I turned around I saw Dan’s books, his empty coffee mugs—all the sad remnants of a grad student’s life. I took my seat again, my back straight and rigid. I held the beer bottle in two hands. “My mom told me something once.”
“Something about Ronnie?” Dan asked.
“Something about me,” I said. “This was in high school, the first time Dad was diagnosed with cancer. He beat it then, but it came back and killed him later, when I was in college. When he was first diagnosed, we were all scared. We said the right things to each other, but we were scared. My mom and I were talking about family and caring for each other and how important it was to have children in your life. I was in high school. What did I know? I just listened. And then she told me that it was a tough decision for her and Dad to decide to have another baby after Ronnie, you know? Mom was forty-three when I was born, and that was just a year afte
r Ronnie. The odds of having another baby with Down syndrome were still high. She said they almost didn’t have me.”
“So you were lucky. You were wanted.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Very wanted. Because you know what Mom told me during that conversation? She said the main reason they had me was to take care of Ronnie after they were both gone. Can you imagine telling a kid that?”
I drained the second beer. My head had started to hurt, but I didn’t want to switch to water. I felt like getting drunk. I waved the empty bottle around. “Any more where this came from?” I asked.
“There is,” he said, but he didn’t get up. “I’m sure your mom was just—”
“Don’t defend her,” I said. “You didn’t know her, as you pointed out. You can’t take her side.”
“I’m not taking sides,” Dan said. “I’m trying to understand. Are you saying you never felt close to your family or let them into your life because of this?”
I raised the beer bottle again. “Another round? Then I’ll tell you the rest.”
Chapter Twelve
Dan came back with two more beers. When he settled back in, he didn’t say anything. He just waited for me to go on.
I finally said it: “I used to hate my brother.”
Dan didn’t respond. He watched and waited.
“When we were kids, people looked at us wherever we went. I knew what they were thinking. ‘Oh, that poor family. That poor boy.’ And then Ronnie would chew with his mouth open, or he’d grunt when he should have talked, and that would only make it worse for me. I’d want to hide under the table, or just run away.”
“A lot of kids would feel the same way in your situation. I’m sure they have.”
“I used to wish for something,” I said. “After my mom told me why they had me, I used to wish that she would die. It would make sense for me to want her to stay alive because then she would be there to take care of Ronnie. But I used to wish she’d die so I could be free of my obligation to her.”
“And to Ronnie?” Dan asked.