but it is not the kind of record
you want to break
or even have in the first place.
Eighty-seven days means
almost three months of nothing last fall,
and I’m afraid it happened because of what I saw
that time on the roof
when I couldn’t stop him
and I didn’t save him.
Because I wasn’t brave enough.
I kept waiting for him to write me back and tell me
why
he did it.
But eighty-seven days is enough
to make you
wonder if you saw
what you thought you saw
or if you saw
anything at all.
Enough to make you wonder
if the notebook will ever be under your pillow again,
if the mail for Jake
you’re stacking on his desk
from colleges that don’t know he’s missing
will touch the ceiling
or topple over.
When the detective asked me if we ever fought,
I wanted to scream,
“Of course we fought! We’re brothers!”
But I knew that was the wrong answer.
We’re like Luke Skywalker and Han Solo
(good thing my mom didn’t name him Han).
We argue about pretty much everything.
But we’ve always got each other’s backs.
I know how this sounds,
I KNOW,
but the night after he disappeared
I dreamed I saw him
frozen in carbonite.
Dreamed I saved him with
a princess and
a Wookiee.
I told you, I know.
It was just a dream.
I open the book and almost write it down because
it would make him laugh.
But when I put the pen to the paper,
I think a thought that knocks my breath away.
What if I’m supposed to save him this time?
And what if I can’t?
The man kicks the empty tray from last night’s dinner.
“Rise and shine, Jake.”
Jake waits with his eyes closed. Even though his heart pounds, he slows his breathing so it will look like he’s sleeping.
He hears the footsteps coming closer, but he just waits.
Keeps waiting as the man blocks the blood-red light coming through Jake’s eyelids.
He hears the pop and crack of somebody else’s bad knee as the man kneels next to the cot. “I said, rise and—”
Jake strikes, bare knuckles full force against the man’s jaw. He jumps up as the man staggers back. Knocks the man’s legs out from under him with one swift, sweeping kick.
In the very next heartbeat, Jake is running for the door, but the man is already up, racing him to it. Jake’s knees nearly buckle as the man jumps onto his back. The man wraps his arms around Jake, slapping his right hand over Jake’s mouth.
If he’s trying to keep me quiet, there might be somebody nearby. Jake opens his mouth to shout.
But really, that was what the man wanted, and Jake realizes his mistake when he feels a pill at the back of his throat. The man’s hand still covers his mouth, so Jake bites down, hard, and there’s a satisfying taste of blood on his tongue as the man roars and pulls his hand away.
Jake spits out the blood and the pill, but he’s weak. Why is he so weak? He is Jake freaking Foster. MV-freaking-P.
He spins to find the man again, which is another mistake, because the room keeps spinning, even after he’s stopped. But finally he sees the man kneeling behind an old metal box, messing with the lock.
Jake hasn’t noticed the box before, and for a moment he hesitates, wondering what could be in there. Drugs? Guns?
Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to wait for the man to use it on him. Jake charges toward the man as the key turns and the lid swings open. The man reaches inside right before Jake tackles him, pinning him to the ground.
“I’m leaving, and you can’t stop me,” Jake spits at the man. “You’re lucky I’m not going to kill you first.”
But then there’s a sharp pain in his thigh. Jake looks down to see a syringe, its needle sunk cleanly through his basketball shorts, its plunger already down, only a few drops remaining of its pale blue dose.
Jake feels the anger and the energy drain from him. Maybe this is it. His last dose of poison.
“You’re not ready to leave,” the man says, easily pushing Jake off him as all of Jake’s muscles release and his senses dull. The man drags Jake to the cot, and Jake is grateful to lie down. He’s suddenly so, so sleepy.
“Don’t you dare try that again, or I’ll give you another blue-light special. This whole thing was your idea, remember?”
Jake shakes his head, trying to clear it, as he tells the man no.
That can’t be right.
The last thing Jake sees before his eyes close is the man’s face; the last thing he hears, the man’s voice. And he wonders if maybe he’s seen the face and heard the voice before. He even wonders if he has wondered this before, but it’s all a blur, it’s all going in circles, circling the drain, he’s so drained…
When he wakes up, the man is gone, and so is the metal box.
And Jake’s left hand is cuffed to a pipe on the wall.
Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Foster. We’ll just ask you a few questions, and then you can get back to your son.
Sons. I have two.
Yes, ma’am.
I’m sorry. I know you’re doing everything you can. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you.
Right now we’re trying to figure out the timeline. And Jake’s frame of mind. How was he earlier in the day? Did you see him after the game? Had anything changed?
I didn’t see him during the day. He left with the team before I got home. I texted him before warm-ups to tell him good luck, but that was it. That makes me sound like a terrible mother, doesn’t it?
No, ma’am. Teenagers are hard to connect with. Did he respond to your text?
He did. Something like “Thanks, Mom” and that was it. I thought he must have been nervous.
Did he get nervous a lot? Have you noticed any changes in his behavior?
His senior year has been hard. It’s been tough recovering from his injuries. If I’m honest, he’s been more withdrawn this year, and I can’t help but feel like it’s partly my fault. Jake had to grow up too quickly, especially after his dad died. He was always trying to make me happy, make sure I was okay. He did the same thing with the team, and especially with Coach. There’s probably some psychoanalysis in that: trying to earn the love and respect from a father figure that he never got from his own dad.
Are we talking about Coach B or Coach C?
Both, I guess. But I was thinking of Coach Cooper. He’s more like Jake’s dad, in a way. Coach B is more…like a saint.
And it didn’t worry you when he didn’t come home?
I was asleep. The rule is that he comes in and tells me when he gets home, but to be honest, I sleep through that sometimes. And when I woke up, his truck was there.
Is that why you didn’t call the police until almost noon the next day?
Yes. Another thing that makes me a terrible mother.
Now, there’s nobody who thinks that.
I do.
Luke and I are already hoarse from cheering, but when Jake bows as the MVP medal is placed around his neck, we’re too joyful to hold anything in.
It takes him a moment to stand back up, but then there he is: my son, who worked so hard and sacrificed so much. Who h
as grown more distant and combative all year as he struggled through school and health problems and heartache, chasing this dream. There he is, back to himself, practically glowing in this moment he’s fought for so fiercely, and for all these years. It’s not until I see that pure, true smile that I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen it.
Luke and I watch as the crowd files out. The longer we wait, the more I dread the drive home on the dark, icy highway when I’m already worn down and there’s more snow in the forecast.
Finally there’s Jake, running toward us from the parking lot instead of from the locker room. Maybe the celebrations have already started. I stand, ready to deliver a whole speech about how proud I am of him and how I hope he’ll take a moment to soak it all in so he’ll always remember this night.
But Jake has no time for any of it. “Bus is leaving,” he says, dropping an arm across my shoulders and knocking knuckles with Luke.
“Okay,” I say. “I love you.”
He bounds down the bleachers so fast I’m not sure he heard me.
He definitely isn’t there to hear his little brother, reliving every play for the whole ninety-minute drive home.
Luke’s knees bounce as the memories bubble over. “Remember when Jake stole the ball and actually swatted it through that defender’s legs?”
“Maybe,” I say, frustrated that I don’t. That even my best efforts at supporting my sons are not really enough for either of them. A semi pulls up behind me, following too close, then swerves into the passing lane at the last second. The trailer fishtails, swinging near us as the wheels spray snow across our windshield.
“Did you notice how they switched their whole defense at halftime to try to stop Jake, and it still didn’t work?”
Did you notice that I’m driving through a blizzard? I bite back the question just in time for Luke to ask another.
“Which happened first: the three-pointer that almost rolled out or the one that rattled around the rim?”
“I don’t know,” I snap. The tires lose traction, and all at once we are sliding, not driving. The treads regain their grip before I have time to react, but the slip leaves me breathless, heart racing.
“But you were there,” Luke says. “Weren’t you watching?”
“Of course I was watching,” I say, eyes still on the road, trying to keep my voice even. One son I spend my life watching, and the other I spend my life listening to. But sometimes I wonder if either of them even sees me. Hears me. “I just don’t understand the game like you do. I can’t remember every single play. I have other things to think about.”
Luke gets quiet, and for a minute that’s a relief. We reach a few miles of dry road, and my grip loosens on the steering wheel; my jaw relaxes. I realize the radio is on and start to hum along. But then I look over at my incredible son, who is now afraid to speak. I reach to scratch his arm with my free hand, just the way he likes.
“I’m sorry, Luke. I do have other things to think about. That’s why I need you to pay attention to the details for me,” I say. “You’re a lot better at it than I am. What would I do without you here to tell me the stuff I miss?”
But he answers his own question instead of mine. “The one that almost rolled out happened first,” he says. “I remembered while I was being quiet.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “I’m glad you remembered.”
* * *
—
After I’ve gotten Luke to bed, I stand at the bathroom sink, troubled by something floating right below my consciousness that I can’t quite grab hold of. I swallow my blood-pressure medication, then lift a smaller bottle from the shelf. I shake one sleeping pill into my palm, then another.
It’ll be fine, I assure myself.
Two is reasonable after a night like tonight.
I probably won’t even need one tomorrow, and then I’ll be right back on schedule.
The sleeping pills are new. It used to be caffeine to keep me awake, back when I was working at the Dollar Depot while I finished my teaching degree. But this year, there’s no danger of my mind slowing down, even when I want it to. So if I want to fall asleep instead of worrying about my sons or my students all night, I need a little help.
“A glass of wine would do the same thing as a pill,” Mrs. Cooper said once when I told her I had trouble sleeping. “Relaxes your mind, signals to your body that it’s time to go to sleep. Are you sure you don’t drink?” She said it with a smile, and I didn’t take offense, but I also didn’t tell her that I wouldn’t drink even if my religion allowed it. Not a drop. Not after my husband.
Still, on a night like tonight, it would be nice. Not just to relax, but to celebrate and commemorate. It truly is the end of an era.
Since Jake was small, our lives have run in seasons dictated by sports. Football, basketball, baseball, repeat. But Jake has already announced he won’t be playing baseball, and even though he’ll play college basketball, it won’t be the same. His uniforms won’t be washed in our machine, and games will require more travel—more expense, more time off work—than we can afford. So no more rides with Luke. No more watching the way even opposing fans sigh at the perfection of Jake’s fadeaway.
Before Jake was born, I didn’t know what a fadeaway was. But when you love somebody, you learn to find the beauty in the things they love as you see the world through their eyes. Or you try, anyway. You do the best you can.
I swallow both pills.
As I pull my hair back and close the medicine cabinet, the staccato of a knock sounds at the front door. I pad toward the entry, wondering if Jake has lost his key.
Coach Braithwaite’s wife. Gentle and smiling and holding a platter with a small cake on top, coconut flakes sprinkled across its whorls of icing.
I push open the screen door, searching my memory for her first name, heavy with guilt at the way I immediately identify her only in relation to him.
“Come in, come in,” I say, hoping repetition and a warm tone will somehow compensate for the lack of a first name.
“I can’t stay,” she says. “It’s far past my bedtime. I just wanted to drop by and offer congratulations.”
She holds out the platter, and I take it from her, smiling and grateful and certainly not about to tell her that Jake hates coconut. “Thank you,” I say. “He’s not back yet, but I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Oh, no,” she says, her eyes wide with surprise. “The cake is for you. You deserve to celebrate tonight. I’ll be quite pleased if you don’t share a bit. It’s only big enough for one, and that’s not by accident.” She pulls her coat tighter around herself. “I know what it’s like to wear yourself out making someone else’s dreams come true. You’ve been the support staff for the town hero. And, my dear, you have always done it with remarkable patience and grace.”
I am struck nearly speechless. I never realized how invisible I’d become until this tiny old woman stood before me and actually saw me.
“Thank you,” I say again, knowing there are no other words that will be close to enough.
I stay at the door until her taillights disappear around the turn. Then I sit at the kitchen table with one fork, one glass of milk, and the whole cake on its beautiful platter. If I have carried the stress of all those seasons, maybe a small part of the celebration does belong to me too.
Soon I find myself scrolling through the photographs on my phone and watching the video clips I’ve recorded, marveling at the beauty of this boy of mine playing the game he loves.
It hurts to see the worry on his face in so many of the shots. No denying it’s been a rough year. Slipping grades, inconsistent on the court, tired and irritable at home. There have been days when I barely recognize him. I study the screen, wishing I could wipe that worry away, waiting for the moment when he will come through the door and we can celebrate this together and maybe even have
something of a fresh start. He may not like coconut, but there’s chocolate–peanut butter ice cream—his favorite—in the freezer.
But the whole team was invited to a party at Seth’s, and all the parents agreed there’s no curfew for state champions—especially if they’re safe at the coach’s house. So I wrap the other half of the cake to save for tomorrow and leave a note on the counter for him.
So proud of you. I hope you had fun tonight, because you deserve it. Wake me up when you get home, okay?
Love,
Mom
I stop by Luke’s room and snap off his lamp but not before noticing what he’d been reading until he grew too tired to turn off the lamp himself: Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.
I smile to myself. Luke is a good athlete, but he will likely never receive the same kind of recognition Jake got tonight. He may never excel in an exceedingly public arena. But he too is bright and beautiful, and in that moment it is okay with me if I’m the only one to see it.
There are few nights I can fall asleep without the nagging presence of tasks left undone or the lingering worry that as a teacher or a parent I could have done more. But tonight, I fall hard and fast into a truly deep sleep, undisturbed by dreams in the wake of the one that has come true.
* * *
—
By the next morning, though, the glow of victory has given way to the forgotten relics of reality: the sooty remnants of melted street snow from the bottoms of our shoes, a sink full of dishes, and an inexplicable sheaf of blank notebook paper strewn across the table.
Of course Luke is up, mouthing along with an episode of The Clone Wars he’s watched so many times that even I can recite half the lines.
“Luke,” I bark. “Come clean up this paper and start on the dishes. I’ve got to mop the floor.”
“It’s not my mess,” he says, not even looking away from the screen.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I asked you to clean it up, so come clean it up.”
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