by E. C. Diskin
Eddie had to be talking about his daughter. Eddie’s wife had left him several years earlier, and his daughter had never forgiven him for the damage he’d caused their family. He was always texting her, trying to rebuild their relationship, but she didn’t want anything to do with him. She was thirteen and stubborn.
Wilson sensed Donny looking at him in his peripheral vision, but he didn’t return his gaze. He didn’t want Donny’s pity. “Come on, Eddie, you hungry?” It wasn’t time to challenge or scold him. He had to tread lightly. “Maybe we can hit that McDonald’s by the expressway before we go home. I’ll drive.”
Eddie fell over to a sleeping position. “I’m so tired.”
Wilson looked at Donny, who was probably wondering if lockup or an ER was a more appropriate resting place. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
“You sure?” Donny asked.
“It’s fine!” Eddie yelled at Donny. “Can’t a man visit his father? Who is this yahoo, anyway?” he asked his dad.
“My replacement,” Wilson said. “So please, be nice.”
“Fuck off,” Eddie mumbled, his eyes already closed.
“Go on,” Wilson finally said to Donny. “It’s better this way.” He looked back at Eddie after Donny walked out.
Eddie’s eyes were closed, but he strained every facial muscle as if he couldn’t block out the light, finally covering his face with his hand as the tears came, full despair pouring out. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t deserve this. I’m such a disappointment.”
Wilson took his son’s hand in his, looked at his thirty-eight-year-old face, broken and fragile as a child’s, and held back his own tears. “It’s okay,” Wilson said. “You’re just having a bad day. Come on, let’s go home. Tomorrow will be better.”
He had no idea if tomorrow would be better. He’d already tried to help his son every way he knew how. He’d refinanced his house to pay for that Fairfield treatment center, twice; he’d reminded Eddie and cajoled him into attending meetings nearly every day; he’d set up job interviews, hoping that with some focus and purpose, he could finally recover. But Eddie lost every job he managed to get, and Wilson was powerless to cure his son of his addictions or his darkness. He didn’t understand where it came from, but deep down, he felt responsible. He’d done something wrong as a parent—either too lax or too strict, too busy, or maybe too consumed by grief after his wife died to see what was happening . . . he didn’t know.
But Eddie was a grown man, and there was only so much a father could do. He could not turn his son out on the street, but sometimes he wondered if Eddie would only find peace with that final breath.
Eddie finally sat up. “Big Mac sounds good.”
Wilson grabbed his jacket and the screenplay, hitting the lights on the way out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DAY SEVEN
9:15 p.m.
BOLINE COUNTY JAIL
THE DOOR AT THE END of the hall opened, and Brooklyn assumed the guard was returning her cell neighbor, who’d requested another bathroom visit after dinner. But instead, another officer appeared and told her she needed to come with him. Maybe Ginny had finally arrived. Maybe the nightmare was finally over.
Brooklyn was put in a small room with a table and chairs and told to wait. As if she had a choice.
Sheriff Goodwin came in and sat at the table across from her. She immediately looked at his ears again, that feature she’d first noticed when they met last Monday, the one that made her like him. Seven days ago. He’d been investigating Darius’s shooting, and now they were here because of her dad. He probably didn’t even understand that everything was connected.
The sheriff reminded her that she didn’t need to talk. She had a right to silence, but he wanted to help and the more she talked the easier things would be. “Brooklyn, Ginny was here,” he finally said.
It felt like her heart stopped beating as soon as he said the words. Ginny was supposed to get her out of this. But she’d come and gone? Brooklyn wiped the tears as soon as they hit her cheek. This time she stared at the badge on his shirt while he spoke.
“Listen,” he said. “She told us everything, and I want you to know that I understand you received a shock earlier today. Frankly, it’s easy to see why you might have snapped. So maybe you better tell me exactly what happened.”
She couldn’t talk. Not to him. The rock in her stomach was rising to her throat. They really thought she’d killed her dad.
“Brooklyn, why did you have your dad’s gun in your hand when Sheriff Wilson arrived?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t shoot him.” It was barely a whisper.
“We know. But the gun was fired. We found the bullet in the ceiling. It’s pretty clear there was a struggle. How did the lamp break?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Brooklyn, we really need you to talk. If someone else was there, if you saw anything, now’s the time to say so.”
“No one was there.”
“Did you hit your father?”
“No!”
“He had a pretty good-size gash in his head and a mark on his face. And we found that bat in the kitchen.”
She looked at him, thinking of all the assumptions that could end lives. She didn’t know what to say.
“His blood was on your hands. I need to understand exactly what happened. Maybe it was just an accident. Did he say something that made you angry?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Well, you need to start talking if you don’t want this all going south.”
She stared at the sheriff, remembering what she’d read earlier that day in Darius’s screenplay. “I think I should speak to a lawyer.”
Sheriff Goodwin sat back and looked at his watch. “Okay then,” he said, standing. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to your cell. It’s Sunday. We can’t get a court-appointed rep until the morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BROOKLYN READ THE SCRIPT FOR the audition on the train from Carbondale, eyes wide as she recognized similarities between herself and the character. By the time she’d reached Lambert Airport in Saint Louis and parked herself in front of the gate, she had less than an hour until boarding. Everything was falling into place.
The story was about an eighteen-year-old girl, Lucinda—the lead role, a fashion model of all things, ironic since a full ten years of Brooklyn’s childhood had been spent wanting to look like Ginny—the fair-skinned petite blonde. It was a rags-to-riches orphan tale. The orphanage was set in the Dominican Republic; the man who saves Lucinda from certain poverty, a human trafficker posing as a modeling scout. Lucinda escapes him, navigating New York City and creating a career on her own while overcoming painful childhood memories. It was a powerful, inspiring role.
She’d researched the production company and director online. They were legitimate players in the industry. One of the guys had been connected to an indie movie she’d seen audition notices for six months earlier, and they all had IMDb profiles and lists of past projects on their websites. This role could be the start of an actual career.
She decided to mention her heritage to the director. Maybe it would seal the deal. She was sure she knew more about the Dominican Republic than anyone else being called back. She’d spent hours over the years looking at YouTube videos of the island, reading Wikipedia listings, trying to understand everything about where she came from. She knew that seventy-three percent of the population was mixed-race, that it was a country of ten million people—the most-visited destination and largest economy in the Caribbean. There were tons of orphanages, most of the kids coming from child pregnancies, HIV-infected mothers, and mothers with disabilities. Abortion was illegal, even in cases of rape, incest, or danger to a mother’s health, and a fifth of the country lived in shacks, most without running water.
It had proven strange information to have last year when those girls in her dorm returned fr
om spring break with stories about their beautiful adventure to the island paradise with swim-up bars, great bargains, and gorgeous beaches. She’d been so envious of their trip. When Brooklyn’s mom first shared that picture of Eimy, she’d asked if they could go there. She wanted to see where she was from. Mom had smiled and said, “Maybe.” Brooklyn asked several times over the years. The answer was always the same, and she finally realized that “maybe” was just the long road to “no.”
She reviewed Lucinda’s lines during the flight, and by the time she landed, her roommate Cindy had texted celebration GIFs and lots of smiling faces, champagne bottles, and balloon emojis. All the roommates were going to try to swap out their Friday restaurant shifts so they could hang out and hear all about it.
It would be after midnight by the time she got to the apartment, and she just hoped she’d be able to sleep. She needed to perform a scene from the day her character meets the man who promises a modeling career in New York. Her character has doubts about the man, but she wants to believe in miracles and wants an easy way out of her life. Brooklyn closed her eyes, envisioning herself doing the scene and nailing it. It wasn’t difficult to relate. She was counting on Ginny in the same way. Nothing about the last twenty years suggested Ginny would step up, but Brooklyn needed to believe. She’d finally gotten out of that town. She knew it was selfish and she loved her dad, but she didn’t want to spend the next five or ten years stuck in Eden.
Today’s conversation had been a start. When Ginny swore she hadn’t hurt their dad, Brooklyn believed her. But still, so much had not been said. As her mind rewound their conversation, it was amazing how much she hadn’t learned. And she hadn’t even asked Ginny about Dad’s missing gun. Between the callback email and Ginny’s sudden showing of emotion and regret, Brooklyn’s steely resolve had collapsed. And now she was almost a thousand miles from home. Had she been manipulated? Was Ginny so insistent that Brooklyn leave town not because she wanted to support her dream but because she wanted Brooklyn and all her questions to just go away?
Brooklyn jumped in a cab for home and renewed her resolve. First, she’d nail that audition, and then she’d get back to Eden and finally get some answers. If she wanted to be treated like an adult and help make decisions about her dad’s care, she couldn’t back down so easily.
After Ginny left the hospital, she drove home, her only game plan being to do the next right thing. If her life was going to blow up, maybe she could control the damage by coming clean. She wanted to get home to her kids, make her family dinner, brew some coffee, and maybe even find a meeting. She’d go to one tonight if Simon was home. If not, first thing tomorrow. She’d gone thirteen years without a drink, but after falling last Saturday night, every sunrise since had brought unbearable pain, stress, and anxiety, leaving her powerless to fight that demon. There had now been five days of failures. She was not going to let there be a sixth. No matter what came next, she couldn’t escape it in a bottle. Her kids needed her.
She made a meat loaf with hash browns and a chopped salad with ranch, the kids’ favorite, and when Simon still hadn’t appeared or called by seven, she fed them and sipped her coffee while they entertained her with stories from their school day. Miraculously, they seemed oblivious to her struggle and absenteeism of the last week. They were gloriously self-absorbed, exactly what she’d needed. They knew their grandpa was in the hospital and that their mom needed to visit him a lot, so neither had complained about the after-school playdates she’d arranged every day. She gazed at their sunny, freckled faces, amazed that out of such horror could come so much light.
Simon finally got home at nine thirty. The kids had already gone to bed, and she watched from the doorway as he roused each child with a good-night kiss. Mikey and Lyla both responded with closed-eye smiles and whispered hellos before returning to their blissful sleep.
“You hungry?” Ginny asked as he came out of Lyla’s room. “I made meat loaf. I can heat you a piece.”
“Sure,” he said. “That would be great. It’s been a long day.”
She prepared his food and placed the plate in front of him, wondering, as she took a seat across from him at the table, if now was the time. It was late, and he was tired, but it felt like the next right thing. Maybe, once she’d confessed, he would understand why she’d done what she did. If he could forgive her, they could get through it and maybe even have a fresh start.
She opened her mouth—pulling the pin from a grenade—and froze, willing the words to come that would cause the blast.
“Ginny,” he said, beating her to the punch, “I want a divorce.”
It was like a slap, stinging her cheek, shocking her entire body. It was a word he’d never used without disdain. In that way he was like her father, who spoke of those who considered divorce as lesser than, godless souls. Marriage was a sacred endeavor, and even though she’d known Simon only three months when he proposed, he’d made clear that his beliefs dictated a lifelong commitment. She’d jumped at the chance. Just twenty-one at the time, she’d felt old and tired, white-knuckling sobriety with constant church attendance, AA meetings, and diligent focus on getting an LPN license after her first attempt at college and normalcy had crashed and burned. She was desperate for some sort of salvation and she’d looked at Simon—thirty-five at the time, a successful doctor, devout—as a sign from God.
“I didn’t think you believed in divorce,” she said.
“I’ve made peace with my decision. I’ve tried to make it work for a long time. I can’t do it anymore.”
She didn’t know how to respond. It had been sixteen years. The only good that had come from them were the kids. It would break their hearts. “Do you really want to do this? You hardly see the kids as it is.”
“Actually, I’m going to seek custody.”
Ginny’s mouth fell open. He could have punched her in the gut and it would have hurt less. It was absurd. He worked ten- and twelve-hour days; he never spent more than thirty minutes a day with them. She quit her job because he wanted her focus at home. She kept up with this big house; she did everything. He had no idea what he was saying. The children were a mother’s domain—those were his words.
And then she understood.
“Who is she?” Ginny asked.
Simon’s eyes turned away while he put down his fork, took a sip from his water glass, and wiped his mouth, slowly and carefully. Finally, he resumed eye contact, his face absent of emotion, regret, confession, anything. “You’re unfit. I’ve found someone who can give us what we need.”
She felt physically sick. “Are you kidding me?”
Simon stood and tossed the napkin onto the table. “Ginny, let it go.”
She wanted to scream.
“This was a partnership that simply didn’t work. You have a lot of problems to sort through. You aren’t capable of giving any of us what we need. And I’m sorry, but you can’t be trusted with those kids. I’m going to seek custody, and I’m going to get it. I had you followed the other day.”
She held her breath, terrified of whatever else he knew.
“You went to Good Samaritan after leaving the hospital on Tuesday. You walked into the church with Pastor Gary, and forty-five minutes later you drove to a liquor store, went to the forest, got drunk, and then drove thirty minutes home. I found you passed out in Lyla’s bed that night and had to carry you out. You couldn’t even be roused the next morning. That is not a fit parent.”
She opened her mouth but hardly knew what to say.
“I’m sleeping in the guest room. Please, don’t fight me. I don’t want to argue. It’s been a long day.”
He walked upstairs, leaving his half-eaten plate for her to clean.
It was after ten when Wilson finally sat down with his tea to read Woods’s screenplay. He was mentally exhausted from babysitting Eddie, but he’d managed to get him to eat and go to sleep, telling him stories while sitting on the edge of his bed, just as he’d done when Eddie was a child. He was getting too
old for all of it—the job, Eddie, everything.
In that moment, it was hard not to envy his friend John Anderson. The idea of lying in a hospital bed while staff brought in food almost sounded like a vacation. Though he was ready for John to heal up. In two days Wilson would finally be retired, and he was practically pining for one of their card games or a fishing trip.
Wilson sipped his tea and leaned back in his La-Z-Boy before beginning page one of the script. He hadn’t thought he’d get through it before morning, but once he got through the first twenty pages, he had to push his calves against the leg rest, return to an upright position, and focus. He couldn’t put it down.
It was just before midnight when he turned the last page. He pushed back against the seat to fully recline again and stared at his ceiling as the people he knew and the narrative he’d read merged into a painful epiphany.
“Oh, Ginny,” he muttered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DAY FIVE
Friday, May 17
WILSON CALLED DONNY AS SOON as he woke at eight. “You done reading?” he asked.
“The screenplay? Yep. Pretty compelling, right?”
Wilson grunted his agreement. Donny had no idea what this story meant. He was too new to Eden and didn’t know who it was about.
“It wasn’t what I expected,” Donny said.
“Me either.”
“I guess we can’t be certain about any of it without talking to Woods, though. I mean, it’s inspired by a true story, but he may have taken some artistic license, right?”
“True,” Wilson said. But the truth was in there, even if Woods didn’t know it.
“I’m guessing the sheriff referenced in the story was you, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.” Eddie was obviously one of the characters as well, though Donny was sensitive enough to leave that nugget alone.