Jack takes a long sip from his beer. “What about you? The drugs. What are you doing?”
Connor stands awkwardly in the doorway, his arms crossed, leaning on the open frame. “Nothing.”
“Conner, out with it,” Jack says, his voice rising. “We don’t have time for this.” From the other room I smell the rich scent of meat and garlic. It’s time to take it from the oven, but I’m fixed to this spot on the couch, unable to move.
“At first it was just pills. Oxy mostly.” Connor keeps his head down, and I see the top of his head, the pale blond hair that people would exclaim over when he was a toddler.
“Since when?” Jack asks.
“It started after I had surgery on my shoulder last spring. It hurt all the time. Every time I tried to stop taking them, the pain came back. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work. It was easier just to keep taking them.”
I think of all those years Connor played hockey. He was good, but I don’t think he loved the sport like some of the boys. He did it for Jack, all those early morning practices, Jack and Connor rising at dawn and heading out into the blackness of morning to get to the rink by six. All those Saturday away games, the long ferry ride and trips on the bus, duffel bags bulging with pounds full of gear, Jack’s hand heavy on Connor’s back. When Jack watched Connor on the ice, his eyes shone. And Connor saw it.
“Just the pills?” Jack asks, bringing me back to the room.
There’s a long moment of silence. It seems to last forever and I can’t believe that Jack doesn’t bark at him again, but he lets Connor take his time answering the question. Finally, he speaks.
“After a few months, the doctor wouldn’t refill my prescription. I bought the pills from Keith for a while, but it got too expensive. Keith said heroin was cheaper and it was a better high.”
I raise my hand to my face, suddenly aware of the tears that are falling. I wipe them away. They’re useless now. They won’t help save Connor. They won’t help anything. What we need is action. I turn to Jack, for he’s the one who knows this unfamiliar landscape better than any of us.
“What now?” I ask, the first words I’ve spoken in several minutes. My voice comes out hoarse. “What happens now?”
Jack looks over, almost surprised to find me sitting here. I realize that as far as he’s concerned, this is between him and Connor. I feel a flare of anger at Jack, my husband who always needs to be the rescuer, the fixer, quietly controlling all of us as if he’s the puppeteer and we’re just wooden dolls with strings. And yet, as always, I’m the one who’s looking to him for the answer.
“Tomorrow I’m taking you off-island,” Jack says to Connor. “I’ll make some calls tonight. I might be able to get you into St. Theresa’s. There’s a guy at New Beginnings who owes me a favor, and I know someone at Hope Street.” Drug rehab centers on the Cape and beyond. My heart constricts at the thought of sending Connor to one of these places, at the idea that he needs them. Connor shakes his head.
“No, I’ll stop. I don’t need that.”
“Yes, you do.” Jack squeezes his hands together, his only tell that he’s near anger. The knuckles bulge. “I’ve watched kids like you ruin their whole lives in a matter of months. If they even survive it. This is the only way.”
“I don’t want to go to a place like that. I’m not like that.” He looks close to tears.
“Honey, please. Listen to your father. He knows what he’s talking about. He can help you,” I plead.
“I don’t need his help!” He’s trembling with anger, a vicious sneer on his face, and then his body loosens as the fight drains away. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, his legs pulled in tight to his chest. He looks so small, a frightened child folded in on himself. He rests his cheek on his knee.
I get up from the sofa and walk past the drying wine stain, to where Connor is huddled on the ground. Jack watches without speaking, and I sink to the floor next to my son. When I lean into him, I smell his sour odor, unwashed skin, clothes that haven’t been laundered recently. I hold his hands in mine. They’re cold and chapped, the skin rough.
“Connor.” I speak quietly, so softly that Jack would need to crane his neck to hear me. I speak only to Connor. For most of his life, it has been me and Connor against Jack. Was this the start of it all? The way I’d ally myself with Connor rather than presenting the united front we were supposed to maintain as parents? Connor was so soft and Jack was so hard on him. Over and over again, I’d come to Connor’s rescue, turning my back on Jack while I rushed to protect Connor. Was I too gentle with him? Did I leave him unprepared for the reality of the world, incapable of fending off the darker side of life? I squeeze his hands, willing warmth into them.
Sitting beside Connor, I realize that I will do anything for him to be okay. We are a team and we always have been. All those days and nights when Jack was at work, it was just me and Connor. I think back on all the meals we’ve eaten together, the TV shows we’ve watched, the tests I helped him study for, the songs he played on his guitar. Maybe it’s because he was an only child, but I didn’t resent everything that was required of me as a mother. I embraced it, all of the ways that he made me feel necessary. In those moments, I didn’t need Jack. Neither of us did.
“Sweetheart, please. Do this for me,” I say. Connor looks up, and I see the unspilled tears in his red-rimmed eyes, and I know he understands what I’m asking. He may not be cataloging all of the ways I’ve loved him over the years, but he knows that my love for him is bottomless, that I need him to be okay in a way that is both selfless and selfish. The moment stretches between us for what feels like forever, and in that space my mind reels with what I’ll do if he refuses to go. The scenarios play out across my mind—how long can he go on like this before some real harm comes to him?
Finally, he gives a single nod. Something inside me cracks, the relief rushing forth, the fear for him and what is to come, but also the palest glimmer of hope. I rest my cheek against the knot of our hands, and the hot and cold life beats against my face.
Finally I turn to Jack. “He’ll go.”
Jack gives a nod, stoic and distant, and I want to beat my fists upon his chest. Show him you love him, I want to yell. He needs to see you care. But I don’t, and maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Connor has known all along that Jack loves him. Maybe he long ago came to terms with his father’s way of expressing love. Maybe it’s just me who’s still searching for something more.
Jack pushes himself to standing and I do too. Connor clumsily gets up, and we stand awkwardly in the living room.
“I’ll drive you home,” Jack says.
Connor rubs the heel of his hand against his cheek. “My car’s here.”
“Leave it. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven. We’ll get the eight o’clock boat. Pack a small suitcase.”
“What about dinner?” I ask. Such a foolish question, to think that we could all sit around for the rest of the night and play happy family, knowing what the morning will bring. But I can’t bear the thought of them leaving like this.
“He needs to get some sleep,” Jack says. “Besides, the roads are going to be bad if we wait too long.”
Connor and I follow Jack to the kitchen and toward the door. They shrug on heavy winter coats. Champ has risen from his bed and he trails us, nosing Jack’s hand for attention. I realize that after today, I don’t know when I’ll see either of them again. This is all happening too fast, and though just moments earlier I begged Connor to go, for a moment I want to take it all back. Instead, I grab my boy in a fierce hug and bury my face into his dirty winter parka, my arms circling his slight frame. He hugs me back, his arms finding my shoulders, his hand upon my head, stroking my hair in a grown-up gesture of comfort.
“I’ll be okay, Mom,” he says quietly.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Jack opens the door. “I’ll come over before I turn myself in.”
Outside the snow continues to fall. There must be several inches at least
, and the tree branches shake in the wind. I watch the two of them make their way to Jack’s car. Just before they get inside, Jack rests his hand on Connor’s shoulder for a second, pulling him close. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and close the door behind them.
I turn the latch, putting on the deadbolt. In the kitchen I turn off the oven and pull out the dinner. The chicken is overcooked, browning toward black, a dry crunchy waste. I scrape it into the trash and leave the oily casserole dish on the stove. Slowly I walk through the house, turning off lights as I go. Champ follows me, his nails skittering across the floor and up the stairs behind me as I head toward my bedroom.
It will be a long time before sleep comes.
36
Evvy
In the afternoon I get dressed to go see Ian at the jail. I fix my hair and spend the extra five minutes putting on makeup and picking out a shirt I know Ian likes. In my jewelry box I select a pair of earrings he gave me for a birthday, a bracelet from Christmas. He’s been good to me over the years, showering me with gifts and attention, helping me to find a focus in my life. Yet I can’t help but feel a relief he’s not here, as if a burden has been lifted that I didn’t realize I’d been carrying for so long.
I drive to the jail and park my car in the lot behind the building. And then I sit in my car. Visiting hours are from two till four, yet I can’t make myself go inside. It’s what a good wife or girlfriend would do. It’s what I would have done if it was Cyrus locked up here. But something keeps me rooted to the vinyl seat of my car, a gray dread that I’m making the first of years of these visits, coupled with guilt that I haven’t done more to get him freed. Most of all there is a sickening fear—not that Ian is guilty, but of the spiraling rage that will consume us if he’s released.
I sit in the car until the cold has seeped into my bones, and even then I don’t go inside. I merely start the engine and turn on the heat, leaving the car parked where it is. There are a few windows on the back of the building with blinds and bars on them. I imagine Ian inside, peering out at me through a space in the slats, waiting for me to come in, waiting for me to show him I’ll stand by him through this. Snow falls across my windshield, blocking out the sun and leaving the inside of the car a dark blue cave.
I’ve stumbled upon an ugly truth in the days that Ian’s been gone. I don’t believe he killed that girl, but I don’t want him to come home. I blink in the blue-gray quiet of the empty car, alert to the possibility that has suddenly presented itself.
Even if Ian is found not guilty, I can leave him.
We’ve never married, despite multiple proposals on Ian’s part. Yet something has kept me from saying yes. For years I’ve managed to evade him, telling him I didn’t want to marry again, that things were good the way they were and there was no reason to complicate things. In some dim corner of my brain I always knew I didn’t want to marry Ian because then I’d forever shut the door on the possibility that someday Cyrus might come home. The other reason I never said yes, I realize now, was because I don’t want to tether myself to Ian for the rest of my life. I don’t love him enough. When Serena died and Cyrus left, I was lost. Ian found me again, that much is true, but I no longer believe this is enough to forgive everything else.
After two hours, when visiting hours have ended, I pull out of the lot. My windshield wipers clear the fluffy snow off the glass, revealing the surprising brightness of late afternoon. The sun is an orange flame across the trees, the late day suddenly full of promise. The heat pours from the vents, thawing me slowly, and I grip the wheel as the warmth finds my fingers. I back out slowly from the spot, hoping Ian hasn’t seen me here, grateful that if he has, he cannot unleash his rage upon me tonight. Or perhaps ever again.
I stop for groceries, wishing I’d picked up food the other day when I’d gone for my father. It’s impossible to go to the grocery store without bumping into a handful of people, and I haven’t had the energy to face anyone I don’t have to. Ian usually does the shopping, stopping to socialize and then taking his time in the gourmet section, returning home with jars of olives and blocks of expensive cheese, which he presents to me like gifts. I feel a tug of love for him that I can’t quite reconcile with my inaction just minutes earlier.
The store is packed, everyone running around stocking up on things for the storm—a blizzard I barely knew was coming.
“Eight inches, at least ten, maybe even a foot!” I hear the predictions buzz around me as the other shoppers fill their carts with bottled water and batteries, candles and lighters. Everyone is in a hurry to get their shopping finished before the roads get too bad. I fill my cart with enough food to get me through the weekend and then throw in a few packs of batteries and bottles of water, just in case. I remind myself to dig out the flashlights and candles when I get home. The woman at the cash register tells me they’re predicting eight to twelve inches with high winds overnight. The boats will likely be cancelled by evening. By the time I pack the groceries in my car, the sun has set and the wind whips my hair around my face. The snow falls heavier, tiny white flakes that crowd together so the road is nearly invisible.
In the kitchen I unpack my groceries and crank up the heat. The house is quiet without Daisy. It’s not as if she’s home often anyway, but knowing both she and Ian are gone gives the house an empty feeling. The weather app on my phone shows it’s snowing in Boston too. She sent me a quick text to tell me she arrived, but it’s all I can do not to check in every hour. Having the ocean between us makes me clingier than usual.
I eat some leftover pasta, then I take a long hot shower and change into pajamas, though it’s only seven. I comb out my hair, and stare at my reflection in the mirror of the bathroom. The glass is foggy from the steam of the shower, giving my face a softness it doesn’t actually have. I see Daisy and Serena in my reflection and turn away from the mirror.
I’m searching for a weather report on TV when I hear the crunch of tires in the driveway. For a moment I think it’s Ian, and the physical sensation of my heart dropping into my stomach takes me by surprise, especially when I know he’s still in jail. When I pull back the curtain I see it’s not Ian but Cyrus, and relief floods over me like a warm bath, followed by a flutter of excitement that I wish his presence didn’t still bring. He knocks on the door with three heavy raps. Snow swirls around him, and his black ski hat is covered in flakes of white. There must be at least four inches covering the railing of the porch.
“Hi, Cy. Here to check on me?” He gives me a wry smile. “Come on in.”
The wind whistles and the trees sway back and forth in the night. I hold the door open wide and he comes inside. Across the road I notice Mary Porter peering through her pulled-back curtain, likely tucking Cyrus’s presence into her bag of gossip for later. I shut the door tight.
“You know there’s a blizzard watch, right?”
“Yeah, I know. Boats are cancelled. Gina was at a conference, and she’s stuck off-island.” He takes his hat and coat off and drops them on one of the easy chairs. “I wanted to make sure you had everything to get you through this storm. And I promised Daisy.”
“So I heard.”
“She was worried about you. She felt bad leaving you alone, with everything that’s going on. She asked if I’d check on you.” He shrugs sheepishly.
I’m touched that this occurred to Daisy when she was so obviously excited about going away with Todd. “That was nice of her. But I’m fine. Really.”
Cyrus raises an eyebrow. “Heard you spent two hours not visiting Ian today.”
I feel my face flush and let out a sigh. “This island.”
He shrugs. “What happened?”
I sink onto the couch and Cyrus joins me. “I don’t know. I wanted to go in, or I wanted to want to go in, if that makes sense. But I couldn’t.”
“Are you going to stand by him through this?” His voice is gentle, and I want to smooth down his hair where his hat has mussed it.
My resolve from earlier this aftern
oon has seeped away after coming home to the empty house I share with Ian. There are reminders of him everywhere—his muddy boots by the front door, piles of change on the dresser, his sweater thrown over the arm of a chair. Extricating myself from the life we share seems harder now.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“You don’t have to,” he says, and I press my lips together to stop the tears.
“Don’t I?”
When Cyrus and I were in high school, we used to skip our second period study hall and spend the hour in Cyrus’s twin bed, our clothes in a heap on the floor. I remember returning to school and the secret warmth that would stay with me for the rest of the day. I’d try to focus in math class, but Cyrus’s hands would still be on my skin.
“You’re not even married. He’s hurt you before. Whether he’s guilty or not, no one will hold it against you,” Cyrus says. I hang my head, ashamed that he’s right, that the public opinion of Great Rock means so much to me. How can it not? This is my home. These are the people I’ve known all my life. “You can leave him. Just walk away. Pack his things. You don’t need him. I’ll help you, if you’re afraid.”
Those days when we were in high school, I’d go home and take off my clothes, stand in front of the mirror naked. I wanted to see what Cyrus saw. I was always surprised that there wasn’t some evidence of him left upon me, the pink imprint of his palms along my waist, golden circles along my chest. From the inside, I was glowing. On the outside, I looked just the same.
Despite the love I’ve felt for Ian over the years, it’s never come close to what Cyrus made me feel. All this time I’ve tried to chalk it up to the way love changes with age, but now I wonder if maybe it’s just been Cyrus all along.
Everybody Lies Page 23