“I know.”
“This is me, hoping that unveiling the truth can help you. That it can help us both.”
“I understand. How did Arnold seem?”
Small, I want to say. Shrunken. But instead I describe him in what favorable light I can, and this seems to please Michael.
What I don’t elaborate on is how upset both Arnold and Candace were upon discovering who I was. That Candace accused me of being part of something. How, at first, I thought Arnold was maybe getting senile, paranoid. But that I’ve since come to think they were unhappy with Laura’s trial.
After I’m done describing a highly edited version of my encounter with Michael’s family, he stares off for a bit, lost in thought.
“Michael,” I say, not knowing how to begin. “If this . . . if you’re being honest with me, then this really may not be the setting. To uncover the truth, and a truth as hard as what yours might be . . . It’s like surfacing in the water. You know, you can go too fast and get the bends. For your own health, your own safety, this should really be with a clinician, someone other than me.”
He locks on me with those preternaturally light eyes. Eyes shining with intelligence. “You still think I’m lying.”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m trying not to have an opinion, to be objective. But you see how silly that is? I’m too close to this. You could say I have an agenda.”
He’s quiet. “I want to do this. I think it will help. Please.”
I take a slow breath. My gaze wanders to the window, to the lake, growing dark in the eventide. I picture the sailboat cutting through the chop. My son sitting at the back, gripping the tiller, wind in his hair, grin on his face. We taught Sean to sail when he was very young.
This whole thing — sitting here with Michael — it’s surreal. I should be at the hospital with my son.
But I am here. For whatever reason, because of whatever choices I’ve made, I’m here.
Once more, I’m driven by my own need.
“All right, Michael. Lie back now, okay?”
A smile slipstreams across his face, almost too quick to catch. “All right,” he says, instantly sobered and ready for business.
“All the way back. There you go. Okay. We’re just going to breathe for a minute. We’re going to inhale to a count of three, and exhale to a count of five. We’re going to slow the heart rate. We’re going to calm the mind.”
I take a few breaths of my own. I move my thoughts from the lake and my son to this young man. This room. This space in time.
“Good,” I say. “Inhale again. And exhale. That’s it, breathe. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Michael’s breathing is regular and deep. His eyes are closed, but he’s awake.
“Then let’s begin.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The air is cold but humid, holding the promise of snow. Tom feels the dampness, but it registers further back in his mind; unimportant. What’s important is that he’s home at last, after nearly eleven hours of school and day care, he’s back. He’s thinking about the book he’s reading. It’s a good one — Deathly Hallows — and he’s excited to return to that world.
“Wash up before you do anything else,” his mother says, as if reading his mind.
They walk from the driveway to the side entrance. There’s a garage, but it’s filled with Dad’s tools, an old motorcycle, a hundred boxes of things — no room for a car.
“Okay,” Tom says, and his mother keys the lock and lets them inside.
It’s warm in the house. He breathes in. It smells like traces of the coffee and bacon from that morning. The leathery, rubbery odor of shoes and boots lining the entryway. Dust and pine and mildew. The ticking of the many clocks — there are fourteen of them.
This is home.
He kicks off his boots and heads for the downstairs bathroom. There’s a stool tucked under the sink and he pulls it out so he can look at himself in the mirror. He can’t wait to grow taller. His teacher says he’s an advanced reader. He wishes he were an advanced grower too — he’s nearly the shortest boy in his classes.
Hands washed, Tom bounds upstairs.
“Dinner in twenty minutes!”
“Okay!” He doesn’t have a watch and can barely figure twenty minutes, but she’ll call again. For now, he’s going to immerse himself in his favorite alternative reality . . .
. . . and lose himself until his mother appears in his doorway.
Has it been twenty minutes? She’s holding his plate. Her face is blank and her eyes devoid. “Do you want an invitation? Or do you want me to just throw it out?”
“Sorry!” He hops up — he’s hungry — and brings the plate back downstairs. Once in the kitchen at the table where they usually eat, Tom sits down. (There’s a “dining room,” but his parents only really use it for company, for their parties and Christmas and things like that.)
His mother’s plate is empty, but her wine glass is full. She sits across from him and drinks, staring off into space.
“Use your napkin,” she says, catching him. He wipes some spaghetti sauce from the corners of his mouth.
Dad isn’t there. The fact of it feels big and loud, though neither of them mentions it. It’s a familiar predicament. And Tom knows that asking about his father will only make his mother more upset; her mood has darkened like this before.
Besides, Dad will be along eventually. He always comes home. At least, sometimes, when Tom is in bed before his dad gets in, he’ll hear the footsteps coming into his room and feel the dry kiss on his forehead.
Tom’s mother drinks her wine, then gets up. She pours another glass and stands at the sink, gazing out the window.
“It’s going to snow tonight,” she says.
“Maybe we can go sledding tomorrow?”
But she doesn’t answer or turn around. She only stares out the window, like she’s deep in thought.
*
“I want my mom back,” Michael mumbles.
I sit up a little straighter. “What’s that, honey?”
He delays a response. “She’s just angry.”
“What is she angry about?”
But he doesn’t answer.
Carefully, I ask, “Tom . . . where are you right now? Are you still sitting with her at the table?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what happens next.”
*
Dinner is awkward and silent. At one point, his mother leaves and doesn’t come back until after he’s finished. He waits for her return before taking his dishes to the sink — this way, she can see he’s cleaned his plate.
She barely notices. She has a funny smell, like car exhaust. But when he drops his plate in the sink a little too harshly, it rouses her. She looks around, as if coming out of a dream, then focuses on him.
Wonderfully, she smiles.
He cautiously approaches — has she been crying? Her eyes are glassy, and there’s a faint black smudge under each. Like her makeup ran.
“All right, let’s get you ready for bed, mister.”