He stopped talking, but he showed no sign of wanting to walk away. I had the sense there was something else he wanted to tell our father. I gave his shoulder another squeeze.
“So, I also wanted to say I’m sorry. Not just about not going to the funeral, and not helping out more.” He swallowed. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about pushing you, on the stairs.” He paused. “And on the hill.”
My hand froze.
“I’m sorry I got so upset about maybe having to tell the police things about Mr. Peyton. I just had to come out and talk to you about it. I never meant to shove you. And I’m real sorry I didn’t call for help right away.” Another pause. “I was really scared.”
I took my hand off Thomas’s shoulder.
“So, I guess that’s all,” he said to our father. “I’ll come up and see you again soon.”
Then he turned to me and said, “Can we go see my new place now? I’d like to figure out where all my stuff is going to go.”
He stepped around me and started walking. I stood there, numb, and watched as Thomas made his way back to the car.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had help.
Thank you to Susan Lamb, Eva Kolcze, Danielle Perez, Juliet Ewers, Nick Storring, Kristin Cochrane, Spencer Barclay, Mark Rusher, Helen Heller, Bill Massey, Jeff Winch, Kara Welsh, Cathy Paine, Sophie Mitchell, Alex Kingsmill, Paige Barclay, Ali Karim, Brad Martin, Mark Streatfield and Elia Morrison.
And, of course, Neetha.