“Just that he needed to talk to me. But he left it on my home phone and I spent the weekend at my girlfriend’s apartment, so I didn’t get it until last night.”
“I’ve been trying to reach him, too,” Bob says, “and I’m a little worried. I was supposed to meet him for dinner last night—-I was in New York for the past -couple of days—-but at the last minute, he couldn’t make it.”
“Why not?”
“Subway trouble, he said.”
“There was subway trouble last night during rush hour,” Kurt assures him, just in case Bob is doubting Rick’s explanation. “Definitely.” He chooses not to mention what he read in this morning’s newspaper: that someone jumped in front of a train. Suicide.
“I know,” Bob says, “but I offered to meet him after that, and he didn’t want to.”
“So you heard from him later last night?”
“Yes, but not since then.”
“That’s good, though.” That was just twenty--four hours ago. Bob is jumping the gun on being alarmed. “How did he sound?”
“It was just a text. The thing is, he hasn’t called me back today. I just want to make sure he’s okay. I know you don’t live right around the corner, but—-”
“I’ll try him again, but I’m sure he’s fine. Sometimes he just sort of . . . drops out for a while. Especially since my mom . . . you know.”
“I’m so sorry about your mom. I really am.”
“Thanks. It’s been a year, but it’s still hard.”
“I’m sure it is. On everyone. Including Rick.”
Kurt’s pulse quickens. “They were divorced.”
“I’m aware, and I’ve been through it myself, so I know that kids take sides after something like that. But I hope you kids understand that what happened to your mother wasn’t Rick’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Do you know how my mother died, Bob?” Kurt is up out of bed, striding across the small room. “Because it’s not like it was from natural causes, or an accident. She didn’t get hit by a bus or have a heart attack. She climbed into the bathtub and she slit her freaking wrists.”
“I know that. I’m sorry.”
“It didn’t have to happen.”
“Your father feels the same way. I talked to him about it over the weekend. He told me she’d started taking prescription antidepressants that came with a suicide risk, and he’s blaming himself for that even though she’d been dealing with depression on and off for years. I just want to make sure you kids aren’t blaming him as well.”
Kurt stares at the framed photo on his cluttered dresser top. It shows his mother, young and pretty as a china doll, holding him on her lap. He was just a toddler. Both their faces are cast in shadow; it belongs to the photographer, his biological father, whose long silhouette falls over the photo.
Sure, she was depressed from time to time. Look what she went through. But . . .
“I can’t speak for my brother or my half brother and half sister,” he tells Bob after a long moment. “I promise you that I’m not blaming Rick for what happened to my mother, though. He’s the only father I ever knew.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I know he thought of you and your brother as his own sons, and your mom . . . well, it started out a really good thing, and it just didn’t work out in the end. It happens. But—-”
Exhausted, Kurt stops him there. “I know all that. It’s okay.”
God, it’s been a long day. A long year. One year, one week, and one day since his mother died.
“Look, if I don’t get ahold of him tonight, and if the others haven’t heard from him, either, then I’ll go over and check on him first thing in the morning,” Kurt promises Bob. “Okay?”
“Okay. And when you reach him, tell him to call me right away. I’m going to talk him into coming down to Florida to visit me over Christmas. You can all come if you want. I’ve got plenty of room.”
“We might just do that. Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.”