“You sure?”
“No.” A pause. “Maybe we could just stay like this for a little while longer.”
“Okay.”
And so we stood. And it wasn’t so much a hug as me trying to put into action what I couldn’t put into words. I wanted Ezra not to look so heartbroken. I wanted him to feel as safe as he made me and Foster feel.
Ezra drew several deep breaths, and then he began to count again.
I didn’t stop him. I didn’t question it. I didn’t understand, but in the moment, I didn’t feel the need to. I just wanted Ezra to be okay.
We had been back from the visitation for some time when I found Foster hanging out under the kitchen table.
It was not uncustomary to find Foster in weird places, like sitting in an empty bathtub or the laundry basket or the coat closet. But lying under the kitchen table was a new one. So I went and sat down on the floor, wrapped my arms around my legs, and leaned back against the dishwasher. It was running, and those loud swishing sounds filled the room.
“He looked like he was asleep, Dev,” Foster said after a long time. “Sam Wells? He looked just like he was sleeping. There were so many people there they filled up three huge rooms.”
“I guess he was important to a lot of people.”
“If you died, what would you want them to say about you?”
I knew this was one of those Foster questions that needed no answer, so I let him go on.
“I mean, would you want people saying all this nice shit about you, or would you want them to tell the truth?”
“The truth?”
“The real stuff. Sometimes you talk too loud. And you get pissed off for no reason. And sometimes you’re judgmental about people who don’t deserve it.”
I didn’t get mad, half because Foster was working through something, and half because it was the truth.
“And just because you died wouldn’t mean that stuff wasn’t part of who you were. But people wouldn’t talk about the real stuff.”
“They want to focus on the good things,” I said.
“The good things didn’t kill him.” He paused. “He was really dumb, Dev. But you can’t say that. You’re not supposed to say that.”
I didn’t speak.
“If Ezra died, would you still call him a dickhead?”
“Don’t say stuff like that.”
“You always say that. You always tell me what not to say, but I’m just telling the truth and I don’t see what’s wrong with that. If Ezra died, I’d want you to keep on calling him a dickhead if that’s how you felt about him. Just because a person dies doesn’t mean it should change the way you feel about them, or the way they really were. Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean that they weren’t a bad person or that they never fucked up.”
It clicked. Like a lightbulb, or something less cliché.
“Foster—”
“Don’t talk about my mom. Don’t say one single word.”
“What if it’s just to tell the truth?”
It was his turn to be silent. His mouth was twisted into a frown, his eyes locked on the underside of the table.
“If she died, we wouldn’t forget what she did to you. Ever. We could even hate her a little bit if we wanted, even if she died.”
Foster swallowed and didn’t look over.
It was quiet for a long time. And then, “He could’ve helped her.”
The dishwasher shut off and the silence was pressing. “What?”
“Your dad could’ve helped her. Before she got so bad. Just because my dad’s dead doesn’t mean he couldn’t have helped her.”
“I don’t think they knew.… I mean, I don’t think anybody knew how bad it had gotten.”
“If he cared, he would’ve known.”
I couldn’t speak for my dad. But I knew that grief had something to do with it. Maybe he should’ve called more. And maybe by the time they realized something was wrong, it was too late.