I clear my throat. “Two. Sheila’s a junior like me and Petey is eight.”
“Oh, it must be hard for her, moving in the middle of high school. That happened to me and, well… well… it’s not nearly as hard as what you’re going through, of course.” She pats my hand to comfort me but only emphasizes how Sheila’s life was ruined so mine wouldn’t be. “When terrible things happen, it’s hard on everyone. When Scott found out… well…”
She squeezes my hands again and lets go. “Let me get you something to drink. You still like iced tea?”
I haven’t had any since… well, Dad was the one who made it.
“I do.”
“It won’t be as good as Martin’s. I don’t know why his was always so much better.”
“Put baking soda in the water while you’re boiling it.”
“Baking soda? Are you sure?”
“It counteracts acid in the tea and makes it taste smoother. A quarter teaspoon per quart.”
“Well… I’ll certainly try that… baking soda…”
She sets a glass in front of me and I take a sip. Yes, it needs baking soda.
“Thank you.”
“I thought Scott would have heard us by now. I’ll go get him.”
Maybe he just doesn’t want to come out. Sarah was right; he’s going to feel like I’m cornering him. It’s stupid—I didn’t even think about his mom being here. It’s surreal sitting here having a normal conversation with her like the last couple years never happened.
She’s gone longer than it takes to walk down the hall and back. What am I going to say if he won’t see me? How much does she know? What am I going to say if he does come? I really haven’t sorted this out.
I hear shuffling and doors opening and closing. Then footsteps. He’s alone.
“Hey.” He sits down.
“Hey. Where’s your mom?”
“In her bedroom.”
“Oh.”
I hear the soundtrack to Grease start playing, muffled by the intervening walls and closed doors… The sound wraps itself around my heart and squeezes.
God, I should have thought this through. I usually just say whatever I think but my mind is blank. Now I wish I’d planned something.
“I guess I should have texted you instead of just coming.” My voice surprises me at how quiet it is, like I’m talking to myself. “I just wanted to hear your real voice, not just texts or over the phone. I know that’s not fair… I didn’t let you do that…”
“It’s fine, though I need to go to work in a few minutes.”
“Oh? Where do you work?”
“I… do building maintenance and some landscaping at Ridgeway Mall, for the owner, not just any one store. But… that’s not what you came to talk about.”
“No. I came to tell you…” What?
Silence.
Then something comes out without me even thinking about it, in a whisper.
“I miss my dad.”
“I…” Scott says. “I know. I’m sorry. I wanted to… when it happened, but… you know. I… I mean…”
He’s using what I used to call his boyfriend voice but I don’t think it’s deliberate. To me it’s like a cat purring.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m just sorry about your dad.”
“You were going to say something else.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just sorry.”
“It’s okay, Scott. Say it. You… you can say anything.”
“It’s just… I miss him, too.”
Scott’s dad died of a heart attack when Scott was just a baby. I never really thought much about how all that time Scott spent at our house was time with my dad as well as me. It never occurred to me that when I cut him off he lost my dad too, long before I did.
“I’m sorry.” I can barely hear myself.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
“I do. I… I should have let you explain. It wasn’t fair that I didn’t even listen.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters! I… I don’t want to be someone who doesn’t listen! And… and I think it would have made a difference.”
He says nothing. There’s definitely something I’m missing, but I don’t even know how to ask.
“You know they think he killed himself?”
“What?” He sounds like this is a complete surprise.
“He OD’d on prescription drugs. I know it was an accident. The police report said the amount of drugs made it impossible to say for sure but they strongly suspected suicide and that was enough for the insurance company.”
“Of course it was an accident, Parker. He’d never do that to you. Never.”
“I know… except… I didn’t even know he was taking anything in the first place. For depression or anxiety or both, I don’t know. It’s like those things are tangled up in ways I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. It was an accident.”
“But what if it wasn’t!”
I’m holding the half-full glass of iced tea on the table and with all the moisture it slips out of my grip when my hand squeezes—it slides across the table and stops. Scott takes my hand with his, puts the glass back into it, and lets go. My throat closes up.