“It doesn’t.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice to see Mom so happy. My stepdad, too. But . . . I don’t know. Something’s off. Mom wants us to move on with our lives, but how can we? How can we pretend nothing ever happened?”
Dr. Rao doesn’t say anything. She was never someone who needed to fill the air with words.
“What . . . what happened to my brother?” I ask. “What happened to him there?” I see that man’s awful face, the scraggly beard, the dead eyes, and I feel a chill tingle up my back. I know Dr. Rao doesn’t know much more than I do about the case; maybe she knows even less. But who else can I ask?
Dr. Rao just looks concerned, calm.
“And why did he stay there? I read one article online that says he went out by himself all the time. He even had friends. So why wouldn’t he try and escape? That’s what everyone wants to know, but no one can ask him. We can’t talk about any of that at home. But . . . I just can’t get past it.”
“Give it time, Beth. Give him time.”
“That’s what everyone says,” I say, disappointed that this is her only response. We both just sit there for a bit—kind of like when I’d sit in her office years ago, defiantly silent. But I don’t want her to leave yet. “My dad’s coming tomorrow,” I say.
She lets that settle in the air. “Are you excited to see him?”
“He’s only coming because of Sam,” I say. “It’s been three years since Sam disappeared and Dad never even called me. And before that, we hadn’t seen him in two years. So, it’s been five years. I shouldn’t even call him Dad. He doesn’t deserve that name.” The anger in my voice surprises me.
“Beth, I don’t have magical words,” Dr. Rao says. “But I can say, as a parent myself, that your father loves you. He may not have always shown this, for whatever reason. And he may not have seen you for a while, for whatever reason. But trust me, he loves you.”
I shake my head, let out a little laugh. It’s true, she doesn’t have magical words. She never has. But I never expected to hear the usual crap from her. I flip my hood back over my head and jump off the trunk. “Well, I better get going.”
“Beth.”
I open the car door. “Yeah?” I say, not looking back at her.
“Will you talk to your mother about scheduling a visit? You’re dealing with a lot. Your brother, your father. Of course things are confusing now. I’d like to help.”
No one can help, I think. I don’t nod, I don’t say anything, I just get in my car and drive away. At a stop sign, before I turn the corner, I look in the rearview mirror, quickly, and see her still standing there, watching me slip away.
===
If you take away Sam vanishing and everything, then my family’s story isn’t that unusual. Big deal, two parents divorcing. Tons of kids at school had divorced parents. Plenty of kids had stepparents.
Dad was always the fun-loving one. He’d crack open a beer when he got home from work each day, and by the end of the night five or six cans would be stacked on the counter. But I don’t remember him being a drunk or anything like that. He was always quick to laugh, making jokes, teasing. Mom was the one frowning, angry and annoyed. Always cooking or cleaning or washing, barely resting to watch the news on TV.
They argued a lot, but Dad always seemed to treat these fights as jokes—he never took anything seriously. He’d spend a lot of time out with his friends, calling at the last minute telling Mom he’d be home late. Once, when he did this, she took his plate of dinner from the table and threw it down the driveway.
It was rainy the night they told us they were divorcing. They told me separate from Sam, because he was so young and probably wouldn’t get it.
Mom’s eyes were red, worn out from crying. But they were dry at that moment while we sat on the couch. Dad was the one crying. I’d never seen him cry, so I was frozen in fear. Mom gave the usual speech that all divorcing parents tell their kids: “Sweetie, sometimes even when two people love each other—well, that’s not always enough.”
“Your mother wants a divorce,” Dad said. I noticed that it was not we want a divorce.
I asked why, fighting tears. But what do you say to a nine-year-old whose life you’re ruining? None of their explanations mattered. I ran out of the room, out the kitchen door, into the hard rain. I ran to the big oak tree in the front yard and took shelter there, even though it didn’t really protect me. It was Mom who came out. “I’m so sorry.” She hugged me and cried and we both got soaked. I looked over her shoulder and saw Dad, watching from the garage. Safe and dry. I wanted him to be the one hugging me, but he was already miles away.
Dad moved out. For a while we’d see him on weekends. Or else he’d call and we’d talk on the phone and then Mom would get on and they’d fight.
After the divorce was official he moved away, back to Ohio, where he was from. He got a job there selling real estate. He took us for ice cream the day before he left. When he dropped us off and told us he loved us, Sam started screaming, “Don’t leave!” I had to pull him off Dad. When he drove away, I thought my heart couldn’t bear it. I missed him immediately. And Sam, Sam was hysterical, and I tried to hug him and calm him down but he just kicked at me and yelled “Go away!” And it killed me because even though I knew he was in pain, nothing I said or did could make him feel better or undo what had happened.
Kind of like now.
===
I wake on the air mattress and hear the noises from the kitchen—coffee cups clinking, Mom and Aunt Shelley talking, the oven opening and shutting with a metallic squeak. I hear the TV, too. I’m in the living room-slash-dining room, tucked in my little corner of home till Aunt Shelley leaves. She made the usual protestations last night about taking my room. “No, let me sleep on the air mattress. Beth needs her privacy.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love Aunt Shelley, a lot. She’s the only family Mom has, really, besides some stray cousins I’ve never met.
Aunt Shelley’s what you would call a character. She’s tall, big-boned, and has this flop of poofy blondish-graying hair. She has big lips that she covers with this purple-red lipstick, and slightly crooked teeth. I know this makes it sound like she’s hideous, but it works somehow—she looks charming and unique. She sells real estate in Nashville. Aunt Shelley is a lot older than Mom. She’ll turn fifty in January. Both Mom’s parents died years ago, so Shelley’s kind of motherly toward her, but not in a strict way—more like a mom who wants to be her daughter’s best friend.
With Dad coming, it’s a relief she’s here, putting us at ease with her jokes and laughter.