“Hey, honey,” Dad says when he answers.
“Dad,” I say. It feels good to hear his voice. We’ve texted a few times since Thanksgiving, and each week he e-mails me. Just stupid stuff—like about the house he showed that day, and how cold it was and then asking me about school, and soccer.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I wish you were here.”
“Me too.”
“Earlier, we were talking about that time, when Sam puked.”
“Oh, lord have mercy,” he says, laughing.
We talk for a bit before he gets silent. “How’s . . . How did Sam take the news?”
I know right away he means the news about that man being killed. I lower my voice a little. “He freaked out,” I say. “But he’s okay now.” I wonder if it’s true even as I say it.
Dad sighs. “Well, I’m glad that . . . I’m glad that man’s dead.”
“Me too,” I say, even though I don’t know how I really feel.
“Will you do something for me tomorrow?” Dad says.
“Sure.”
“Will you hug Sam for me?”
“Of course,” I say.
===
There’s no snow on Christmas morning—there never is—but a winter chill came through overnight, dropping the temps below freezing, and we’re all bundled up sitting by the tree. Earl has even started a fire in the fireplace, our first of the season. The logs crackle as we open gifts.
I receive gift cards, a necklace from Aunt Shelley, a few sweaters, some novels. Sam seems to like his soccer ball, even bouncing it on his head a few times. He also says he loves his sketchbook, flipping through the pages and touching the paper, maybe imagining how he will fill them.
“This is too much,” Mom says, looking at all the wrapping paper littering the floor after we’re done.
“Wait, there’s one more,” Shelley says, handing Mom a card, looking proud and mischievous.
Mom rips it open. “What on earth?” She flashes around what looks like a ticket. “What is this?”
“You’re going on a cruise with me next week. That’s what it is,” she says.
“Shelley, I can’t,” Mom says.
“Yes, you can,” Earl says. “You deserve a vacation.”
“It’s my fiftieth birthday present to myself and I’m not going alone.”
“But Shell—”
“Mom, you’re going,” I say, excited for her.
“Oh my God,” she says. She stands and hugs Shelley, but then looks over at Sam, like she’s worried about his reaction. “I can’t leave the kids, though.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Shelley says.
“We’ll be fine, Mom,” I say. But I know she’s not worried about leaving me.
“Yeah, Mom,” Sam says, sounding like he’s annoyed she’s even worrying. “You have to go. We’ll be okay.”
She nods, still unsure.
“Well, it’s settled,” Shelley says.
Earl grabs a trash bag and we start piling in the wrapping paper, ribbons, boxes.
“Ready for some breakfast?” Mom asks.
“Wait,” Sam says. He walks down the hall and into his room. He comes back with four little packages all wrapped in red tissue paper. Each one is marked with a sticker that bears our names. He passes them out. “Go ahead, open them,” he says.
I tear away the paper and, wrapped inside, is a little framed colored-pencil drawing of the whole family—Shelley included—posing against a bright yellow backdrop, or maybe an otherworldly sky. It’s even better than the sketches I saw, the ones that Tony gave me. Somehow Sam has captured how we all really look—our cheekbones and hair and smiles, though the bright colors of our clothes, and the yellow hovering behind us, somehow make us look like we are posing in some fantasy world. “I love it,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
“Oh my God,” Shelley says slowly, then turning her portrait so that we all can see it. It’s much the same as mine—the whole family—but hers is also slightly different. We’re wearing different clothes in hers, and everyone is set against a lavender background. Everyone’s is different, I realize.
“These are gorgeous, honey. Gorgeous,” Mom says.
“A true artist indeed,” Shelley says, getting up and hugging Sam.
We set them all in a row along the mantel. I watch Sam as he watches us admire his art, and it’s like I can see relief spreading through him, and also a kind of happiness that I realize I haven’t seen in him before. I give him that hug then, the one from Dad. But it’s from both of us, really.
When we pull apart, I stay in the den while Sam joins everyone in the kitchen. I want to look at the pictures on the mantel a little more. And only then do I notice something. We’re all smiling, in every picture—me, Mom, Shelley, Earl. Everyone except Sam. In each picture, Sam stands there, gazing out, not frowning, really, but looking blank, like his mind is miles away.
CHAPTER 12
A Better Place
Josh
It’s a few days before Christmas and we’re in the family room finishing a late dinner when the news comes on and the anchor from Channel 4 announces that Russell Hunnicutt has been murdered by another inmate while in prison. His mug shot flashes on the screen. Then a shot of the prison where it happened.
The anchor throws it to a reporter speaking from outside Sam’s house. The reporter talks, filling the air with what little information she has. Behind the reporter, I see the house, lit up.
“Good,” Mom says.
Dad gives her a funny look.
“What?” she says. “He was a horrible man. Good riddance.”
Dad still looks at her funny, but he seems too flustered to say anything. I look back at Mom, and she has this fierce, determined look on her face, and for some reason this gives me comfort.
“Don’t you think at least Diane and Earl can have some peace,” Mom continues, “knowing that the man who did this to Sam can no longer harm them anymore?”
“He was locked behind bars. He was probably going to be sentenced to life in prison,” Dad says, sounding exasperated.
“So? He would still be able—”
“Can I call Sam?” I ask, breaking into their argument.
Mom looks over like she’s just remembered I’m there, and her face softens.
“Not now,” Dad says. “Give them some time, okay? Give them some space.”
“Okay,” I say. It was a stupid idea anyway. Sam doesn’t want to hear from me. Not after what I told him.
I take my plate into the kitchen and leave Mom and Dad to their argument. Up in my room I wonder about Sam. How he feels about what happened to Rusty. Is he happy? Upset? Shocked? I wish I could call him and ask. I wish I could be there for him. I think about that awful story Sam told, when Rusty tried to kill him. And all those other days and nights when he put Sam through so much pain.
Rusty’s dead now. That man who was just a few feet away from me all those years ago. I wonder if he died instantly, or if he bled to death, slowly and painfully, so that he had time to think about the horrible things he did. And if it was slow, did he think about Sam at least a little bit, and did he feel sorry? Did he wish he could go back to that day, too? Go back and just leave Sam alone.