Aunt Ruth opens the door and pokes her pointy nose into my room. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, like I used to have to wear for ballet, only mine had to be really neat and Aunt Ruth’s is all messy with strands of hair falling out of it. Her hair is mostly reddish brown but has lots of streaks of gray in it. My mom used to whisper to my dad, when she didn’t think I could hear, that it was no wonder Aunt Ruth couldn’t find someone when she didn’t care enough to color her hair anymore. Which is kind of funny that my mom said that, I guess, because now Mom doesn’t care about anything.
Aunt Ruth holds my backpack out to me, and I think she’s going to say something cross, like “Don’t leave this downstairs,” but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she sees I’m crying or maybe it’s because she’s not feeling well. Her face, now that I look at her, is really kind of white, like more white than usual, and there are circles under her eyes. Not as big or dark as my mom’s. My mom’s look like someone punched her, like on the Popeye cartoons. But Aunt Ruth’s are still dark.
“I thought you might need this for homework,” she says.
I nod and take the backpack from her. I don’t tell her thank you like I should, but I’m afraid to talk, afraid I’ll have a ketchup voice like my dad.
And plus, I’m still mad at her for making me go to school.
“How was it at school today?” she asks.
And now I don’t care if I have ketchup voice or not, because she needs to know what she did to me. “It was terrible and awful and horrible and the worst—” I stop myself before I say the rest. “It was the worst.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she looks like she actually means it. She shakes her head sadly. “I’m sure it will get easier.”
“No, it won’t. I hate it there. Why did you make me go? It’s not fair.”
“Eden. You have to go to school. It’s the law. You were out for three weeks. The school district sent a letter to us and to the state.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“Dori Wilson and her sister are homeschooled,” I tell her. I only know that means they don’t have to leave their house if they don’t want to. And that sounds just okeydoke with me. “Why can’t I be homeschooled?”
She smiles, but it’s not really a smile, I can tell. “Because your mother or father or I would have to homeschool you, and none of us are in a position to do that right now. Maybe when your mom gets better, you can talk to her about that.”
Is she ever going to get better? I want to ask the question, but I’m kind of afraid of the answer, so I hold it on my tongue.
“I have to go home for a little while,” she says, and my heart pounds really hard in my chest, like when I was running. Aunt Ruth can be strict, and she sent me back to school, which was really mean, but she’s the only one around here who talks to me. Mostly about chores and how much TV I can watch and that kind of thing, but it’s better than nothing.
“Don’t worry,” she says, reaching out and touching my cheek, like she can tell what I’m thinking. “I won’t be gone long.” She pulls her fingers away from my face, and I watch as she starts to rub her right wrist with her left hand, and her face scrunches up the way Jonah’s used to when Mom put alcohol on his scraped knee. “There’s a very nice sandwich in the fridge for you in case you get hungry. You can have a bag of chips and some milk with it, okay?”
I nod, feeling the choky feeling in my throat again.
I don’t want to be alone in this house, with my mom and her shiny eyes and my dad and his creased forehead. Every minute that goes by feels like hours. Aunt Ruth says she won’t be gone long. But it might as well be forever.
FIFTEEN
SAMUEL
After Ruth leaves, I pour myself another Maker’s Mark, two fingers this time. The first belt hit me hard, especially since I hadn’t eaten lunch, and I probably shouldn’t have driven to pick Eden up. But it was only two blocks, thank God.
When Eden got into the car, I knew she was upset. Her face was red and she was huffing and puffing, and her eyes had that haunted look that all of us have. I didn’t ask her if she was okay. I should have. But I just couldn’t. She would have needed me to make things better for her, and I can’t right now. So I pretended not to notice her distress. Then when we got home, when I pulled into the driveway, I tried to talk to her. And again, I couldn’t. My throat closed up and I was afraid I’d start blubbering, like I did at the park today. I couldn’t let that happen, not in front of my ten-year-old daughter.
I am a terrible father now. I used to be a good father. Not the best, certainly not Father of the Year, but good. I always prided myself on that fact. I never worked weekends so that we could have family time, and I was available most evenings to help with homework and read stories and play with Matchbox cars and Barbies, even though it was difficult for me to satisfactorily make the Barbie voice for Eden. I was always there for my children.
Now, I have only one child. My insides twist at this realization. I’ve had it many times over the last month—I have only one child—and it always takes me by surprise. The wound is torn open, and the pain is fresh and immense.
I wonder if I will ever be a good father again, the father Eden deserves.
Maybe soon. Maybe, if I can just pull myself out from under the weight of grief. Fucking treacherous grief that colors everything a bright shade of rage. Rage that my son was taken from me. It’s difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel, to imagine that there will ever be a time I’m not consumed with grief and rage.
Time heals everything, Tuesday, Thursday . . .
Rachel sang that song on our second date. We were at a Japanese restaurant that had a karaoke lounge in the back. Rachel’s confidence was bolstered by sake and Sapporo, as was her voice, and although the notes didn’t come out perfectly—she is no Céline Dion—she was wonderful, emotional, committed, and won the first prize, a free shot of J?germeister, which I used to my full advantage later that night when I carried her to her bedroom.
Time heals everything, this day, next day. If I’m patient the hurt will end and one fine morning, my heart will mend.
One fine morning. I pray for that one fine morning.
Eden is in her room doing her homework, according to Ruth. I haven’t checked in on her, but I tell myself I don’t need to. Eden is very responsible when it comes to school. She likes to do well. She likes to get good grades and impress her teachers. I wonder how Jonah would have done in school. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten the best grades, but he probably would have been the most popular kid; he would have had countless friends, would have been good at sports, and his teachers would have loved him even if he didn’t quite excel academically because he was so damn charming and had dimples so deep you could almost see the back of his head through them.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.