I wanted to argue with her that things would never get back to normal. Normal was walking my little brother to the kindergarten gate, not because I wanted to, but because my mom and dad made me, but I kind of liked the feel of his chubby little fingers holding tight to my hand like I was his champion or something and would protect him from anything that could hurt him or scare him. Normal was going into Mrs. Hartnett’s class every Tuesday and Thursday for kinder-readers—they put me with my brother ’cause that’s the way they do it with brothers and sisters—and listening to him read and helping him with the big words that he couldn’t understand, but a fifth grader, his reading buddy, could tell him what they meant. Normal was walking home from school with my friends, pretending Jonah wasn’t there, but always checking, every few minutes, to make sure he was only four or five steps behind me, rolling my eyes when he called my name.
Nothing would ever be normal again without Jonah.
But I kept my mouth shut because I knew Aunt Ruth wouldn’t change her mind, and with Mom and her shiny eyes and Dad and his creased forehead, she’s kind of in charge of things right now.
So here I am, and Mr. Libey is writing something on the smart board, and Betsy Morgan is staring at me and whispering to Ava Landou, and Matt Boyles and Josh Hannapel and even Ryan Anderson are trying not to sneak glances at me but failing epically, and all I want to do is disappear. Melt into my desk chair and slide into a pool of nothingness on the floor of my homeroom.
Mr. Libey writes out a long-division equation on the smart board and looks around the room. “Who can tell me the answer, my friends?”
I know the answer; it sits smartly on the end of my tongue. But all I can think is, Who cares, who cares, WHO CARES?
THREE
SAMUEL
The sheet of paper stares up at me, mocking me with its blankness. The pencil in my hand mocks me with its impotence. I’ve been sitting at my desk for the better part of an hour, trying to make sense of my own sketches. My vision for this house was so clear when I began. But that was before. Now, I can’t remember why I put the walls where they are.
I need to focus. It’s never been a problem. I could always rely on my ability to tune out the rest of the world and get down to work. My sketches and blueprints and schematics and 3-D virtual tours were an escape for me. I could shelve my personal problems, slough off any issue that was plaguing me, allow the stress to seep from my pores as my work enveloped me and carried me away.
But this is not a problem I can shelve, nor an issue I can slough off. This is not stress. This is grief. Overwhelming and insidious grief that refuses to be ignored or denied or temporarily tucked away.
Ruth thinks we need to see a counselor or find a group. I know she’s trying to be helpful, and I don’t disagree that counseling might be a good idea, especially for Eden. But I’m not sure I can handle it right now, and I sure as hell don’t think Rachel can. Rachel isn’t able to handle anything. Rachel can barely make it to the bathroom on her own.
I wipe away the beads of perspiration that have erupted on my upper lip, can feel the dampness in the armpits of my polo shirt, the film of sweat pooling at the base of my spine. My office is cool, but my innards churn and burn, as though I’m running a marathon. A constant coil of tension twists within my gut. A jackhammer headache throbs just above my eyes.
Survival is the worst physical challenge there is.
A quiet tap on my door. The door opens a second later, and Greta peers in. She holds a cup of steaming coffee in one hand. I nod to her. She enters and crosses to my desk, sets the mug down slowly, carefully, as though she’s afraid she’ll spill the coffee. She gazes down at me, her eyes searching mine. I look away.
“How’s it going?” she asks, her voice soft.
“I’m having a tough time concentrating,” I admit.
She places a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I have to force myself not to recoil.
“Maybe it’s too soon for you to be back,” she suggests.
I want to snap at her, Someone has to work—someone has to pay the bills. But I know she is trying to comfort me. Greta cares about me. She hates what’s happened, just like everyone else. And, like everyone else, she has no idea what to say to me.
She rotates her hand in small circles on my shoulder. I want to shrink away from her, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings. How can I tell her that the touch of her hand feels like molten steel burning into my flesh?
“I’m just so sorry, Samuel.” No one calls me Samuel. When Greta first started working here, she called me Mr. Davenport. I told her “Mr. Davenport” made me feel like I was a hundred years older than her, and she’d laughed her twentysomething laugh that wasn’t flirtatious on purpose. She decided to call me Samuel, because she thought it sounded more respectful than greeting me with the übercasual Sam. For a while, I was reminded of the sisters in my Catholic grade school, but after a while, I grew to like the way it sounded from her lips. “I wish there was something I could do to make it better.”
I have heard this exact phrase more times than I can count over the last four weeks. Each word that makes up this detestable sentence is like a shard of glass pressed against my eardrums.
“I know,” I tell her, then push her hand from my shoulder. She tries not to look hurt, fails, bites her lower lip, and takes a step away from me.
She knew Jonah. I brought him to work with me on a handful of occasions, and she dutifully took him for ice cream or sandwiches; she made a little play area on the far side of my office where she provided him with pencils and crayons and reams of plain white paper. She oohed and aahed over his childish drawings, complimenting his skills and telling him he was a chip off the old block, and he’d smile even though he had no idea what that meant. Greta loved Jonah, but then, everyone loved Jonah. You couldn’t meet my son without instantly falling in love with him.
And now he’s gone.
The sob rises from my chest and I force it down, then cough violently from the effort. Greta eyes me worriedly, and I wave her away. “I’m okay.” I pick up the mug and take a sip of coffee, set the mug down again.
“What can I do?” she asks.
Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do.
I clear my throat. “Call Laydecker and see if he can move our three o’clock to tomorrow. Please. I’d like to be home when Eden gets there.”
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods. Wordlessly, she crosses to the door. As soon as she closes it behind her, I bend over and retch into the waste bin.
FOUR
RACHEL
My eyelids are too heavy to open. My tongue is thick and lazy in my mouth. I taste bile. Did I throw up? I did, I know I did. My nostrils are filled with the scent of vomit, but I can’t remember when. I’m shaking. I’m curled up on my side beneath my covers, my knees tucked into my chest. Like a fetus in a womb. This is how a fetus feels. Fetus. Fetus. What a funny word.
No, it’s not funny. Nothing is funny. Nothing will ever be funny again. But why? I can’t remember. Something happened. Something awful. I burrow more deeply under the comforter and farther away from the memory of the awful something. It’s there, just outside my grasp, but I don’t reach for it, because then I won’t ever want to leave this bed, this oasis, this escape.