“Why did you stop?” I ask him.
“Because I love Rachel. I love my kids, my family. Their faces kept flashing in my head, and I knew if I went forward with Greta, I’d risk losing them, forever.”
“Sam,” I say, gently but forcefully. “The fact is, you did stop, and for the right reasons. Does that sound like something an awful person would do?”
“I think a good person wouldn’t have put himself in that position in the first place.”
“Sam, in my experience, truly bad people don’t question their intentions and worry about their choices and feel guilty even when they make the right choice. You made a brief error in judgment.”
“And I’ve paid for it, haven’t I?” He rubs his forehead, then swipes at his eyes, continues pacing.
“Do you think Jonah’s death was some kind of karmic retribution meted out to punish you personally?”
“I don’t know.” He thinks for a moment. “No. But it was my fault.”
“Because of what you did the night before?”
“Because of what I did the day it happened.” He collapses onto the chair and stares at me. His eyes are bloodshot with unspent tears and fatigue.
I sit in the chair across from him. I don’t pick up my notepad, just lean forward and give him my full attention. “Tell me about that day.”
And he does.
FIFTY-NINE
RUTH GLASS
“She’s getting better,” Ruth says, as if the family’s inability to move forward is all about Rachel and not remotely to do with her. This is partially true. Rachel is the “Power” button. But all the parts of the machine have to work in order for it to function.
“I’m glad,” I reply.
“I mean, not much. She’s still in her room most of the time, but she’s not out of it like she was.”
“And how are you, Ruth?”
“Oh, well.” She clears her throat. “You heard me in there. That’s basically still my life. Taking care of them. Hasn’t changed over the past two weeks.”
“Are you still staying with them?” I ask.
“Most nights. I think I should start weaning them, and myself.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Yes. I know, ultimately, things will have to go back to normal. Well, back to a new normal, at least.”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“I admit, I don’t like it much, being alone in my apartment. It’s not a bad place, but I get lonely.” She says this last as though admitting to a ridiculous sentiment.
“Loneliness is something we all experience. It’s natural when you live by yourself, and it can be especially intensified when tragedy occurs. Have you dated at all since your divorce, Ruth?”
I catch the thoughtful expression on her face before she can wipe it away.
“No.”
“Not one date?”
She chuckles sadly.
“What is it, Ruth? What’s funny?”
“Honestly, it’s not even remotely humorous. Ironic is what it is. I had a date. Was supposed to have a date. The night Jonah died. Obviously I had to cancel.” She raises her eyebrows, then immediately frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound irreverent.”
“You didn’t. So, you had a date scheduled for that night . . .”
“Yes. My first date since my divorce. With my neighbor. Nice man. Widower.” She thinks about him for a moment, and a small smile plays at her lips, then fades away. “That’s why I was at Rachel’s that morning. She was going to color my hair.” She yanks at a few errant strands that have escaped the knot. “We never got to it.”
I nod. “Tell me what happened.”
She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” But, after a moment or two of silence, she recounts the events of that day.
SIXTY
EDEN DAVENPORT
Eden sits on the floor, crisscross applesauce she calls it. When I was a child, we called it Indian style, but that moniker is no longer politically correct. Shadow lies on the floor in front of her, his head down, but his eyes open and watchful. Her hands never leave his coat. They move continuously, stroking his fur, coming to rest, scratching his ears, resting again. But her young, unblemished, ivory face is a mask of worry. Her brow is furrowed, and in that instant, she reminds me of her father.
“You said before you were going to make me talk about the very bad day,” she says, keeping her gaze directed at Shadow.
“Yes,” I reply. “If that’s okay with you.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not. I don’t want to talk about that day.”
“Why don’t we start with yesterday,” I suggest. “What did you do?”
She relaxes a bit. “Yesterday was Monday. I went to school.”
“How was it?”
“I told you already!” Her voice is loud and uncharacteristically angry.
I bow my head and apologize. “I just wondered whether you might share some specifics with me. About your day.”
“Everyone thinks I’m a loser. It’s like, they think having a dead brother is contagious or something. Like if they talk to me or hang out with me, then their brother or sister or someone will die.”
“But you know that’s not true, right, Eden?” This girl is hurting. Her sorrow makes me hurt. I want to erase her sorrow, but I know this is not a magic show. I can’t snap my fingers and make her hurt disappear. I can only provide her with tools. “You know that you are not contagious in any way.”
“I feel like I am. Not contagious, maybe, like when you get the flu. But I feel like maybe I’m . . .” She struggles for a moment. “Tainted.”
“That’s a very big word,” I tell her, wondering who called her that.
“Not so big,” she says. “Only two syllables.”
“You’re right. But it’s big in meaning,” I say.
“It was in a book I chose from Accelerated Reader. It means ‘a trace of something bad, offensive or harmful.’ I looked it up.”
I abandon my chair and kneel down in front of her, choosing to ignore the therapeutic directive to maintain distance. I reach out and still her hands on Shadow’s coat. The dog turns his head toward me, as if he is paying close attention to my words.
“Eden. Please listen to me. You are not tainted. Are you hearing me? Please, really. You are a lovely, smart, and amazing young woman. You are not tainted in any way, shape, or form.”
Eden’s hands tremble beneath my grasp. She shakes her head. “You’re wrong, Dr. Meyers. I am tainted. It’s my fault Jonah’s dead. I said something to him that . . . d-d-day.” She bites her lip as tears stream down her face. “I said something really mean, I told him to do something, and that’s why he died. It’s my fault.”
I maintain a firm grip, subconsciously conveying the message I’m not going anywhere.
“Tell me, Eden. What did you say to Jonah? What happened that day?”
Shadow whines, kisses my hands, my face, any part of me he can reach. Eden must see this as a sign of trust. She starts to talk to me. And doesn’t stop until she gets everything out.
SIXTY-ONE
RACHEL DAVENPORT