Indignation swells inside me. “You think I don’t know that? My son is dead. It doesn’t get any more serious than that.”
She looks stricken, but I don’t apologize. I’m too angry. Not just at Ruth for her presumptuousness, for thinking she has the right to tell me what I need, what my family needs. But angry at the world, at Rachel, at God, at Jonah for leaving us, at myself for my part in his death. I want to lash out more, to rail against her, to tell her to get the hell out of my house. But I can’t. Of course, I can’t. I take a deep breath instead and gaze at my mug, at the amber liquid that has long since cooled. I set the mug down, then glance at my watch. Ruth stares out the kitchen window, and I can only assume she is trying to think of something to say to me, some biting retaliation for my outburst. Uncharacteristically, she remains silent.
I keep my tone even. “Can you please try to get that fucking thing away from her?”
She turns to me. “The monkey?” She shakes her head with disdain. “I think you should focus on more important issues, Sam. And I’ll ask you not to use that kind of language with me.”
I bite down on a scathing comeback, close my eyes, open them when I stop seeing red. “I’m going to go pick Eden up from school.”
Ruth takes a breath and sighs. “Doesn’t she usually walk?”
“Yes,” I reply. “With Jonah.”
“You’re too late,” she says. “She’ll be walking through the door any minute.” She doesn’t meet my eye, just swipes my mug from beneath my fingers and dumps the contents into the sink. “You didn’t want that, right, Sam? Too cold.” She turns on her heels and stomps out of the kitchen.
After a moment, when I hear her murmur to Rachel, and I can tell she has taken her seat next to her sister, I cross to the refrigerator and reach for the cupboard door above it. I pull out the Maker’s Mark, then grab a highball glass from the adjacent cupboard.
For a while I stare at the bottle, thinking of the curly-haired boy on the playground.
I pour out three fingers and down them in one gulp.
TEN
RACHEL
The ticking of the clock on the mantel echoes through my brain. The sound is unpleasant. I’d like to smash the clock into pieces, but I don’t have the energy to get up from the couch. I can’t smash it anyway. I don’t have a hammer. And it’s my mother’s clock. Was my mother’s clock. She bequeathed it to me. Bequeathed. I want to say the word bequeathed aloud, just to see how my mouth feels when I say it, but I don’t want to sound crazy. Ruth is right next to me, pretending not to watch me.
I’m not crazy. Just so tired. So very, very tired. My thoughts shift back and forth, in and out and around. I try to hold one for a moment. It disappears, just like Jonah.
I reach beneath the shawl for the monkey, just to make sure it’s still there.
I want to go back to bed, but Ruth won’t let me. She has become my mom. My mom. What was I thinking about?
The clock. Bequeathed. Mom bequeathed the clock to me. That’s right. We found the Post-it note with my name written in broad strokes on the back of it. And that really pissed Ruth off, finding that Post-it, but I was there, too, so she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. Ruth really wanted that damn clock. I should have let her have it. It’s ugly and loud and any minute that dumb little cuckoo bird is going to pop out and make that annoying cuckoo sound. Cuckoo, cuckoo.
Jonah loved the clock. Don’t think about Jonah. When he was three, he used to sit on the floor in the middle of the room for hours at a time and just watch for the bird. No no no. And when it popped out, he would giggle and giggle and giggle.
Stop. Don’t think about Jonah. I can’t think about him. My boy, my precious baby.
My cheeks are wet again. They’re wet all the time, but my mouth is always parched, like I’m emptying out all of the water in my body through my tear ducts.
The sofa cushions feel like gelatin. I could sink into them, let them envelop me, suffocate me. Death by faux-suede couch cushions.
I want a pill. Ruth only gave me one, wouldn’t give me another. She always did like to torture me, ever since we were kids. I need another one. Or two. One isn’t enough. One only takes the hard edges away from the world, blurs the lines a little bit. But two is better. Fuzzy-thought making. Three is when I threw up, but then I saw Jonah, so I need to take three so I can see him again. He was there.
He was there.
He wasn’t there. Jonah is dead.
Ruth puts her hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. She removes her hand.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask. He was here a minute ago, wasn’t he? I want to tell him about Jonah.
No. I don’t want to tell Sam. I can’t talk to him, because then I’d have to look at him and I can’t look at him, not right now. I don’t know why. Jonah is in his face, or his face is in Jonah’s, the same nose, only bigger, the same jawline, only without the baby fat. I don’t think that’s the reason, but when I look at Sam, I start to feel like my insides are being run through a meat grinder.
“He’s in the kitchen.”
Good. Stay in the kitchen, Sam.
“Daddy was a butcher.”
“No, honey. Dad sold insurance.”
“Daddy was a butcher who used the meat grinder every Sunday night, making sausages for the week ahead.”
“What is that from?” my sister asks. My sister. I should have given her the stupid clock.
“A story.” A story I used to read to Jonah.
How can I still be crying? I’ll turn into a salt statue and the wind will blow through the windows Ruth opened and I’ll disintegrate. She’ll have to vacuum again.
“I want another pill, Ruth. Please.”
“Why don’t we wait until Eden gets home, honey. You can ask her about her day. Talk to her for a few minutes.” With unfuzzy thoughts. She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s thinking it. “Her first day back might have been hard.”
“Back where?” I can’t remember where my daughter is. I have a daughter and a son. No, just a daughter now. Where is she? School. Yes, school. She’s in fourth grade. No, fifth. My daughter. Jonah was in kindergarten.
Was was was was.
“I want a fucking pill.”
“Rachel.”
I’ve shocked my sister. I said the f-word. Out loud. If I still knew how to laugh, I would. Instead I start to moan. It starts in my belly, and I feel it rise upward through my chest, into my throat. I open my mouth and let it out as a howl.
“Jesus Christ, give her a goddamn pill!” Sam. I lower my head, clamping my mouth shut, and stare at the tea. I hate tea. I hate tea, Ruth. You know I do.
I hear him, my husband, the man I promised to spend my life with. Till death do us part, we’d said. But until whose death? He’s still my champion, even now, telling meanie Ruth to give me a pill. Thank you, Sam. I can’t bear to look at you, but thank you.
I see his shadow cross the room, hear the rattle of the pills as he hands the bottle to Ruth. His shadow moves beyond my sight line, toward the front door. I want to ask him where he’s going. I don’t care, though, so I don’t.
Goodbye, Sam. I saw Jonah on our bed this morning.
ELEVEN