But only Drew seemed to be listening to her.
“Mom,” he said, staring at her between the tines of his fork, “how come they didn’t burn him? Ryan, I mean. Like when Mrs. Wheeler from school died.”
Something in Katie’s chest contracted painfully, her fork dropping from her hand and clattering onto the table.
“Hey, everybody!” Katie said. “The funeral was very sad for everyone. For Ryan’s mother, for Hailey. It was all very sad. That boy died just four days ago.”
They all turned and looked her, and at her fork in the center of the table.
Drew reached over and retrieved her fork, handed it to her.
“Katie,” Eric said, but before he could say more, Devon stood up, fingers ringed around her swollen wrist.
The wrist looked bigger than ever; it looked alive, the pulsing throb of a fat heart.
“It is really sad, Mom,” Devon said, backing away. Her face pale and strained. “No one ever said it wasn’t really sad.”
*
“I’ll talk to her,” Eric said, crawling beside Katie in bed. “Practice is how she works through feelings.”
“And how do you work through feelings?” Katie asked, pulling their bedspread back with a snap.
He looked at her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there today.” Then adding, “And I’m sorry it was hard for you.”
“For me?” she said. “Funerals are pretty hard for everyone. And, you know, people were surprised you weren’t there.”
He reached for her arm. “I should have been there.”
And there was a pause, and she was so tired.
“Okay,” she replied, because in the end it was so easy to just surrender to it. To his handsomeness, his dedicated dad–ness, the depth of his feelings, which he seemed to wear all over that car-tanned face, in all the smile lines around his eyes.
“Oh,” she added, her own voice sounding so small, girl-like. “Except Hailey. I need to tell you about Hailey.”
“What about her?” His fingers drifting down her sternum, his other hand on her hip.
“She was upset. Very upset.”
“Of course she was. God.”
“But…no, I mean, she…she was angry. And she really, really wanted to talk to me.”
“Why would she want to talk to you?” he said, his fingers pressing on her pelvis.
“I never found out,” she said, looking down at his hand.
The weight of the day began sinking into her. Sinking her. She wanted to hold on, to talk about it, but it seemed too involved, too heavy and strange.
“It’s a hard time for everybody,” he said, and he seemed suddenly so far away on the bed, the warmth of his body gone, his voice so distant she could barely hear him.
Sometime in the night, she opened her eyes.
It was Drew standing in the doorway in his shark pj’s, the teeth that glowed.
“Mom, Devon won’t stop yelling.”
“What?” she asked, pulling the bedspread up over her bare legs, Eric deep in post-beer stupor. “You’re dreaming.”
All Drew’s dreams of Devon, Devon flying, jumping off the roof, riding his bike, sneaking into the garage and driving away in their cars like Batman. She’d meant to ask the doctor, or someone, about them. But then, drifting down the hallway, Drew leading the way, she heard it too.
From the closed door, Devon’s voice, a snarl of sounds, stutters, rasps.
“She’s just talking in her sleep,” Katie whispered. “Go back to bed.”
Tapping lightly on Devon’s door, she watched Drew slip back into his room, eyes still on her.
There was no answer, so she opened the door.
There was Devon, her comforter kicked off the bed, standing in the middle of the room, her head in her hands, red wrist blazing.
“Devon.” Katie rushed toward her. “Devon, wake up!”
Pulling her hands from her face, she stared at Katie, eyes burning.
“He was standing there,” she said, pointing to where Katie stood. “Mom, it was Ryan.”
“No,” Katie said, touching her arms, trying to soothe her. “You were dreaming.”
“He was right there, where you are,” she said, a soft moan. “He looked so sad, Mom.”
The skin on Katie’s shoulders quilled.
“You were having a dream,” she said, trying to hug her, but Devon’s elbows kept jabbing, her body twisting. “Usually it’s your brother with the crazy dreams.”
It took several minutes for Katie to calm her, to guide her back to the bed.
“Are you sure he wasn’t here?” Devon asked finally, voice softening, head sinking back into the center of her pillow.
“I’m sure, honey. Ryan’s gone. He’s not coming back.”
“I know. Is Dad sleeping?” she said, her hair tangled over her face, hiding her.
“What? Yes,” Katie said.
“Remember that song?”
“What?”
“At the tiki party last winter. The one you danced to. ‘She’s Electric.’”
“I danced to it?”
“And on the palm of her hand is a blister…” she sang, a soft, lisping purl, like when she was very small.