Steve stayed quiet. He’d been staring at the computer longer than it could have taken for him to read the rest of the comments. The muscle in his jaw had lifted like a walnut. “Print those out for me, will you?” His voice was so low it didn’t sound like his.
“You weren’t even a police officer back then,” Barbara said. Because there he went again, responsible for everyone and everything. He probably felt like he should have kept Simon from getting so drunk that night. Steve had never been much of a drinker himself. “We were all upset about what happened to Simon. But whatever should have or could have been done at the time—it really has nothing to do with you.”
She did realize that might be easier for her to say. Barbara had been way on the other side of the woods that night, near the circle of logs where the girls hung out, at least the ones who weren’t off hooking up with boys in the wet leaves. The logs were the only place they could sit without getting filthy. The boys, meanwhile, were always taking off into the woods to play something they called “drunk obstacle,” seeing who could scramble the fastest over a pitch-black course of branches and logs. Dumb high school jocks: Everything’s got to be a competition. Steve had never wanted to talk about the details of that night—it upset him too much—but he and some of the other boys had seen Simon slip.
Steve nodded. “Just print them out, okay?” He straightened up and headed for the steps. “What I really need now is to wash that creek off me. I’ve got it coming out of my pores.”
“Okay, but try to be quick,” Barbara said tentatively. She had no choice but to warn him. “My mom’s coming back in a few minutes. For dinner. It’s Tuesday, remember?”
Steve paused on the stairs. His head dropped as he rested a hand on the banister. “Okay,” he said, looking up at Barbara and forcing a smile, obviously steeling himself. “Okay.”
As he drifted up the steps, part of her wished he’d demanded that she cancel dinner with her parents. Because, lately, his doing what she wanted seemed in inverse proportion to his affection for her.
After Steve was gone, Barbara went out to the sitting room. Cole wasn’t in front of the TV, a sure sign she’d left him out there far too long. Instead, he was sitting at his small table, tucked in the corner. His back was to Barbara. From across the room, she couldn’t see what he was doing, but the closer she got, the more it looked like he wasn’t doing much of anything. Except sitting there, staring once again, at nothing.
“Cole, honey,” Barbara called, slowing halfway across the room. She was afraid of startling him. She raised her voice, hoping he’d snap out of it before she got too close. “Bob’s not so interesting today?”
Cole didn’t answer. And he didn’t move—not an inch, not a twitch. Barbara couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.
“We have Nana’s lasagna for dinner, Cole.” Barbara made her voice louder but cheery as she made her way over to him, her hands clasped so tightly they had started to throb. “With no green things in it, just the way you like.”
She saw the markers then, the short, chubby ones. All fifty were scattered across the table and on the floor, most of their caps off, as though someone had tossed them into the air and let them rain down. Why would he do that? Cole was a neat, particular kid. He worried about things like markers drying out. Barbara was a couple feet behind him now. She reached out a hand as a hole opened up in her stomach.
“Bob the Builder, can we fix it?” Bob and his friends sang from behind her.
“Cole,” Barbara said more loudly. Her fingers stroked the air. “Cole, please. Look at me.”
She was right behind him now. She was right there. But he hadn’t moved. And she was so afraid to touch him. Afraid of what he might do—that was it. She felt afraid of her son. And why? It made no sense, but it was true. And she hated herself for it.
“Can we build it? Yes, we can!”
Cole was at least breathing, panting. “Honey?” Her voice was high and choppy. “Are you okay? Please, Cole, say something.”
There was only his breath, puff, puff, puff.
And then Barbara was close enough to see it. There, on the table. The drawing Cole had been working on. It was rough and childish, all jagged lines and out of proportion, like all of his drawings. But there was no pretending it was anything other than what it was.
A picture of a boy with his arm cut off.
Molly Sanderson, Session 10, May 1, 2013
(Audio Transcription, Session Recorded with
Patient Knowledge and Consent)
Q: Do you think you’re ready to talk about what happened that night?
M.S.: You mean the night I lost the baby? We’ve talked about that a couple times. We can talk about it again if you want.
Q: I mean after that. The night that brought you to see me the first time.
M.S.: You’re making it sound more serious than it was.
Q: Justin had to call an ambulance.
M.S.: He did call an ambulance. He didn’t have to call an ambulance.
Q: What happened that night, Molly?
M.S.: Justin panicked. I’m not blaming him, but that’s what happened. It was five stitches. I didn’t need an ambulance.
Q: I think it’s important that we talk about it. You’ve made good progress here. But I don’t want to overlook the fact that we’ve been treading lightly around some pretty significant issues.
M.S.: I dropped a glass. It broke. Then I slipped when I was cleaning it up.
Q: You slipped on your arm?
M.S.: Yes. That’s what happened.
Q: And Ella?
M.S.: I didn’t realize I was bleeding until Justin came home. I never would have picked her up. If I’d been trying to kill myself, do you really think I would have done it when I was home alone with her?
Q: You wouldn’t have?
M.S.: No. I would have waited until I was by myself. And then I would have been sure to finish the job.
Molly