There was nothing going on. I was stupid and paranoid.
There was definitely something going on. I was smart and right.
My handle on the situation was so comforting.
At home. Coffee. Change of clothes. I absently checked my emails. There were a few from readers, one from my editor, another from my agent. I couldn’t concentrate.
Closing the laptop, I sat before the big windows in the living room, looking at the Loop through the rain that wouldn’t stop. Something Jill had said tolled a quiet bell in my mind, but after replaying our conversation a half dozen times, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was. For some reason I thought of my dreams over the past few days, of hands scrabbling at steel doors and long stairways leading down to darkness.
What was worse than not knowing? Wondering about anything serious wasn’t fun. Schr?dinger’s cat was a great thought experiment, but I think he missed the crucial point—human beings weren’t meant to live in a state of uncertainty. Never looking inside the box to see if the cat was alive or dead would drive us insane. A deer, a bear, a lion—they didn’t worry about the unknown, about mystery. Hunger and thirst and the need to procreate. If one of their kind disappeared, so be it. Time to move on. Hunger. Thirst. Sex.
That’s all, that’s it.
But for people, mystery was horror.
I envisioned every parent or spouse of a person who had gone missing and how after years of wondering, of worrying, of the unknown, even bad news would be welcomed. Finality is better than nothing at all.
Dad’s TV flicked on through the weather, and I got up and found the umbrella in the hall closet and went out.
He was sitting in his easy chair when I came in and shook off the rain. I sat on the sofa and didn’t say anything. We watched an episode of some game show, then a half hour of news before Dad hit the remote and powered the TV off. He didn’t look at me.
“I don’t want to know what happened,” Dad said. “I can pretty much picture it anyway. It’s why I tried changing the subject at dinner, to avoid it all, but then . . .” He trailed off. “I want to say something, and I want you to really listen, Andy. Don’t just humor me. You do a lot around here, and I appreciate it, but don’t just humor me. Listen. Okay?”
I gave him a nod.
“Cory is a lot like your mother,” he said, sitting forward in his chair.
Part of me leaped to interrupt, to insert an eye roll, an “Of course he is; do you think I didn’t grow up with both of them?” But I kept all that to myself.
“Now I know your mother had her faults just like I have mine, like you do yours, and she seemed to pass many of them on to Cory. He’s afraid, Andy. That’s why he says and does the things he does. It isn’t any excuse, I’m not giving him a pass, but he is my son just like you are, and I love him. I love all of you kids.” His eyes grew distant. “We made a huge mistake with Emma. Your mother relied on her faith to understand what she was going through, and I didn’t put my foot down hard enough. We fought, but she forged ahead anyhow. That’s a regret I’ll live with until . . . the end.”
I heard Father Mathew’s voice then. You aren’t the only one with regrets, Andrew. Please know that.
“Dad, you—”
He held up a hand. “Let me finish. I should’ve stopped your mother from taking Emma to church, physically if I had to. It might’ve made a difference in the long run, and maybe it wouldn’t have. I don’t know. What I do know is your mother regretted her decision too. She realized her mistake much too late, and in my heart, I think that’s what killed her. They called it a stroke, but guilt is dense. It’s heavy, and it builds up over time.” He sighed, and in the storm’s light he looked very old. “What I’m trying to say is this: Cory is your brother. He can be insensitive and rude and pushy, but he’s also very generous. When I’m gone, I don’t want you three fighting. You’re family, and if you can give me one thing, it’s your word you’ll be good to one another. As good as you can be.”
I wasn’t ready to forgive Cory, and I surely wasn’t ready to forgive my mother. Maybe there was a part of me that wasn’t ready to forgive Dad either. A part I kept locked away in a deeper place, a gag in its mouth to muffle its cries, because I loved the man sitting in the chair across from me. I loved him deeply.
You lie to the ones you love sometimes. You lie because you love them. You lie to yourself.
“Sure, Dad. We’ll be good.”