June–July 2005
Owen knew something was up with his brother and Luna before he left for England. It was funny how they were trying to avoid telegraphing their feelings when Owen could see it plain and simple. He didn’t have a strong opinion about their budding relationship at the time. He had other concerns back then.
After the new year, Owen had received a letter from Luna detailing her insane Christmas road trip with Griff. Owen figured she just wanted company. He didn’t think it was serious. Luna wasn’t even twenty-one yet. Who meets their future spouse at that age? Not Luna. Griff emailed Owen after the trip to say he and Luna were dating. I hope that’s cool. Then, casually, he told Owen about the crazy ferret trip. And then her sweater came to life!
Owen wrote Griff back a month later, saying he was happy for them. That wasn’t strictly true, but he wasn’t unhappy for them either. Owen didn’t think it was serious until he heard that Griff had accompanied Luna to Denver. She’d mentioned it briefly in a letter.
So I flew to Denver to help the FBI investigate other murders that John Brown might have committed. That was weird.
Owen had to wait until his next phone call with Luna to learn that there were no other victims. On that call, Owen insisted on a few more details. Luna got as far as Agent Murdoch dropping her off at the Denver Marriott, then nothing. Silence.
“You still there?” Owen asked.
“Yes. Sorry,” she said.
Luna wasn’t prone to monologues. She always hated when people talked at her, so she was overly sensitive to taking a long turn in a conversation.
“Next morning, the fed picks you up at the hotel,” Owen said. “Then what?”
“Hey, Owen,” Luna said. “Do you mind if we skip this for now? It doesn’t feel good.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” Owen said. “You don’t ever have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He knew it wasn’t rational, but it hurt him that Griff got to be there and he couldn’t even get a summary.
* * *
—
As much as Owen missed many things that he could find only back home—Luna, the Berkshires house, driving, being a passenger in the correct seat—he’d planned to postpone his reentry as long as possible. Other than Luna, nothing was waiting for him back home.
But then, in June, Griff called. Their father was in the hospital. Stomach cancer. The oncologist had suggested that the best-case scenario was a few years.
The treatment plan for Tom was immediate surgery followed by chemo. When Owen decided to fly back, he didn’t realize he was committing to a full summer of living in his childhood home. The contrast between Owen’s freewheeling London life and sharing a suburban home with his parents at peak dysfunction was jarring, to say the least. Vera had no talent for caregiving and Tom was a crap patient. His physical discomfort fueled his temper, which rattled everyone in his wake, including the part-time nurse.
Owen made his father food, watched sports with him, and hid out when his parents fought. The good news was that, with Tom’s condition, the fighting never got physical. Still, the words traumatized Owen. The arguments felt different with Tom’s weakened, raspy voice. Eventually, Owen learned that he could snuff out a conflict if he just walked into it. It made for an uncomfortable moment or two, but then it was over.
His father was always in pain, always asking for his pills. Vera rationed them conservatively, giving Tom only the minimum dosage. She kept them in a lockbox in the pantry, which Owen found odd, since his father got winded walking ten steps to the bathroom. When Owen asked his mother about the lock, she launched into a lecture about the dangers of opioids.
Because he hadn’t applied to transfer to another college or made any other arrangements for his future, Owen remained stranded in Boston with his mom. Griff came to visit every other weekend, giving him something of a respite. But even then, Owen had to fend off Griff’s aggressive interest in his plans. One morning, Griff asked Owen if he was thinking about returning to Markham to finish his degree.
“Seriously, dude. You remember what happened there?” Owen asked.
“Yeah. But it’s over, Owen. And you’re going to need a degree to teach, which, let’s face it, is probably how you’ll make a living. Unless you’re luckier than I think you are.”
Owen winced. “Did you pay for douchebag school or go on scholarship?” he asked.
Vera breezed into the room and warmed her coffee in the microwave. “Boys, be nice,” she said.