Not surprisingly, he hasn’t stopped by to say hello.
“Maybe Tim can come over,” Josh suggests. “He could fix that string that came off the light in the closet.”
The string that turns on the lightbulb in our hall closet popped free in my hand a week ago. Since that time, I have been groping for my coat in the dark every day. I would love to get it fixed. But I have a feeling if I stop by the Reese house, Tim won’t be jumping at the chance to do home repairs for me. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t slam the door in my face.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say carefully.
“Why not?”
“I think Tim might be mad at me.”
“Why?”
I don’t know quite how to explain to Josh everything that has happened in the last few months, so I haven’t. He’s only ten. I took him to a few therapy sessions after the poor kid saw his father killed right in front of him in a freak accident. Of course, Josh didn’t know Shane was his father. He still doesn’t. I’m hoping it will stay that way.
Anyway, Josh seems fine now. He misses Margie though. I ended up pulling him out of school for a couple of weeks when everything exploded online, just to minimize the chances of him finding out what his beloved babysitter had done.
Or that she was really his grandmother.
“You should ask Tim to come over, Mom,” Josh says.
“I should?”
“Yeah! I miss him.”
That tugs at my heartstrings. Josh has lost so much, some of which he doesn’t even know about. In the last year, he lost his father, a grandfather, and two grandmothers. All he’s got left now is me.
Maybe Tim will never forgive me, but if he could be there for Josh, that’s better than nothing.
_____
After we finish dinner, Josh stays behind to do his homework while I tug on my coat and boots. I could take Josh along with me to Tim’s house, but just in case we get a frosty welcome, I don’t want my son around. I fully expect that Tim won’t ever forgive me for this. And either way, this won’t be a pleasant conversation.
There are still a couple of inches of dusty snow on the ground as I walk the familiar path between my house and Tim’s. How many times had I made this journey as a child? Too many to count. Every time I left the house, it felt like the last words out of my mouth were, Going to Tim’s house! Be back later!
I should have trusted him. I should’ve known he would never do anything that horrible. Shane had me completely brainwashed. Not that it’s any excuse, but I wanted so badly to believe that my son’s father wasn’t a monster.
I was wrong.
I stand on Tim’s front porch, hugging myself, working up the courage to ring the doorbell. It takes me at least a minute or two, and then before I can second-guess myself, I reach out and push my index finger into the bell.
I stand there for close to another minute. There’s a very real chance they might not open the door for me. That I might have to trudge back to my house without even getting to talk to Tim, much less tell him how sorry I am and have him slam the door in my face.
But then the locks turn. I plaster a smile on my face just in time for the door to swing open. But it’s not Tim at the door. It’s Barbara Reese.
I haven’t seen Mrs. Reese in over a decade, but she looks at least two decades older—the same as my mother did before Pamela Nelson killed her. The last time I saw her, her hair was the same maple color as Tim’s is, but now it’s gone all white.
“Hi!” I wring my hands together. “Mrs. Reese, it’s me—Brooke.”
“Yes,” she muses. “I know.”