“I can’t handle talking to him, Jenny,” he told me. “I keep thinking about how if he hadn’t left, then I wouldn’t have been paired with Cameron, and none of this would have happened. I can’t blame Ramirez for moving. That’s crazy, but…”
Tonight I shoved the phone in his face when Ramirez called. “Just talk to him. He loves you.” I needed his mood to be someone else’s responsibility and I thought it might cheer him up, but it completely backfired.
“Ramirez kept asking me to go over exactly what happened, like I haven’t already done that a thousand times.” He was clearly upset about something Ramirez had said to him but wouldn’t tell me what it was. When they drove together every day, they might have bickered like two old men on a fishing trip, but I couldn’t remember a time when they were actually mad at each other. He stomped off to the basement to play video games, and by the time I slipped out of the house, he’d fallen asleep on the ratty old futon.
I hit the brakes to slow down, and the car slides again, sending a fresh wave of anxious chills through me. You’ve come too far to turn around now. Besides, this late at night, in the middle of a snowstorm, is probably the only time I can get into my own house without being harassed by the media or protesters. Even after nearly three weeks, there are still a few stubborn reporters camped out there, hoping to thrust a microphone in our faces, or protesters who throw eggs at our front door. Mrs. J still texts me constantly with updates, including the fact that other people on our street have been complaining.
Please say sorry to the other neighbors, was all I could send back. What else was there to say? Our neighbors hate us now too. Join the club.
I switch off the headlights as I pull into the cul-de-sac and sit in the car, squinting into the darkness. The street’s eerily quiet; a few lights dot windows here and there. It feels safe enough to go inside. Still, my heart races as I trudge to the front door, keys at the ready. Between my huge belly and the heavy snow boots, tight on my swollen ankles, I’m about as graceful as a moose in heels, but I move as quickly and stealthily as I can, a thief breaking into my own home.
By the first step of the porch, I spot the streaks of dried egg yolk that dribble down our black front door. As I turn the key in the lock and step forward, something squishes beneath my boot—a white plastic bag that had blended in with the snowdrifts. I know exactly what’s inside without touching it: someone has left a bag of human shit on our doorstep.
I choke back a gag and throw open the front door. It catches on a mountain of mail, mostly bills, some catalogs and grocery store circulars. I groan as I bend over awkwardly to gather up the pile. Bending over has become such a challenge that anything I drop on the floor is just dead to me. I tiptoe to the kitchen before I have a chance to wonder why I’m sneaking around an empty house. Am I worried I’ll wake the ghosts of our former life?
The pile of mail lands on the kitchen table with a thud; I jump at the sound. I turn on the light over the oven instead of the overhead. No reason to alert the neighbors that I’m back after all this time. Shards of my POCONOS IS FOR LOVERS mug, the one I was drinking from the morning after the shooting, are still scattered across the tile floor. The daisies on the table are brown and wilted.
I glance over at the Realtor’s exam book on the counter, its glossy cover dulled by a thin layer of dust. The test is scheduled for next week. I’ve already decided not to bother; it feels silly now. It’s not like I told anyone other than Kevin that I was taking it anyway. I was waiting until I passed—if I passed—to spring the news. Riley would be so proud of me, and maybe even a little shocked. I can still see the look on her face when I told her I was quitting my job. I didn’t imagine the judgment there. It’s not like I’m dying to be a stay-at-home mom; it’s not really a choice. We did the math, and day care costs more than my salary, so we’d essentially lose money if I continued working. But now I’ll have to find a way. I have to be prepared to support my family, whatever may come.
I drag the trash bin over to the fridge and open it, holding my nose against the spoiled food that awaits me inside. I pour the rancid milk down the sink, drop the carton in the trash. I walk over to the table, grab the dead flowers, and dump them in too, then drop the vase in the sink after pouring out the thick sludge of brown water. A sharp stab of pain in my back makes me double over and grab the counter ledge. Just a cramp, but it’s happening more and more. Everything hurts all the time. My boobs throb like they’ve been slammed in a vise; my lower back pinches; a dull ache has settled into my hip bones. At least my blood pressure is better. As soon as I left my doctor’s appointment last week, I went straight to Walgreens and bought myself a monitor. I take my blood pressure obsessively now, at least a dozen times a day.
When the pain lets up, I ease myself into a chair at the kitchen table and flip through the mail. I don’t know why I bother when I know exactly what’s inside this stack of envelopes: angry demands for money with lots of red ink. The electricity will be shut off if we don’t pay the PECO bill soon. We owe the fertility doctor about ten grand, and our credit cards are maxed out. For now, Kevin still has his health insurance, even though he’s on administrative leave, but if something happens before the baby is born and we lose our health insurance… I press my fingers to my temples, hard, to shut down the thought.
The stack of bills reminds me that we’ll never get out of debt: $36,460. The exact amount flashes in my brain like a neon sign. I lied to Riley that it was $30,000, told myself that I was just rounding down. Besides, at a certain point, it doesn’t even matter. It’s like a six-foot-deep hole; what’s another six inches when you’re trying to climb out?
I let the bills fall into the trash one by one. I’d rather set them on fire, watch all these stupid numbers go up in smoke. I settle for the garbage, without even opening them, because what the hell—they’ll just send more anyway. At the bottom of the stack of mail are two plain envelopes, hand-addressed to Kevin. At least they’re not bills. They’re probably something worse.
My index finger catches on the lip of the envelope. It tears a small gash across my skin. I put my finger in my mouth to suck away the blood and examine the paper inside. It takes me a second to register what I’m seeing—an image of a coffin, Justin Dwyer’s coffin—and to make sense of the words across the top. BABY KILLER. I toss the paper away from me like it’s on fire.
Seeing this picture is almost as wrenching as the real-life version. Attending that funeral has to be one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done. I’m still not exactly sure why I forced myself to go—maybe to torture myself? To make amends? To prove something? But what was I proving? I have no idea. Maybe it was that I owed them, him and his mother. I owed it to them to acknowledge what happened even if I, we, couldn’t take it back—no one could. Obviously, Kevin couldn’t have gone. But no one thought I should go either.
“For God’s sake,” Cookie had said, “what good will it do?”
Nothing. It would do absolutely nothing. It wouldn’t bring the boy back. It wouldn’t return the bullets to my husband’s gun. I went anyway.