“Of course.”
“Okay,” she said, avoiding my eyes, and left the room.
I called Dr. Abrams and made the request. “As long as you know this is solely palliative.” And that—providing comfort without false promises—was precisely what my heart wanted. I’d been through this before. The last time I saw my mother, she lay in a hospital bed enslaved to devices that pumped and drained, alarmed and scolded. Time and again, surgeons pursued her cancer, carved away at her, taking this and that. They left her gray-skinned and foreign, part machine and hardly human. I promise you, she would never have chosen it. She endured it for my father and me. So we could cling a little longer to unreasonable hope.
The only moment I saw my mother at peace in those last weeks was when three Friends gathered around her bed and sang of the ocean, sang of the One.
* * *
—
RUFUS WOULD DIE FROM HIS TUMOR, but I never considered putting him down. At times, as I witnessed his suffering, I wondered at my heart for allowing it. But then, animals know how to die. Once a fate is clear—and I believe it was as clear to Rufus as it was to me—they make choices to stay or to go. I’d put down pets in the past and may again someday, but Rufus was a singular being. My duty was to not interfere, to trust he had his reasons for staying or leaving.
The procedure went smoothly, and in a few days Rufus’s breathing had eased. The following Friday, Evangeline stayed overnight at Natalia’s. I was happy she had some semblance of normal adolescence, but when I got home to Rufus barely lifting his head and Evangeline gone, I felt a little lost.
Ever since I’d brought Evangeline back from George’s boat, the house had felt like a home again. And this was all the more obvious in her absence. I remembered Evangeline appearing in the salon, how she’d resisted those few steps, then acted as if they were no big deal. But those steps had made all the difference. Not only for me but for her. This way she could know, feel it deep in her bones, that she had made the choice to return.
In the mudroom, I pulled on a light jacket and headed outside, walked toward Lorrie’s lot. I’m not sure what I planned to do. Maybe knock on the door, invite her and Nells to dinner, pretend I hadn’t already destroyed whatever might have been salvaged.
Once again, I stood unseen in the border trees. In the early-evening dimness, the kitchen light was on. Lorrie was working at the stove, Nells chopping at the counter. Lorrie pulled a pan off the heat and went to her daughter, watched her a minute, then appeared to be giving instruction. Nells seemed angry, gesturing with her hands, but maybe not, because then they were laughing, clearly laughing. Lorrie placed a kiss at the nape of her daughter’s neck and returned to the stove.
Their intimacy and affection, their irritation and tenderness, lit that small kitchen, lit the entire house and yard. I felt the love between them even from that distance, and it broke my heart knowing what Evangeline would never have.
61
Day of My Death
A few days back, the sheriff took my truck. I didn’t ask to see a warrant. Turned out they didn’t have one, but I wouldn’t have wanted to act suspicious anyway. They said I wasn’t a suspect, but something in there might be helpful in finding Daniel. I acted all casual, said, “Sure, have at it.”
They found Daniel’s DNA, some flakes of skin, some hairs. It’d have been suspicious if they hadn’t, given he was in my truck all the time. They also found blood, but it was the deer blood I’d gone out of my way to smear around. None of Daniel’s. Which surprised me. I’d been careful with bags on my shoes and on the seat, but you’d think there’d have been a drop or two somewhere. Our locals probably bungled it. Not a lot of murders around here. But then, they don’t know there’s a murder yet. Just a boy who disappeared.
Here’s what shocked the hell out of me: When the call came yesterday giving me the all-clear, I was so upset you’d have thought they were going to string me up right then and there. After days of not sleeping, of sweating through my shirts, I’m told I can pick up my truck, they’re sorry for putting me through that, and I want to punch my fist through a fucking wall.
I kept thinking, When are those idiots going to find Daniel? How long is Mr. Balch going to have to suffer not knowing? Daniel’s mom too. The two of them were like zombies, skin sagging and gray, eyes looking like they’d been gouged out and fake ones glued in. I know it’s odd, me worrying about them like that, considering. But I was. I was thinking, What the fuck do I have to do now that the idiots have left it up to me?
Daniel’s parents weren’t the only ones who looked like crap. The last couple days when I showed up to search, someone would tell me I looked terrible, to go home and get some rest. They figured this thing was killing me. They were right about that. I was missing Daniel. He was the person I most wanted to talk to. He would have loved this story, the surprise of it: me killing him! Who’d ever have guessed? He would’ve had me tell it over and over. Then, at parties, he would’ve acted it out, leaping in the air, swinging that blade, embellishing the hell out of it. Not even mentioning I was at the scene. I’d stand off to the side, arms folded across my chest, sulking like I do. I’d call him an asshole and say I was the killer, not him, but no one would even notice I was there.
I would’ve given anything for that.
So yeah, I was dying, all right. Like I said, it’s the love that messes you up, and when it came to Daniel, I was fucked six ways from Sunday.
* * *
—
THIS MORNING—I GUESS TECHNICALLY it’s yesterday morning now—I drove back to the spot where it happened. I half expected someone to be tailing me. I would have been tailing me. But I don’t think anyone was. Not that it would’ve mattered. I got out and retraced the route we’d traveled on foot that night, jotting down distances and turns and trail markings to get the search team close.
I couldn’t bring myself to go the final quarter mile. Might not have been possible. I swear the firs and scrub had thickened in the past week, filled in like some fairy-tale bramble. The woods fell silent at the last turn, as if all the creatures were watching me. Everywhere there were broken limbs and bushes trampled to hell. I almost wondered if Daniel had survived and torn his way out. Or if God had touched down, thrown his fury a good half mile across. But of course I had wreaked this damage as I tore crazed and blood-drenched from the scene.
The sulfurous odor of death wafted even here, so I piled a bunch of those snapped limbs as a marker and turned back. They had dogs. They’d find him easy enough.
I got home around noon. There wasn’t much I could do. I couldn’t bring Daniel back, couldn’t stick around for Mom or Nells or Red. Not a scenario I could figure where any of that worked out. But I could spare the Balches the wondering. I could spare the rest of them the pain of seeing me cuffed and dragged off, this short, skinny, pansy-assed white boy, put away for a good long time. I didn’t want them picturing what was happening to me in there. Because the idiots would figure it out. Eventually. Bones would be found, footprints discovered. They’d come knocking on my door. And that would do none of us any good.
And even if I did skate clear of this whole mess, that was the worst possibility of all, because then a guy would be roaming the streets of Port Furlong not knowing who he wanted to kill until he was covered in their blood. No way did I want a freak like that on the loose. Not with people I loved in his path.