Things We Didn't Say (8 page)

If only he had talked to us. At least his dad. Didn’t fathers and sons have a bond? Billy and our dad did. They didn’t have deep discussions about feelings, or life lessons—not in front of me, anyway—but they were so in sync, right down to their loping gait and their way of sitting in a chair and tipping back, balancing on the rear legs. If they needed to talk, I’m sure they would have. I’m sure they did.

But Michael is so busy all the time. Even at home, half his brain is at work. And now that he can get his work e-mail at home, he’s constantly plugged in, not to mention double-checking his stories, terrified of a blunder. As if the world will spin off its axis because he misquoted somebody.

Nothing under the bed but dust and some old sheet music. I scuttle backward out from under there, brushing dust bunnies off my shirt. I look at Dylan’s sock and underwear drawer. That’s where I used to hide things, way toward the back of my deep old-fashioned dresser. Dylan puts away his own laundry. It’s one of the kid’s chores.

I can’t see in the back of the drawer, but my hand crawls among the socks, and I hope I don’t find anything lurid in there, the kinds of things a pubescent boy would hide in his room. My hand lands on something smooth, cool, and plastic.

His phone.

There’s a folded piece of paper inside the case, with the light blue lines and ragged edges of a spiral notebook. I unfold it—other than the sharp creases the paper is flat and even, so it looks fresh—and read this in Dylan’s precise printing:
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.

Michael comes in to see me holding it. Before I can protest, he snatches it and the phone out of my hand. He reads the note, then throws it down on the floor. “Fuck.”

I bend to get it as Michael rubs his temples. “That’s good, right? That means he left of his own will. Better than . . .”

“I guess. Yeah. But . . . What the hell, Casey? Why would he leave? I mean, all the crazy times we had when Mallory lived with us, and now?”

I step forward to try to embrace him. Michael returns the hug, but stiffly, his air distracted, as of course he would be. With his other hand he’s turned on Dylan’s phone. “Empty,” he says. “Nothing in his address book. Looks like he’s got a bunch of voice mail, but I’m sure that’s all us. He purged it. Where’s his laptop?”

I shake my head. “Can’t find it. Why didn’t he take his phone?”

“Cell phones can be traced. Shit.”

Michael picks up the note again and turns away, running down the stairs. I trail after him until he reaches the file cabinet in the home office, what must have once been a sort of parlor or sitting room at the front of the house. He riffles through the file cabinet. “Cell phone bills,” he says by way of general announcement. He looks up at Mallory and Angel.

“We found a note. He ran away.”

They both gasp, trading looks. Angel allows a hesitant smile, but Mallory seems to be not at all mollified.

Angel goes to her father’s side, helping him look for the bills. We never bothered investigating Dylan’s calling habits before. As long as he stayed under his allotted minutes, we didn’t have any reason to care.

“Shit,” Michael mutters. He shows me the most recent bill. No phone numbers on it, just the basics. It does, however, show a big spike in his calling activity from what we’re used to seeing.

He seizes the desk phone and starts to dial.

“What did you find out? Did you hack in?” demands Mallory.

I shake my head. “His laptop is gone. He either took it with him or hid it somewhere besides his room.”

Mallory shakes her head. “No. He wouldn’t do this on purpose. He wouldn’t just . . . leave. It doesn’t make sense. Unless . . .”

Mallory advances on me, and I can smell her perfume, a tangy citrus that tickles my nose. The emerging wrinkles around her eyes are cakey with makeup. “Unless it’s you. We never had any trouble with Dylan before, and suddenly you’re here and he’s gone all secretive and now he’s run away.”

Michael is behind me, on the phone to the cell phone company, demanding a detailed copy of their bill, phone numbers and all. He’s getting transferred. Angel hovers near his shoulder, but she keeps glancing our way.

“What are you trying to say?” I ask her.

“I’m trying to say he’s obviously not happy with his new little family here, is he?”

“Nor is he happy with the old one, because he didn’t run to you.”

“Yes, please, kick me while I’m down, while my son is gone.”

“He’s gone from me, too! He’s my stepson!”

“He is
not.
He is the son of your fiancé, who happens to have primary physical custody. For now, anyway.”

I will not take the bait. I will not.

Mallory ignores my nonresponse. She gets closer yet, until I can see her pores. Her voice drops in pitch and volume. “He ran away from here, so your record as a not-even-stepmother is not exactly perfect. But mine?” She takes a step back and smiles. “I haven’t been in a lick of trouble since the separation. I’ve been a regular sweetheart, in fact. I took anger management classes, and I barely even drink anymore. Did you know that? My lawyer is very proud.”

I half turn toward Michael, and Mallory hisses in my ear: “I will not let you raise my children.”

Mallory steps back, leans on my desk, and examines her nails, chipping at a piece of flaked polish.

I look at Angel. She is next to Michael on the other side of the office, not looking our way.

Michael bangs the phone down. “Stupid phone company. They claim they can’t do it for, like, weeks. Such bullshit.” He drops into his desk chair and tips his head back like he’s sunning himself. “Christ, we’re out of milk, too. I was going to get some on the way home today.”

“Let me do it,” I say. “Jewel will be home soon, you should be here for her. It’s just an errand, no reason you should have to leave.”

Michael’s shoulders droop. “Thanks, babe. That would be a big help.”

I go looking for my keys and remember they’re in the duffle bag. The one I packed when I was walking out this morning.

With a sickening crunch it all comes back, the recent months of coldness from Michael, the hostility from Angel and distance from Dylan, the fact that we haven’t set a wedding date and he shuts down all talk of a baby between us.

One little
babe
in the face of all that, because I’m going out for milk, changes nothing, after all.

I retrieve my keys from the duffle bag and go out the back door, away from Michael, his daughter, her mother. I glance back through the office window and see Michael’s arm around Mallory again, stroking her shoulder, just like he always used to do for me.

I remain in the Honda in the tiny parking lot of the corner store, smoking my cigarette and letting my hand dangle out the open window. The cold air is painful in my lungs, but I don’t care. I wouldn’t be comfortable in warm air, either.

I don’t know if Mallory can win back custody. She gave up quickly in the divorce, Michael said, and he was relieved about that. He didn’t want to tear apart his children’s mother in a public courtroom, or even in paperwork, and anyway, he always said, so much of her behavior seemed beyond her control. So there was much he held back. He could bring it all out again to fight her, but the kids are older, more aware. Angel in particular is defensive of her mother, lately. I think as Angel gets older she starts to feel more protective, more adult and maternal. I’ve seen it in the way she hovers over Jewel, and nitpicks her father’s eating habits when he’s tempted by greasy food. Mallory must seem vulnerable to her. I want to cry for her, for all of the kids, to imagine them at the center of a courtroom battle.

My presence would hardly help such a battle. I could even weaken his case for custody, if Mallory’s lawyers start investigating me. My own past would invalidate any argument Michael hoped to use about past bad behavior serving as an indicator of poor mothering skills.

Michael can’t lose his children, and not to her. He’d be torn apart daily, wondering whether Mallory was drunk behind the wheel again, or unconscious on the bathroom floor. His kids fill him up, even on their bad days. He’d be eaten up from the inside out to be without them. Not fair that people think that only happens to mothers.

He might even get back together with her, rather than risk turning them over to her care.

My eyes are going swimmy as I stare at the graffitied side wall of the store. With my free hand I wipe under my lashes, flicking the damp off my fingers.

The sun is already dipping low in the November sky. Where is Dylan going to spend the cold night?

I grind my cigarette out on the outside of the car door and flick it down into the parking lot as my phone rings. It’s Mom.

“Hi.” Suddenly so tired the word comes out more breath than speech.

“You okay?”

“Just a headache.”

“Have some tea, that always helps. Or Motrin, do you have Motrin?”

“Yes, Mom, I have Motrin. What’s going on?”

“Just wanted to hear your voice. Wanda’s darling little baby is so adorable, and I forgot how good that baby smell is.”

“That’s nice, Mom.”

“What is it, Edna?”

“I’m just distracted. I had to run an errand and I have to get back to the house.”

“Well. I’ll let you go then. Sorry to have bothered you.” She sounds affronted. I can almost picture her shrinking back into her chair.

“No, it’s not that, just . . .”

“No, no, I understand. You’ve got a busy life with all those kids, don’t you? I’ll just go watch some TV.”

She gets off the line before I have a chance to rally myself to be talkative. As her one remaining child I should be able to do this for her, just talk on the phone, is that so hard?

I heave myself out of the car to go get the milk, considering that maybe the mundane chores of housekeeping are all I can manage, and perhaps I should leave the emotional work of being a family to someone else, someone equal to the task.

Chapter 8
Jewel

B
ye, Mrs. Morton,” I say, hopping out of her great big car with my backpack. I can’t wait to tell Dad about school today. We studied alligators, which are as old as dinosaurs. I didn’t even know that. And I know a lot about dinosaurs.

“Bye, Jewel,” Mrs. Morton says. “Have a nice night.”

Something’s weird, though. I can tell right away. Something about the house. In this book I read there’s a whole part about trusting your gut, and right now my gut says, “Uh-oh.”

My mom is here? She gives me a hard hug, and her belt buckle presses into my chest. After she lets go I see Angel behind her, who’s supposed to be at play practice, and Dad’s home early, too.

“Dad? What’s going on?”

“Come here, honey, there’s something I have to tell you. Let’s talk upstairs.”

Mom turns to Dad. “What’s wrong with talking right here? With both her parents?”

My stomach is pinching me. That’s how it feels when something is going wrong. I wonder where Casey is.

“What, Dad?” My dad sits me down on the sofa, and my mom sits on the other side. “Did my other grandma die?”

“No, J.,” says my mom. “Dylan’s missing.”

“What?”

My dad looks over the top of my head, giving my mom his mean-face look. “Try not to worry, Jewel. He skipped school today and didn’t take his phone, that’s all. We’re having trouble tracking him down.”

“That’s the same as missing, Dad. I’m not an ignoramus.”

I just learned that word. I like the sound of it.

“But there’s missing and then there’s
missing
, like being on the news and with the police looking for him. He’s not
missing.
”

“Yet,” says my mom.

I look up at her and her arms are folded, but her whole body is jiggling, like she’s on one of those massage chairs in the mall. Uh-oh. This is one of the warning signs, like a volcano. I saw on PBS one time a special about volcanoes, and there was this machine—I forgot the name, but it was
something-graph
and it detected tremors before a blow. I don’t need a something-graph because I can see it right in front of me.

“Where’s Casey?” I ask Dad.

My mom makes a little disgusted snorty noise, and my stomach pinches harder. Angel rolls her eyes. She’s slouched in a chair, texting on her phone.

Dad answers, “Casey had to run out for some milk. She’ll be back soon.”

I shrug, to show I don’t really care.

My mom pulls me close to her, and the stomach pinching relaxes a little because her breath doesn’t smell like drunk.

“I want to go lay down a minute,” I tell them. I stand up, and my mom’s hands cling to me for a bit, like when you walk through a spiderweb and all those little threads hang on.

I go upstairs to my room and curl up on my bed, still wearing my shoes.

For a while I liked the funny smell of Mom’s breath—though sometimes she chewed a lot of mints, which covered it up—because my mom was calmer when I smelled it. She wasn’t so likely to yell. I didn’t know what it was.

Then there was that day at school. My stomach started pinching me because I couldn’t remember to write my numbers not-backward. It was only kindergarten, and I wasn’t good at school yet. I guess I made my tummy sound worse than it really was and got sent to the school nurse. So they called my mom to come get me.

I couldn’t smell her breath, but I could tell she was feeling pretty good. She joked with the school secretary. I do remember she wasn’t wearing a coat for some reason, even though it was winter. And she forgot to wait for me to buckle my seat belt, because I was still fiddling around with it when the car went spinning all crazy.

The memory of it still makes me dizzy.

I hear the front door downstairs open and close and I sit up in my bed, listening for Dylan. Must be Casey, though, because everyone would be real happy if Dylan was down there. I can only hear some quiet talking.

I turn over to face the other wall, where my “vision board” is, which I read about in a book that the librarian said had too many big words for me, but she’s new and doesn’t know that I’m a very good reader. Everyone says so. I have a certificate and everything.