Things You Won't Say (35 page)

“Are we going to McDonald’s?” Eloise asked.

“Maybe later,” Jamie said. “We just have to do something first. Something really important.”

Remarkably, everything went her way: traffic wasn’t heavy, and lights turned green as she approached. The kids stayed quiet. No pedestrians cut in front of her car. Though she knew it wasn’t possible, the whole city seemed poised, waiting for what would unfold. She reached her destination within twenty
minutes. It was a minor miracle, a sign that her plan was the right one.

“You guys need to stay in the van while I go talk to someone,” Jamie said. “It’s really important. Maybe the most important thing I’ve ever asked you to do.”

“Where are we?” Sam asked, looking out his window. They were parked by a curb in front of a three-story, industrial-looking, gray building.

“We’re doing something to help Daddy,” Jamie said. “Here.” She handed her iPhone to Eloise to ward off any potential problems. “You guys watch her, okay? You’ll be able to see me the whole time. I’m going to be standing right at that door. Just don’t get out.”

She stepped out of the minivan and hurried to the building’s doorway. She ran her finger down the listing of apartment numbers behind Plexiglas and found the right one. She pushed the corresponding button. Her luck held: Someone answered, the voice coming through the intercom garbled and fuzzy, but Jamie could tell it belonged to a woman: “Hello?”

“This is Jamie Anderson,” she said. “Michael Anderson’s wife. Please, can you just come down here for a moment? I’d like to talk.”

She waited, but there wasn’t a reply. She stood in the twilight, wondering what would happen next.
Please,
she thought, clasping her hands together. There were some dents and scuff marks near the bottom of the door, as if someone had tried to kick their way in, and the lower windows were protected by metal bars. But someone had planted yellow petunias in a window box, and an American flag hung off a nearby balcony, billowing in the gentle breeze. An in-between place, she thought.

She turned around to check on the children, and when she glanced back, the door was opening to reveal a tall, thin woman.

“What is it?” asked Lucia Torres. The skin on her face
looked haggard, and her eyes were puffy, as if she’d been crying recently.

“Thank you,” Jamie said. She meant to say more—thank you for listening, maybe—but when she glimpsed the deep sorrow on Jose’s mother’s face, her throat turned dry and her eyes wet.

Ms. Torres wore a simple blue dress, not unlike one Jamie owned. Her expression was shifting, becoming more wary.

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” Jamie finally said. “I’m so sorry about Jose.” The tears in her eyes spilled over, but she pushed on. “I know I’m asking for something I have no right to ask for.”

Ms. Torres folded her arms. “
You
want something from
me
?”

“My husband . . . he’s a good man. He has always looked out for kids from this neighborhood. He wouldn’t have— He never would have hurt your son intentionally. It has ruined his life, too. He’ll never be the same.”

“Neither will me or my son,” said Lucia evenly.

Jamie thought she meant Jose, but then she saw a head peeking around from Lucia’s back and realized it must be Lucia’s younger boy. A pair of big brown eyes stared up at her. Seeing that little face, so similar to his brother’s, shredded Jamie. Jose had liked chicken with molé sauce. He’d carried home groceries for his mother. How could Lucia endure losing him?

Jamie forced herself to press on, knowing this would be her only chance. “I came to ask if you would just consider forgiveness,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, her torrent of words matching their pace. “Maybe if the jury sees you don’t want an eye for an eye, they won’t punish Mike severely. There isn’t anything more they could do to him—he’s going to be in a kind of prison for the rest of his life no matter what. But my children”—Jamie’s voice caught on a sob as she gestured toward the minivan just a dozen yards behind her, and she saw
Lucia’s eyes flick to the vehicle—“you see, they need their father. Please.”

She thought she saw something soften in Lucia’s face at the mention of the children, at the sight of her old minivan with the dented fender parked out front, Sam’s small face peering out of one window, and Sadie in the passenger’s seat with her furry head extended through another.

Jamie reached out and touched Lucia’s hand. “I’m begging you,” she sobbed. “Mother to mother.”

Lucia’s face closed and she withdrew her hand. “Do you know my son was stopped and threatened by a cop when he was walking in his own neighborhood? Told to get home and stop causing trouble or the cop would give him real trouble? Tell me that didn’t happen for any reason other than the color of his skin. Jose was ten years old. He cried that night and asked me why the policeman thought he was bad.”

“I know those things still happen, and it’s horrible,” Jamie began. “But—”

Lucia cut her off. “You don’t know. Not the way I do.” She folded her arms. “Do you have a boy?”

“Yes,” Jamie said.

“His experience growing up will be nothing like my son’s. He won’t be afraid of policemen, like Jose was. He won’t have store clerks following him around, watching with angry eyes to see if he tries to slip something in his pocket when all he wants is to buy milk for our morning cereal. He won’t have people cross to the other side of the street when they see him coming. You have no idea what life is like for our brown boys. Your son lives in a different world, one that doesn’t automatically treat him with disrespect.”

“You’re right,” Jamie said. “But my husband—I promise you—he isn’t like that.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Lucia said in a flat voice. “Justice must be served.”

She stepped back, and without looking at Jamie, she clicked the door shut.

“No!” Jamie cried. She wanted to bang on the door until her hands bled, to shout and beg and drop to her knees, but the children were watching. She gulped air as her body trembled compulsively. She’d hoped so desperately this would work. She’d imagined forging a connection with Jose’s mother. She’d thought if Lucia could just see her as a woman, she would no longer view Mike as a villain. The prosecutor might even drop the charges. Mike would come home. Maybe the three of them could work together on some sort of task force, a way to pair at-risk youth with police mentors. They could try to honor Jose’s memory.

But now, in the sudden stillness of the evening, she had no hope left. She had never felt so empty and alone.

“Mom?” Sam called out the window.

She did the only thing left to her. She wiped away her tears and turned and began walking back to her children.

•••

“Okay if I film here?” the videographer asked, coming over to stand next to Lou with his tripod.

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“It’s okay,” he said, but Lou moved anyway. He might want to chat, to while away the time, and she wanted to focus exclusively on Tabby. She made sure the elephant saw her new position in case she wanted to come over again for reassurance.

It was growing dark now, on the second night of Tabby’s labor, and when the videographer turned on his camera, a piercing white light shone on Tabby. Lou was on her feet in an instant.

“Turn that off! Now!” she demanded, catching herself just before she yelled. Tabby might be scared if Lou raised her voice; she’d never before heard anger coming from her keeper.

“The quality won’t be as good if we don’t have light,” the videographer protested. “I can barely see her.”

Lou strode over and ripped the power cord from his camera.

“Hey!” he said. “Careful! That’s expensive!”

“Listen to me,” Lou said. “No lights. No loud sounds. If you do anything to disturb her, I’m throwing you out of here.”

Now she had a sense of how Jamie had felt that day at the mall.

“Sheesh,” the videographer said. “Sorry.” He reattached the cord and turned off the light.

Lou settled back down, a little closer to the videographer this time. Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. She reached into her pack for a PowerBar and a bottle of water.

Tabby had slept for a while this afternoon, and Lou had dozed along with her, but now the elephant was pacing again.

“It’s okay,” Lou called. “Good girl.”

She was vaguely aware of the videographer turning his camera in her direction. Tabby came over to the fence again, and Lou reached into a basket for a sweet potato. Tabby took it from her open palm.

“Plenty more where that came from,” Lou whispered. She hoped Tabby wasn’t afraid.

The elephant tossed her trunk and began circling the enclosure again. Lou wanted to let her out so she could roam the miles of trail, but all the medical equipment was here. It would be too tough for everyone to follow her and get to her quickly in case of an emergency. Besides, the vet was napping on a cot a dozen yards away, so he’d be fresh if he was needed.

Lou took a sip of water and kept her eyes fixed on Tabby. Lou knew the birth would be sudden, almost violently so. They’d have very little warning before the baby slipped out and fell to the earth. Maybe Tabby would make a sound, or
suddenly become very still. Lou wasn’t sure what the signal would be, but she felt confident she’d recognize it when the moment arrived.

The elephant took long strides around the perimeter of her enclosure, her tail swinging, her movement the only sign of her discomfort. Pacing . . . there was that word again, the one tickling at the edges of her mind.

Lou closed her eyes and tried to hold on to it.

Pacing was the only thing that helped.
Someone had spoken those words to Lou. She could hear their echo, a tinny, faraway sound. Had it been Jamie, recounting the story of one of her kids’ births? The memory fluttered away again.

“You got another PowerBar?” the videographer asked, his voice too loud. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-two, with a pimply chin and long hair. But Lou didn’t regret being so hard on him; she’d do it again if she needed to.

Lou reached into her pack, grabbing a bottle of water, too, and walked over to hand the snacks to him.

“She needs quiet,” Lou said, gesturing to Tabby. “If you want anything else, you come to me and whisper. But only if it’s an emergency.”

Instead of sitting down again, Lou began to walk, too, trying to keep up with Tabitha. Together they went back and forth, back and forth, Lou wishing she could absorb some of Tabby’s discomfort.

Pacing was the only thing that helped.

Lou felt her eyes widen and her heartbeat stutter. It wasn’t Jamie who had said that about labor.

Lou could hear the voice, low and soft and faintly musical, so clearly now. Suddenly the memory snapped into place.

The voice belonged to her mother.

•••

Henry was waiting in the camp director’s office, his T-shirt torn and his right eye swollen.

Christie wanted to run to him and throw her arms around his thin shoulders, but she knew it would embarrass him. Despite his defiant expression, she could tell from the quiver in his lips that he was struggling to hold himself together.

“Hey, buddy,” Mike said. He reached out and tilted up Henry’s chin. “You’re going to have a serious shiner. Didn’t they give you some ice for that?”

“I don’t need ice,” Henry said, jerking his chin out of Mike’s hand. There was blood on the front of his shirt, too. It pained Christie just to look at it.

Suzanne, the camp director, cleared her throat. She was thirtyish, broad-shouldered and pink-cheeked, with khaki shorts and wheat-colored hair pulled into a ponytail—exactly the type of person you’d expect to be running a camp.

“As I said on the phone,” Suzanne told them, “Henry was in a fight. I saw it myself. He threw the first punch.”

“Henry wouldn’t do it without a good reason,” Christie said. Of that she was certain.

“I’m all ears,” Suzanne said. She squatted down next to Henry so she could look him in the eye, but Henry just shook his head.

“If he won’t talk about what happened, we have no choice but to dismiss him immediately,” Suzanne said. Christie had been prepared to yell at her, to call her on bureaucratic bullshit, but it was clear from her expression Suzanne didn’t relish the thought of making Henry leave.

“I have a feeling this is probably unusual for Henry,” Suzanne said as she straightened up. “He’s only been here a day, but I saw him helping the younger kids with batting practice while the rest of his group was swimming.”

Suzanne walked to the door and hesitated. “He won’t tell me, but maybe he’ll tell you,” she said as she left, closing the door behind them.

Christie had no idea what to say. She wondered whether the onset of puberty was responsible for the changes in Henry,
or if it was something more. She’d hidden so much from her mother—boyfriends, joints, cleavage-baring tops (though she’d hidden those only so her mother wouldn’t borrow them). Maybe she’d been foolish to think that because Henry was kind and polite and a good student he’d be immune from the typical pressures of adolescence.

“Did someone say something to you about me?” Mike asked.

“Why do you think everything’s about you?” Henry asked.

“Henry!” Christie was shocked.

“Look, it had nothing to do with that stuff,” Henry said. “The guy was just a dickhead.”

“Okay,” Mike said calmly. “But you usually don’t go around punching dickheads, which makes me think there’s something more to it than that.”

“Maybe,” Henry said. “Can we just go already?” His duffel bag was near his feet. He probably hadn’t even had a chance to unpack it.

Christie looked at Mike, who shrugged. “Sure,” she said.

They opened the door, and Christie shook her head at Suzanne. “He wants to leave,” she said.

“I understand,” Suzanne said. “Henry, if you change your mind and want to talk about it, I’d still like to hear your side. You can call me anytime. Even after the session ends.”

Henry nodded. “Okay,” he said.

Suzanne touched Mike’s forearm. “Usually we don’t give refunds if kids are asked to leave, but in this case . . . Well, please call me,” she said.