She never knew the answer to this. Her brief adult friendship with Kevin had presumed that Suzette had met neither one of them at the hospital, that everyone was fine, except of course Suzette. When she understood that the truth was far more complicated, steeped in countless lies that weren’t Suzette’s at all, she was a month away from giving birth, which made it possible to say to herself: I won’t think about this now, I’ll think about it later.
And then she saw a different way out. Kevin might be Adam’s father, but he also might not be. She could decide for herself not to decide. Make true what she had said to her parents: It doesn’t matter who the father is. It’s not important. She kept it up steadfastly through prenatal visits, through hospital admissions, through birth certificate application forms. Father: Unknown, she wrote each time. Toward the end, people began to question her more; in the hospital she got assigned a social worker who told her, five hours after she’d delivered Adam, that there were men who sued former girlfriends for access to the children they’d never been told they had.
“No, no,” Cara said, staring down at the baby in her arms, already serious, brow already furrowed in doubt about this business of leaving the womb. “That won’t be the case here.”
“Look,” the woman finally said. “Any way you want to cut your cake, you can. I’m not going to tell you how to live your life when I don’t know you from Eve. But every book you read, every study says, a kid who knows his father is a more grounded, healthier kid. You hear what I’m saying? I’m not talking the guy has to be a zoo dad or what have you. I’m saying knowing is better than not knowing. A name on that birth certificate is whole lot better than no name.”
Even in the face of this large, persuasive woman’s obvious logic, she didn’t cave in. She simply said, “It’ll be okay. In this case, he’ll be okay. I promise.”
In all this time, she’s never doubted this decision, or the certainty she made it with. Three years later, she sat through neurologist appointments, with their battery of genetic questions, and didn’t doubt herself. She understood that a named father wouldn’t change what was happening; that Adam’s brain, his stalled development, had nothing to do with missing a father.
She arrives home to find Morgan and Adam perfectly content, sitting at the dining room table playing Sorry. She watches for a while, knowing the logistics of this game are too complicated for Adam, though he seems happy enough to let Morgan move his piece while he rolls the dice and says “Sorr-eee,” each time.
“Is everyone here okay?” she asks Wendy, who is sitting on the sofa.
“I think we’re fine. Everyone wanted hot dogs for dinner, so that’s what they ate.”
She turns back to the boys. Adam is kneeling on his chair, leaning forward over folded arms so his nose can hover a few inches above something that has caught his interest on the board.
“Seven,” he says, studying the dice, his chin furrowed in concentration.
Morgan looks closer. “Eight actually. Five plus three is eight.”
Cara smiles. Rain Man, he’s not.
“Oh yeah. Eight, eight, eight, gate.”
“You want to move, or you want me to move for you?”
“Move for you, move for you,” he giggles, and now it’s clear what’s caught Adam’s interest, what he’s loving about this game: the knocking sound Morgan makes moving the piece forward. Click, click, click, click, click. Adam is helpless with laughter. Cara laughs, too, catches Wendy’s eye. She smiles and nods. “They’re fine, really.”
Later, Morgan agrees to watch an opera with Adam, but five minutes into it, he wanders out of the family room and finds Cara cleaning up in the kitchen. She turns and smiles. “A little bored with opera?”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “It’s like all in a different language or something.”
“It is a different language. It’s German.”
“Oh. I don’t know German.”
“Neither does Adam.”
“So why does he like it?”
She shrugs. Though she’s tried, she doesn’t really understand it herself. She has sat with him through countless opera videos and they all remain a mystery to her—people flinging their arms, chins quivering under heavy wigs. When he watches, she usually sits beside him, trying to piece together a plot he never cares about anyway. “These two either love each other, or else she’s his mother, I can’t tell which,” she’ll say to Adam, who will beg, with his eyes, for her to stop talking.
“So there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Morgan says.
“Okay.” She dries her hands, and turns around to face him.
Morgan speaks quickly, staring at the ground. “The first thing is, I started a fire on my mother’s land. Well, not her land, but the land she’s been trying to save. Now it’s all gone, the beavers and salamanders, everything is dead.”
Cara widens her eyes. She remembers the fire, three weeks ago maybe. The papers were full of it—pictures of firefighters bent over beside the ash-covered ground and blackened tree skeletons. Arson was suspected, but couldn’t be proved. “On purpose?”
“Not exactly. But it wasn’t exactly an accident, either.”
What does this mean? What sort of boy has she let into their lives?
“I never meant for it to happen the way it did. I’m going to make up for it.”
“How?”
“I’m going to solve this murder. I’m going to figure out who did it and then no one will be mad at me anymore.”
“That’s why you’ve been coming here? To solve the murder?”
He nods. “Yeah. I mean. Yeah.”
“You thought Adam might tell you what he hasn’t told the police or me?”
“He might. You never know.”
Cara is surprised by how quickly and completely anger sweeps through. She has spent all day responding reasonably to shocking revelations and now, at last, this one has pushed her over the edge. “Adam likes you, Morgan.”
He doesn’t seem to hear. “If I solve the murder, then no one will think about the fire anymore. They’ll just think I’m great. My mom won’t be mad. Neither will Marianne, or the police officer, or the judge. There’s a judge, I guess, who decides my punishment.”
“Adam has never had a friend before. For whatever reason, he likes you, Morgan. He’s happy when you’re here, he says your name, he wants to spend time with you. That’s all very different for Adam. If you don’t feel like you can be a real friend to him, I don’t think you should stay here tonight. I think you should leave.” As she says these words, her breath goes shallow. Why is she forcing the issue when she could just as easily swallow her pride, tell herself it doesn’t matter, what matters is getting through this, Adam waking up tomorrow with a smile on his face, believing he’s had his first sleepover? She knows mothers who all but bribe kids to come for playdates, so why is she suddenly insisting on sincerity?
“You want me to leave?”
She takes a deep breath. “No, I don’t. It’s been a long day. I’m feeling defensive.”
“Because maybe I should. I’m starting to think my mom might be worried.”
She stares at him. “Wait a minute. Your mother doesn’t know where you are?”
She calls Wendy back over, explains what is going on: that there’s been a change of plans: she’s running Morgan home. In the car, he surprises her. For a while they drive in silence and then, out of nowhere, he asks: “So who’s Adam’s dad? Some guy, right?”
“Right,” she says carefully. “Adam doesn’t see him.”
“Yeah, my dad blows me off, too, sometimes.”
“He didn’t blow us off, Morgan. When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I wanted a baby, so I decided to have him by myself.”
“See, I don’t get that. Why would people want this thing that ruins your life?”
She knows she shouldn’t be angry at Morgan, but she can’t help herself. “It doesn’t ruin your life, Morgan,” she says curtly. “I don’t
know where you’d get that idea.”
“I don’t know. I think maybe it ruined my mother’s life.”
As she pulls the car into the driveway, the screen door opens, and a silhouetted figure leans out of the house. “Please say that’s you, Morgan.”
He opens the car door. “It’s me, Mom.”
Cara watches him walk up to the porch, watches the two figures stand there for a full minute without touching. Cara can’t hear what they say but stays in the driveway as long as she can—until one figure steps aside, lets the other walk in first and then follow.
Frankly, Morgan is surprised. He knew his mother would be angry, that she’d probably lose the cool she’s kept since finding out about the fire, but unless he’s mistaken, it looks like she’s been crying, too. “I can’t bear this, Morgan. I came home today and you weren’t here and I thought you were dead.”
They are seated side by side on the sofa, and she’s leaning forward, her head in her hands. He can’t tell what she’s doing, so he leans forward to peek in between her fingers. “Are you crying, Mom?” he whispers.
“Jesus, Morgan.”
“I’m just asking.”
“I know I’m not a perfect mother. I know that. I know you wish your life was different and you think you need these touchy-feely groups I can’t stand. You don’t need to burn down any more wetlands to tell me not to push my opinions on you anymore. I see it. I’ve learned my lesson. I just keep thinking, My God, is he going to die to prove his point? Are you going to get yourself killed and then I’ll finally see—yes, you’re your own person. Oh God, Morgan.” She never talks this way. Ever. She raises her voice about water pollution levels and air quality, not him. Now he can see: she is crying. He’s never seen this before, never in all his life has he seen his mother cry. “I keep thinking, What would I do if you died?”
“Are you serious?” he says. Obviously she must be, but he’s not entirely sure.
She nods, takes a deep breath. “Oh, Morgan.” She’s done now. Whatever mood swept over her is gone. Her hands are down, splayed over her knees like a benched basketball player. She shakes her head. “I’m all right.”
“Okay,” he says. “Are you sure?”
Though the tears scared him, he wants to go back, touch something that might produce them again. He has spent his life crying too much, too often, tears shed in the offices of guidance counselors and principals who could only ever think of one thing to do: call his mother on the phone. “Because it’s not like I want to die or anything.”
“What do you want?”
“New shoes, I guess. Friends, maybe.”
“Is that really so important?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“I know, Mom.”
“I have you. That’s it.”
“I know.”
“I’m not saying that should be enough for you. I’m just saying that’s what I have. You’re what I have. You’re my whole life.” One tear leaks down her cheek, travels to the corner of her mouth, and stops. “That’s it.”
“I know, Mom,” he says, though he wonders if he ever realized it before now.
All night, June has been watching the local news that is covering the search for Chris nonstop. Volunteers have come out of the woodwork, dozens of them, to search the five-mile radius surrounding Chris’s apartment, an effort that is slowed down, slightly, by two bodies of water—a duck pond beside his condo complex, and Lister Lake, a mile away, where divers have been working all day and now, into the night. Chris’s mother has reappeared beside the lake to weep once again on camera. “My Chris hates water—he’s terrified of it. He won’t go near it.”
June wants Teddy to call back so she can tell him what’s more important than her feelings at this point: that Chris was seen once in the woods, talking to himself, possibly crying. It means he’s gone there before, that it’s a place he seeks some kind of escape to. It’s also not in the radius they’re searching.
“If he hates water, that means he hasn’t gone near it,” she says, realizing too late that she’s talking out loud, to a television set. She feels like she’s losing her mind. She needs to get hold of Teddy again, tell him this tip about Chris. Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe it will be the break that they need. Finally she breaks down and calls his apartment and, to her surprise, gets Suzette, who says she hasn’t heard from him since the afternoon.
“He said he was going home to talk to you.”
“Is that what he said?” Suzette’s voice sounds shaky, as if she, too, has been waiting for a call all day.
“Yes. He definitely said he was going home.” He’d been working a straight twenty-four-hour shift, after which they’re required to go home—go someplace—and get some sleep. So where is he?
Suddenly it’s clear, though, that this isn’t what’s worrying Suzette. “June, can I get your help? There’s a person I need to talk to and I can’t get there by myself.”
“You want me to take you somewhere?” She can hardly believe it.
“Yes. I do.”
All this time, June can only remember being alone with Suzette the one time when she told her she was glad she wasn’t a waitress and twenty-two. “Are you sure?”
“I’m thinking about this boy, Chris. It’s someone who might know something; she might know what happened to him.”
“I’ll be right over.”
When she hangs up, she looks at the TV and knows suddenly where Teddy must be. Even though he’s off duty, officially encouraged to get some sleep, he is with the search teams looking for Chris. He’s combing the ponds, the abandoned fields, looking for anything—a sock, a shoe, an earpiece from some eyeglasses—because now she is beginning to understand what this job means. No police officer will go to sleep, or go home, or do anything else, with a child in his town still missing.
It’s dark when June arrives. She knows Teddy won’t appreciate her getting involved; he believes Suzette’s condition is something other people can’t understand, that only he knows his sister and how fragile she is. As June drives up to their apartment, though, Suzette stands out front looking fine. “Thank you for doing this, June. I couldn’t ask anyone else. I was going to phone a taxi and then you called.” June remembers Teddy describing their late-night walks—how her body froze up two blocks from home and she couldn’t walk anymore. Now she was going to call a taxi, venture out on her own? “What’s this about?” she says, watching Suzette carefully.
“An old friend of mine came by today and brought some pictures that Amelia had drawn. I recognized one. I think it means something. I need to find out.”
“My Amelia?”
Suzette blinks, seems to have no idea what June is saying.
“Amelia was my student.”
Suzette shakes her head. “Really? You knew her?”
Has Teddy told her nothing? “Yes.”
“Then maybe you would have an answer to this—how did she know Evelyn Barrows?”
As she drives home from Morgan’s, it occurs to Cara that she could swing by Kevin’s to see if he’s back from the station yet. When she does, the house is dark, but a car is in the driveway that she doesn’t remember seeing before. This must be his mother’s car; if she’s at home, he must be, too, she thinks, ringing the doorbell. Standing on the porch, she remembers the last time she saw Kevin’s mother, in his hospital room where he almost died. She remembers her face, lips folded in apprehension, her silence, and the way she refused to fill in the awkward gaps of conversation, to make the visit easier or see it as something relatively simple: two girls coming to cheer Kevin up. To her, it obviously wasn’t; there was far more to fear than Cara could even recognize at the time. Now she does. She thinks about the argument she’s just had with Morgan, this instinct to protect Adam at any cost. What would she do now if Amelia, with her blond hair and blue eyes, showed up on their doorstep asking for Adam?
When the door finally opens, Cara hardly reco
gnizes the person in front of her. She remembers a woman who came to school wearing curlers and lipstick, as if her face was divided, one half readying for an evening out, the other half all set. She was never beautiful, but there had always been something striking—or maybe just noticeable—about her. She was the first woman Cara ever saw smoking an ultrathin cigarette; from far away it looked like she was dragging on a knitting needle. Now it looks like she has been doing little else for the last fifteen years. Her skin is mottled, leathery, and wrinkled, her eyes shadowed in dark circles as if she hasn’t slept in days, though she is wearing a nightgown. “Mrs. Barrows?”
“What are you doing here?”
She didn’t know if Kevin’s mother would remember her. Now it’s obvious: yes, she does. “Can I come in?”
Mrs. Barrows seems to need a moment to think this over. “I suppose,” she finally says, and then, before Cara can begin any of the vague speeches she’s planned to deliver—I had to take him to the police; in the long run this will be better, you’ll see—the woman whispers, “Will you excuse me for a minute,” and disappears. Cara stands in the entryway, and, unsure what else to do, closes the door behind her. Her first time here, she had stayed outside, too focused on Kevin and what he was saying to go in and look around, but now that she does, she can hardly believe how dingy the place is. In the corner there’s a Hefty bag of garbage that has been sitting there long enough to have leaked a coagulated puddle onto the floor. A cardboard box in the far corner seems to be the repository of mail, but it’s not the week’s worth that Cara lets pile up on her table—this is an avalanche, six months or more of unopened envelopes and grocery store circulars.