IAN, AGE FOURTEEN
Ian sat on the front porch waiting for his dad to get off the phone with Mr. Hatchett, his mom’s attorney. Ian hadn’t seen her in months, not since he testified at her trial.
A lot of good that did. She was still sentenced to nine years. He’d be in college by then, or graduated with a degree and a job. Where would he go if she wasn’t here?
Somewhere close so he could visit her. He missed her something fierce.
Ian picked up a rock, hefted the stone, then threw it hard. The rock hit the rear fender of his dad’s truck with a loud ping.
The abrasions on his legs had healed; his skin was pink where the scabs had rubbed off. The doctor said the scars would fade. Ian wondered if the same could be said of the dark cloud building inside him. His dad didn’t know, and he’d die if his friends found out, but Ian cried himself to sleep like a baby most nights. Under the privacy of his covers, he’d bite into his pillows and sob.
Jackie had done what she’d threatened to do. She’d taken his mom away for good.
Ian folded his arms on his knees, dropped his head, and let the dark cloud billow. It thickened and expanded, growing angry. He hated Jackie.
But today, they were visiting Sarah. Ian could finally apologize for losing the pictures he’d taken that day. When the car door slammed on his camera with him stuck in the shoulder strap, the casing had popped open, exposing the film. Gone were the images he believed could have proved her innocence. Jackie had fired the pistol, not Sarah.
Tired of sulking, Ian lifted his head and clicked through the settings of the new digital camera Stu had purchased as a replacement for the one permanently damaged that night. It was an expensive camera, and still a rare find in electronic stores. But his dad had connections, and Ian figured he gave it to him out of guilt. He should have been home to take Ian to the track meet.
Ian lifted the camera to his face and squinted through the viewer. Tulips bloomed in his mom’s pots. Corn sprouted in the fields, the stalks low enough so he could see the road and the mailbox at the end of the drive. Ian zoomed the lens and snapped a photo.
Inside, behind the screen door, his dad paced the long hallway. The farmhouse’s old walnut floor snapped, crackled, and popped under the weight of his boots. He stopped just inside the doorway and within hearing distance. Ian picked up snippets of his dad’s conversation.
“There’s nothing we can do to change her mind?” he asked the attorney. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . how long?” Ian pictured Mr. Hatchett in his office in Nevada, his Santa Claus paunch giving him no choice but to lean back in his chair as he stared at the ceiling, patiently answering Stu’s questions. The same questions Ian bet Mr. Hatchett heard from every client.
Ian’s dad fired a round of curse words. They pelted the air like firecrackers and Ian cringed. Something had his dad fired up.
“Fine . . . Yes . . . I understand . . . Call me if she changes her mind or shows improvement. Thanks.”
His dad retreated farther into the house. He slammed down the cordless phone and swore. From where Ian sat, the phone sounded like it had shattered. Behind him the screen door opened and slammed shut. His dad settled on the porch steps beside Ian.
Ian clipped on the lens cap and shouldered the strap. “Ready?” He stood, eager to get on the road. They had a ten-hour drive to Las Vegas with plans to camp overnight halfway. They’d fish for their dinner this evening and Ian wanted to leave so they’d get to the campground by late afternoon. He was also antsy to see his mom. Excitement kept him in motion. He bounced from foot to foot.
Stu reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette and, rolling onto his hip, leg extended, dug a lighter from his jeans. He made a show—all in slow motion, in Ian’s opinion—of lighting the cigarette and taking a few deep sucks until the end flared orange. Cigarette hanging from his lip, he stuffed the lighter back in his front pocket and patted the space beside him. “Have a seat, son.”
“We’re late.” Ian glanced at his dad’s truck. He’d packed the cab with road-trip snacks and drinks. The cooler in the back was full of ice and food for the four-day trip. Two there and two back. A mini-vacation, his dad had said. Preseason football started in a month. Best for them to get in some father-son activities before the three months his dad would juggle time between football and baseball.
Ian had also wrapped a gift for his mom, a book of poems by T. S. Eliot. She loved poetry. She said the words soothed her. Ian had purchased the book with his allowance from the used bookshop in town. He could see the present on the dashboard, floral printed wrapping tied with a yellow bow.
Stu took a long draw on his Marlboro. “We’re not going.”
Ian’s heart plummeted into his stomach. “What do you mean?”
“How do I put this?” his dad muttered. He rubbed his forehead with the hand holding the cigarette, then looked at Ian. “She doesn’t want to see us.”
“You’re lying.”
“Wish I was.” Stu sucked on the cigarette like his life depended on it. Ian watched the smoke veil his dad’s face. Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. Shallow creases marked his father’s forehead like yard lines on a football field. His dad had aged these past months. The trial had been difficult. He’d spent a lot of time traveling between home, Nevada, and his games. He still had to make a living, he told Ian. Someone had to put food on Ian’s table and keep the roof from collapsing on him.
“You said we could see her as soon as she could have visitors.” Ian had been waiting for months.
“We’re not on her list.”
“Then get us on it.” Ian clenched his hands and took a threatening step toward his dad.
Stu’s eyes narrowed in warning and Ian shrank back. “I can’t. It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” He was her son. How could she not want to see him?
“She’s sick, Ian.” Stu sucked at the cigarette. “She’s lucky she’s getting any treatment at all in there.”
“The doctors will fix her.”
“They’ll try, but there’s no guarantee.” He flicked the cigarette with a thumbnail. Ash dropped in the dirt. “Until she’s stable, no visits.” With the edge of his boot sole, he buried the ash.
“Do the doctors know why she’s sick?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Ian pushed. He wanted answers. He needed to make sense of why his mother’s behavior was so erratic.
“It’s confidential.” Ian held his father’s gaze, pleading for more information. Stu broke contact and looked at the ground. He scratched his lower lip with his thumb. “She had a rough childhood. Her stepfather wasn’t . . .” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes. “He wasn’t nice to your mother. She shouldn’t have married me. She probably shouldn’t have had a kid either.”
Ian stumbled back a step. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Listen, I’ve got to make some calls.” Stu pushed off his thighs and stood. “Unpack the truck and get your chores done.”
“What about Mom? She’s waiting for us,” Ian protested.
“Dammit, Ian. Your mother doesn’t want to see you.”
Ian moved his head in a slow, disbelieving shake. “Liar.”
“She asked for space, so we’ve got no choice but to give it to her.”
“Liar!” Ian screamed. “I took care of her. She needs me.” Ian smacked his chest, and to his humiliation, the tears he tried hard to hide from his dad boiled over. “She loves me. She said she would always love me. I want to see her. I have to make sure she’s all right.”
“She’s not your responsibility, Ian. Not now, not ever.” Stu retreated into the house.
Ian watched the screen door slam. His legs shook and a sick feeling twisted inside his stomach. He’d failed his mom at her trial, and he’d failed her with his life.
His mother had lied to him. She didn’t love him.
She hated him.
He never should have been born.