his face pale and terrified. And then he lets out a scream, an unholy shriek of a sound, one single, piercing note that goes on and on and makes me want to clap my hand over my ears as Nick and I stare at each other in horror.
5
BETH
I don’t know how long I stand on the sidewalk, staring after Susan’s car. It left my street a long time ago, and yet I can’t seem to move. My feet feel as if they are stuck in the concrete and tears are still trickling down my face. An old lady from across the street has come onto her stoop and is staring at me suspiciously, her hands planted on her bony hips.
I live on a street of modest duplexes just off Boulevard; some of them have been carved up into apartments, like mine, and others are owned by single families who take pride in their neat yards and full flower boxes. It’s a bit of a tense mix, and I feel that now as my neighbor continues to stare. No doubt she witnessed the whole, terrible show of Dylan being taken to the car, me pounding on the window.
Dylan. Grief swamps me, and I couldn’t care less about my nosy neighbor. I want my son back. I need my son back. I can’t live like this, without him. I don’t know how. I wrap my arms around my waist as I double over, choking sobs escaping me. Across the street, I hear the slam of a screen door, and I know the woman has gone back inside. I feel as if I could be sick.
Footsteps pound behind me and then come to a stop. Someone touches me gently on the shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
Slowly, I straighten to look into the face of a jogger, a trim man in his thirties decked out in Lycra. He frowns at me as he pulls his earbuds out. They dangle from where they are looped around his neck.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“Yes,” I manage. The last thing I need is more people involved in this. “I just…” I can’t think of any explanation, so I shake my head and turn back towards my front door.
The man watches me, still frowning, but as I head inside I hear him jog off. No one cares that much, really.
Inside, I walk around the apartment in a daze. My mind skitters like a pinball in a machine, going nowhere. I can’t think; I can barely breathe. How am I going to survive this?
At some point, I stop wandering and start cleaning. It’s the only thing I can think to do that is actually useful. My hands shake as I clear the breakfast dishes off the table and then wash them in the sink. Then I strip the sheets off the bed and bundle them into the washer in the kitchen, even though part of me resists even that. They needed a wash, but they’ll smell of Tide, and not of Dylan.
When the apartment is clean, I go to my craft table in the corner of the living room, where I make jewelry. I have a couple of orders that need packaging and mailing, and so I work on those, and then I answer two emails inquiring about custom-made pieces. I’m no artistic genius; I twist wire and set small, semi-precious stones. I make necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings, but they’re all pretty basic and I sell them for really cheap.
I had a dream once, of setting up a craft shop, a place where kids could come and make jewelry, where I’d have bins of colorful beads and flower murals on the wall, and maybe a funky little café in the back, selling coffee and cake. It would be a place for people to hang out and have fun, a creative safe space for the young and old together.
Of course, I never got anywhere with that dream, with everything that I’ve had to deal with. The closest I’ve come to it is this: my little page on Shopify, a card table in the corner of my living room and a jewelry-making craft kit that cost forty bucks on Amazon.
After I package up the orders, I decide to head to the UPS store on Boulevard. I can’t believe how productive I’m being, but I know if I stop and think, I’ll fall apart. It’s only as I’m about to leave that I realize it’s after six, and the store will