unstable woman who doesn’t have enough sense to stop Jewel from jumping with a jawbreaker in her mouth, who doesn’t have the presence of mind to save her own daughter from choking to death? Who could pass out in a daze if she takes too many pills and die right there in front of them?
I bathed in acidic regret for hours, but I kept coming back to my marriage to her and coming out with the same answer: I couldn’t have left her to care for Angel by herself, she wasn’t up to it.
But then we had Dylan, during a time of relative peace, which now seems like a bad idea, but how can I regret my kids? I could have gotten myself a vasectomy, but I never did. Maybe part of me wanted another shot at fatherhood. With someone normal.
I don’t believe Jewel isn’t mine. We look too much alike. She looks, in fact, very much like photographs of my mother at this age. This is what I’ll keep telling myself.
I look at my son carefully sweeping the hardwood floor, the echo of my sharp chin in his face, and in my mind I hear his sax, soulful and melodic, and of course, I can’t regret him.
“Hey, Dylan.”
“Yeah?”
He pauses in his sweeping, leaning on the broom.
“Why did you take off?”
He looks at his feet. At the wall, at the broken computer. I continue, “It wasn’t just a girl, was it?”
“I hate my school.” He tosses his head a little. His bangs are getting long, hanging in his eyes.
His grades at the new school are phenomenal. So I say that.
He scoffs. “That school is ridiculous. Everyone has awesome grades there. I hate that there’s no band. It’s not enough to play by myself. I want to be part of something.”
“But your grades at the old school . . . And that gun.”
“I’ll study harder. Every night. Get me a tutor. But don’t make me go back to that stupid charter school. I don’t care if my old school has problems. It’s not like I feared for my life. I know how to stay away from trouble. I was happy there, Dad.”
I should say no. I should refuse to reward his running away by doing what he wants. Make him tough it out. The new place is supposed to be terrific. Innovative, that’s what the experts say.
I start to ask why he didn’t just come out and ask me to transfer him, but I’ve answered my own question before I open my mouth. Same reason Casey didn’t tell me who she really was.
“Okay,” I say. “First thing Monday I’ll call your old school.”
Now it’s his turn to be startled. “In the middle of the semester?”
“You shouldn’t have to wait to be content.”
Now he looks younger again, his face glowing with that kind of childish joy little kids have when they go to the park, or, when I last saw it on Dylan’s face, when we bought him his first saxophone.
We both turn toward a knocking on the door, and my stomach knots with dread. Knocking, ringing phones, one disaster after another, for days.
I pull open the heavy door, holding my breath.
It’s Casey, hands in her pockets, eyes down on the faded welcome mat, inscrutable.
Chapter 48
Edna Leigh Casey
My phone rings as I’m swiping on lip gloss in my bathroom. I’m almost late for work, but I should grab it just in case.
“Hello?”
I’m greeted by an energetic, chirpy rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. I know I’ll see you this weekend, but I couldn’t wait.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Did you like the flowers?”
“Very much. I gotta go, though, okay? Call you later.”
“Okay, honey. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I put my phone back in my pocket and smell my flowers on my way to get my purse off the kitchen table. Tulips, perfect for spring. I stroke a silky petal and smile.
I glance around my apartment, which the landlord let me paint a bright salmon pink as long as I promised to return it to beige if I move out. It actually makes my room resemble a child’s eraser, but I love even that because it’s my own mistake on my own walls.
I still don’t have a car, but it’s warm enough to bike instead of taking the bus. I snap on my helmet and pedal to my new job doing information tech at the bank. It’s not thrilling work, but it’s close to home and it’s stable, and I felt I needed people again.
Because, as it turned