Chasing Forgiveness (6 page)

Don't you worry about your mom and dad,
Grandpa Wes told me.
They've always been sort of . . . dramatic people. It's too bad you and Tyler have to be stuck in the middle—but just think about how good things are when things are good. Remember, Preston, the good times always outweigh the bad times two to one.

Dad is never late. Never. That's one thing about him, he's on time to everything, and he never makes people wait. I figure maybe he forgot, and that's why he's half an hour late to pick me up—but Dad never forgets things either, especially something as important as a track meet. Maybe something happened, like he had a flat tire. I try to remember whether the spare in the back of our Rover was flat or not. If it was flat, then he would have had to get towed to the service station and get it repaired, and that would take at least a half hour, wouldn't it?

Then how come he hasn't called?

Well, he's embarrassed about it. After all, he always says he knows everything about cars, so he'd be embarrassed about going to a service station for something as simple as a flat tire. That's what happened.

Across the room, the musical scales go up and down, up and down, as the girl finishes her lesson with Grandma. A car pulls up into the driveway.

Finally! I get up to answer the door. Grandpa Wes will be pretty upset with us—they'd have been short one timer and probably had to start the meet without us. We'll have to hurry.

But it's not Dad.

The girl's mother is at the door, come to pick her up after her piano lesson. I let her in and look down the street, but Dad is nowhere to be seen. I could ride to Grandpa's school on my bike—maybe Dad went right there, thinking I was supposed to meet him there. . . . But he knew he was supposed to pick me up.

Maybe he was in a bad mood and just didn't want to have me along today. Would he do that to me? Probably not, but lately I don't know what he's going to do or how he's going to be.

I like your dad,
Russ told me.
I think you did the right thing staying with him when your parents separated. You only really need to be with your mom until you're like eight or so. Then it's better to be with your dad, because dads are stricter and help you grow up better, you know? You're lucky. I hope I get to live with my dad when my parents break up for good.

I gave up sitting in the living room—at least in the den I can watch TV. I watch a recording of an old All-Star game. I like watching old games, because you don't have to worry about who's going to win. You can watch for the sheer pleasure of the game. It's like watching reruns of your favorite show.

Maybe Dad finally found Mom, and they're sitting talking things through, like they're supposed to. That would be important enough for Dad to just forget about the meet. If that were the case, I could forgive Dad for missing just about anything.

I never really understood Danny,
I once overheard Uncle Steve say to Grandpa Wes.
But then, I never really understood Megan that well either. Who knows—maybe Danny's right. Maybe they were meant for each other, and it's just a matter of working out the kinks. Or maybe they're not. Maybe they just got married too young.

Grandma bastes the roast she has cooking in the oven. We're having somebody over for dinner tonight, I think. Some homeless girl Grandma met through the church.

She peeks into the den. “Where's your dad?” she asks. “Weren't you supposed to help Grandpa at the meet?”

“I don't know where he is,” I say. By now I've given up trying to figure out where he went. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe it wasn't Mom and Warren Sharp who were going to run away to Brazil after all. Maybe it was my father. Maybe he just took a plane and flew away. Would he do that?

Grandma thinks for a moment. “Well, the best laid plans . . . ,” she says, which I believe is the beginning of a saying, but I've never heard it finished, so I don't know.

Mommy and Daddy really don't have to fight so much,
Tyler once said.
They should just play Ping-Pong or Nintendo or something every time they feel like fighting, and whoever wins gets their way.

The All-Star game is halfway over. Dinner is almost ready.

A car pulls up into the driveway, and I get up to greet my father. I figure I'll say something like, “Nice going, Dad,” and sort of make him feel just a little bit bad for making me wait all afternoon and half the night for him to show up. Grandma Lorraine opens the front door. There are two men there: one dressed in a jacket and tie, one dressed in a policeman's uniform. They stand at the threshold and mumble something to my grandma. Outside the window I can see the police car.

“I'm afraid we have bad news for you.”

I can't hear the rest.

But Grandma suddenly goes stiff as a board. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, then takes a second breath.

And suddenly it seems as if the air pressure in the house has dropped, as if someone has opened a window into space. The air has been sucked out, I can't seem to breathe, and the horrible silence around me is unbearable. It's as if time itself has just died of shock.

Grandma should be screaming; I know it's that bad. She should let off a wail so deep and so powerful that it shakes the house like a sonic boom . . .

. . . but I hear nothing. Grandma stands there silently and doesn't move. She floats in space.

And I know what's good for me.

I turn and I get out of there as fast as I can.

I go back into the den and I close the door. I lock it. I go to the screen door leading to the patio, and I lock that, too, and then I pull the curtains. I sit on the sofa, and I turn up the volume on the TV. Seventh inning. The crowd is loud in my ears.

No one comes to get me. I thought they would, but they don't. I have to peek out of the room every once in a while to see what's going on, because as much as I don't want to know, I have to know. I have to.

The first time I look out, Grandma is lying stretched out on the floor of the empty living room. At first I'm afraid that
she's fainted, but then I see that she's awake and calm. Still in control.

The second time I look out, Grandpa is there. I see him for an instant. He is shaking. He is crying. I close the door before I can see any more.

The third time I look out, I can see Grandma, sitting on the piano bench facing the wrong way. She is talking on the phone. She is talking to Aunt Jackie. Something about my mother.

I slam the door again. This can't be about Mom. This can't be. I won't even try to guess what happened. A car accident. A plane crash. I won't even try to guess. I don't want to know what, and I don't want to know who, and I don't want to know where or when. I want to watch baseball. I want to sit here all by myself forever and watch this stupid baseball game and I never want to come out and I never want to know anything ever again ever. Ever.

Something terrible has happened. But if I stay here long enough, then maybe it won't be real. If I can make it go away for the rest of the night, maybe I can make it go away for tomorrow and the next day. Maybe I can make it go away for the rest of my life. Maybe I can push it so far down, I can make it not be true. Whatever it is.

The last side retires. The All-Star game is over. The crowd cheers. I watch it over again. I don't care that I've just seen it. I don't care.

Nobody bothers me.

Not for a long time. Then I hear the doorknob turn and wiggle. They can't get in—it's locked. Good.

They knock. I pretend I don't hear it.

“Preston?” It' s Grandma. “Preston, let me in,” she says. Outside I can hear people coming into the house. People crying and moaning. I hear our pastor's voice out there. Oh, God. This must be really, really bad if the pastor had to come by.

I turn the lock on the door, and Grandma opens it, stepping in. “Preston, can I talk to you?” she asks.

I shrug and refuse to take my eyes off the TV.

Grandma sits down in a chair, with perfect piano posture. She gently grabs the remote control from my hand, finds the right button, and turns off the TV. I hate her for doing that. I hate her for coming in here and making me hear what she has to tell me. And I don't care if God hates me for feeling that way.

“Preston,” says Grandma, as calmly as she would teach someone to play piano. She takes a long time—as if taking a long time could really make a whole lot of difference now. She takes both of my hands.

“You've heard what's going on in the living room,” she says, so kindly, so gently, as if all her emotions and fears have been wrapped in a thick, warm quilt. But not mine. My feelings are cold and raw, and there is no blanket for me.

“You've heard what's going on,” she says, “and I think you already know . . . your mother is dead.”

I don't say anything at first. I try to breathe like she breathed when the police told her. Slowly and deeply.

“Now, Preston, there's lots of people who do fine without their mothers,” she says.

“Like Abraham Lincoln,” I mumble—a stupid fact that I learned today in school. I never thought I'd ever need to know it.

I try to keep it together, but I can't. I close my eyes and my brain goes into convulsions. I pray to God that she's lying or that she's wrong. Let it be anyone else, God,
anyone
. Let it be me instead—I don't care. Not my mom.

When I open my eyes, I can't see. They are filling with tears so quickly my whole head is flooded. My ears are clogged; my throat is clogged; I can't breathe. When I speak, I cough up the words, unable to say them all in one breath.

There's only one thing I want to know—the one thing in the world I know for sure I can still have—and nobody's going to stop me from having it.

“I want my father. I want to be with my dad!” I scream out.

Grandma looks away from me.

“You can't be with him, Preston.”

“I want my dad!” I scream. “I want him now! Now!
I want my dad now!
”

“Preston,” says Grandma. “You can't be with your dad . . . because it's your dad who killed your mom.” She squeezes my hands tighter. “He shot her.”

I rip my hands away and cover my ears, but it doesn't make a difference, because the words already made it into my brain, and the wail I let out breaks the silence of space and rocks the house like a sonic boom.

The whole world seems to spin. Things around me change. I feel like I'm being sucked into a vacuum and I can't see where I'm going—but I know where I'll end up. The closet.

I forget where I just was, or what was going on, or what I was thinking about. The walls close in around me and move closer until I can feel the rough brush of jackets against my back, a wall to the right, a wall to the left, and the door in front of me. There is no light. There is no air. And something horrible is going on.

I know this is a dream. I've been here before, and it's always a dream, so I know that much, but knowing it's a dream doesn't make it any better. I'm locked in my closet, and there is no air, and something is coming to get me. A monster is going to get me. And I can't get out of the closet. I reach for the knob but can't find it. I'm so afraid, I can't breathe.

I touch the knob. It is hot—maybe there's a fire on the other side of the door.

Maybe it's not a monster; maybe it's a fire. Maybe the whole house is on fire, and I'm stuck here in this closet.

I grip the knob, but it's covered with grease. My fingers slip around it—I grip it until my knuckles ache, but my fingers still just slide off. Now the jackets behind me that hang from hangers far above my head seem to push closer. The jackets have hands. Hands slip out of the sleeves—thick, dark woolen gloved hands, but I can't see them, I can just feel them. They're going to get me—it's not a fire at all.

It's ghosts.

“Preston, I'm coming.”

I can hear my mother's voice. She's far away now, in another room, but I know she's running closer, moving through the house, looking for me.

I try to scream to her that I'm here, trapped in this evil closet, but no sounds come out of my mouth. Only she can let me out; I know that. Dad can't let me out; Grandma and Grandpa can't. She's the only one whose fingers won't slip off the doorknob—I know that as sure as I know that I'm going to die in this closet if she doesn't get here soon.

“Preston, I'm coming,” I hear her say again—only she sounds no closer than before, and I try to scream to her so she knows where I am, but still I make no noise.

The hands behind me—the sleeves of the heavy winter coats—begin to slide around my waist, and tighten. They're not ghosts at all.

They're snakes.

Big constricting snakes—that are going to squeeze the life out of me and swallow me whole.

“Preston, I'm coming.”

But she's not. She's no closer. Maybe she's locked in a closet far away, too. Maybe her closet doesn't even have a doorknob.

I press against the door with all my might, and cry.

“Preston, I'm coming.” She's even farther away now. I spin around and try to get the snakes off me. They slip off and turn back into sleeves.

But now I hear something. Someone. There's someone in the room here with me, standing just behind me. I can hear the breathing. And even in the darkness I think I can see. I know who this is. The blond hair, the blue eyes. It was never monsters or a fire, or ghosts or snakes at all. It's—