Finding Jake (27 page)

There is no dog this time. No one is there to lead me out of the woods. In the end, it is weakness. The cold cuts through my damp running clothes and my body shakes violently. I close my eyes to the darkness and walk away, walk home, and sleep.

DAY TWENTY-SOMETHING

The next morning, I get the mail. I do not want to, but I do. Once back inside, I walk calmly into our dining room. This is where I always put the mail. Today, it seems like a foreign place, a room I have never seen before. Paintings and family pictures still hang in the same spots. Sitting at my dining room table, I am surrounded by a border of floral wallpaper I’d meant to take down when my kids were young. There are pictures of Laney and Jake surrounding me. One shows them swinging side by side at the elementary school. Laney’s full, downy hair flies behind her like the flames from a cartoon jet engine. Jake is . . . smiling.

I glance at each picture on the wall. Our dining room is a collage of their childhood, but my eyes focus on one thing—Jake’s face. Smile, smile, smile. Okay, there are frowns, too. And looks of surprise. These are the pictures Rachel and I chose, picking the younger ones out of a box in the office upstairs and taking them to the photo shop she always loved, choosing the more recent ones from her laptop
and printing them ourselves in black and white (or sepia if we felt particularly artful).

Life is kind of like that, picking the memories you want to frame. We all have an idea of how it should be, all smiles and swing sets. There are the more unsavory moments that we leave in the box stashed up in the darker parts of our psyche. We know they exist but we don’t go flaunting them in front of the dinner guests.

In that moment, I frame my son’s life. I see him rounding third, helmet brim low, mouth set with fierce determination. I feel that pride like it is happening right this second. I stand in the sand watching the waves roll over him, his body at once helpless and in such graceful control. I see him frozen in time, water cascading around him as he checks to make sure his little sister is okay. In my mind, in my heart, I frame a snapshot of him in the talent show, and jumping high in the air to catch a pass.

“Oh, Jake,” I whisper, smiling despite the tears.

My memories are little flashes of light in the darkness. They sparkle and glow, but fade under the weight of what life has become. That darkness fuels the slow decline that is my life since the shooting. I don’t know how to pull myself back up.

That’s when I see the purple envelope. I reach out, tentative, like checking the sharpness of a knife with a fingertip. When the thick paper touches the pad of my index finger, I know it is real. It is something unexpected and I am frightened by it.

When my finger and thumb grasp the corner, the paper is cool to the touch. Slowly, cautiously, I slip it out from under the circular. It is a letter, the address scrawled in the unmistakable script of a school-age girl. My heart stops dead in my chest. For the letter is addressed to my son.

Why? My first thought—it is a perverse, sick joke. But that is not possible. I spasm into motion. In a jerky, desperate slash, I tear the envelope. My hands are shaking as I pull a sheet of notebook paper
out, one with a jagged line of flimsy barbs where it has been torn from a spiral binding, so like Jake’s final note. I read:

DAY TWENTY-SOMETHING

The next morning, I cannot get that girl’s letter out of my mind. Not entirely sure what I am thinking, I pace around the house, my lethargy replaced by a twitching potential energy. I feel the need to act.

The thought materializes out of the ether. Ill formed, it pulses like an amoeba. Where it originated, I cannot recall. I simply act, unfettered and without forethought. Using Safari, I find what I am looking for in a town in West Virginia. When I call and ask, the woman on the other end gives me the answer I hope for, the one I somehow knew she would have.

“We have one left, actually. A boy. If you can get down here to pick him up in the next week, he’s yours.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I say.

“Isn’t it quite a drive?”

I shrug, although I know she can’t see that. “Six, seven hours.”

She is dubious. “If you can make it . . .”

“Count on it.”

I shower and dress for the first time this week. Standing in front
of the mirror above the sink, I pull out the shaving cream and a razor. When I wipe my hand across the fogged glass, I see my reflection. Droplets of water distort my vision, diffusing the lines of my face. The shadow of my growing beard juts out, dominating the visage. I like it for what it represents—change. So I put the razor and shaving cream back in the medicine cabinet and walk downstairs, running a hand through the week-old stubble.

When I finally make it outside the house, the sun has risen to dance among the treetops. Long shadows crisscross the yard and a cardinal darts out of our landscaped bushes and alights on one of the skeletal branches. I watch it sit, motionless, on the limb, its vibrant red contrasting with the stark near-winter grays. I can look at it. It hurts, but I can do it.

The writer in me wishes the day to be spring. Winter signifies death, the end of a cycle. I do not feel that, at least not in the moment. Instead, I feel a new beginning. It is not one to be excited about, or even nervous. This beginning is tentative, full of nostalgia and longing. Nevertheless, my soul stirs and I think that tomorrow may dawn and the balance of my will might tip. As slow and gnawing as my decline progressed, it now withdraws at the same clip. It is a step in a direction. Right or wrong, however, seems to matter far less now.

Taking a deep breath, I get in my car and drive. I have three stops. Two I dread. When I reach the first, I park the car on the street and walk up the driveway. When I ring the bell, Mary Moore, mother to my son’s homecoming date, opens the door. When she sees me, her eyes widen. I try to smile but know it appears forced. I jump in with both feet before she can slam the door in my face.

“I’m so sorry for what I did. I—”

She cuts me off. “I understand, Simon.”

This is, I think, the first time either of us has used the other’s first name. I feel a strange closeness to this woman, this fellow survivor, and think she must feel the same.

“I don’t know why I said it.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I should not have gone to your house that day. I just . . . ever since . . . I feel like I’m walking around in a fog. It’s like there’s nothing left to live for.”

I take a step forward and she laughs, waving off my attempt at a supportive, yet awkward, hug.

“Don’t worry. I’m out of tears. At least for the moment.”

I nod. “Me, too.”

There is nothing left to say. I realize I didn’t need to say anything, but as I walk back down the drive, I admit to feeling slightly better.

The next stop is much harder. The second Mary. Just driving to the house turns my stomach, but I push through. I fight the urge to flee after I ring the Martin-Kleins’ doorbell. I came to tell them that they are not to blame, even though I know they will blame themselves forever. I have no delusions of grandeur, I do not think my simple words will change their lives. But I need to say it.

I stand on the stoop, wetting my lips, waiting. The seconds tick by but no one comes to the door. Finally, after ringing the bell two more times, I turn to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I am sure I see the curtain in one of the windows flutter. When I spin around, there is no one there. I stare at the spot for a moment longer. After that, I leave, knowing I won’t come back again.

I drive to West Virginia over that night. Halfway there, I lower the window and let the chill air keep me awake. By the time I get to my destination, a tiny town at the base of a rolling green mountain, I check the time—5:30
AM
. Too early to arrive, I turn the car and follow an access road up to the crest of the foothill. A dirt lot waits and I park in front of no less than three signs pertaining to hunting licenses.

I meander into the dark woods. Up ahead, I see a slice of deep purple sky through the towering trunks. After a few hundred yards,
the view in front of me opens up. I can see the rolling mountain range to the east. Light peeks over the lower heights, painting the sky in the many shades of nature. I sit down on the leafy forest floor and watch the sun rise, alone.

I must have dozed, because when I check my watch, it reads 9:43. I pop up and head back the way I came. I find the car, no problem, and roll down the mountain. Once back on a main road, the GPS guides me to a farm. Classic post-and-rail fencing outlines sloping fields on both sides of a long and winding drive. I follow it to a modest two-story colonial with a wraparound porch and perfectly painted shutters. When I open the door to get out, I hear barking.

The woman I spoke to on the phone answers the door.

“Mr. Connolly, I’m glad you got here. I have three people interested but I held on to the boy for you.”

“Thank you so much.”

She leads me into the house. Off the kitchen, she built an extension, not for a breakfast nook, but for a puppy room. A half wall closes the area off. As I near, a perfect little yellow face pops up and disappears.

“He’s a jumper, that one.”

I don’t even care. I stop and watch this puppy’s head spring up and disappear, spring up and disappear, and there is no question.

“I want to take him home,” I say.

She laughs. “That’s why you’re here.”

She does not really know why I am here. Nor do I. I just act, not for the past, not for the future, just for the now. I reach out for the banal and pray I won’t lose my grip.

MY LAST CHAPTER

A week passes before I pull up outside the beach house. I see Rachel’s mom sweeping the front porch. A second later, awakened by the lack of motion, someone else sees her, too. A tiny yellow tail frantically wags.

“It’s okay, Bub. You did great.”

The puppy, standing up now on the passenger seat, front paws on the windowsill, black nose leaving a streak on the window, whines. I have only had him for a few days, but already I can see the amazing dog he will become. There is something in his eyes that hints at the human soul trapped inside.

Rachel’s mom looks stunned. Although the weather remains unseasonably warm for early December, she wears a lined windbreaker and a knit cap. Her hair, white now but still hinting at her blond days, dances in the salty breeze. The sun shines on her face, one full of guarded uncertainty.

“Hi, G-Ma,” I say.

The puppy, my new puppy, tugs at the leash. An AKC certified yellow Lab.

G-Ma states the obvious. “You have a puppy.”

I nod. “Are Rachel and Laney home?”

She puts down the broom and steps toward me. I expect a sense of trepidation, as if I might be unpredictable, if not dangerous. I figure the puppy adds to this profile. Instead, she gives me a hug as the dog jumps against her leg.

“They’re down at the beach. Taking a walk.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Come on, buddy.”

I turn and walk down the driveway toward the road.

“Simon,” she calls after me. “Be careful with them.”

Her words cause me sadness. But I know what she means. I need to be careful with them, now and forever. As they do with me. It is our lot now.

The puppy has a nose for the ocean. He pulls, leading the way. Through the silence, I hear the soft pound of the surf. My stomach flutters.

As I crest the dune and get my first glimpse of the ocean, I see them—Laney and Rachel. They stand above the foaming tide, daughter leaning on mother. I feel their longing from that distance, as if they wait for some miracle to appear on the horizon.

I do not walk to them right away. Instead, I let this sight settle into me. Finally, I move. It is not my doing but the dog’s. He needs to greet these two strangers. He lets out a whine and a yelplike bark. Even over the crashing waves, Laney hears. She turns, eyes only for this poster-perfect puppy. She takes a few steps toward me before she realizes who I am. When she looks up and sees me, her pace does not stop, it quickens. She runs to me and I scoop her up, dropping the dog’s leash. He dances at our feet as I embrace my daughter, holding her so close that not even air can separate us.

“I love you, sweetie.”

“Oh, Daddy, don’t leave.”

I choke up. “I won’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Shhhh.”

Laney’s attention turns to the pup. I give her the leash and she promptly unhooks it from his little collar. The dog races free, Laney by his side. They dig in the sand and startle to the sound of gulls arguing over a ghost crab. I watch them and smile.