We both take a step back like we’ve been roused from delirium. We stand for what feels like hours but is maybe only minutes—caught in the space between his past and two desperate futures. Only one of which will allow us to heal.
“I’ll go,” he finally grumbles as he opens our bedroom door.
Erika shuffles down the hall, sliding in her stocking feet. “Delivery for Mom.”
I eye the white and blue bubble mailer in her hands as I stumble back against the bed.
Clint takes the package. “You know what this is?” He eyes me with suspicion.
“No, and I don’t think now is the right time to—”
“Open it,” Clint almost barks.
I glance toward Erika, and she must see the fear in my face because she charges forward. “What’s going on?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say automatically.
“No, it’s not,” she fires back. “I want to know what’s happening. I heard you guys yelling. You never yell.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Is this about me? It’s about me. I’m not leaving.”
Clint folds his arms too. They look the same. Both glaring at me but also, almost comically exasperated. Suddenly I feel a giggle bubbling inside me. Probably insanity. I’m losing my mind.
No more hiding. No more protection. “Hand me the scissors from the hall closet.”
As Erika leaves, I check the return address. DCP from the Bronx.
I know it’s from Betsey. Tomorrow is Friday. It’s more than just instructions on where to meet her. It’s a threat. But what more can she have over me? Lucas and I met only a handful of times. The last few to talk about Clint and his mom and for him to try to explain.
“Here.” Erika hands me the scissors as I’m palpating the package. Feels like a small thin book.
I cut off the top of the mailer and slide out a white envelope withDranker Clive Photographyembossed on the flap.
Air empties from my lungs.
DCP, of course. These are the proofs from the bell ringing. I forgot. They told me they would overnight me the images. They wanted me to see the quality of their prints so I can decide on framed images as gifts. My knees quiver. I want to crumple onto my bed in relief.
“What is it?” Erika asks, leaning around her dad’s arm.
“Pictures.” The crackle in my voice sounds like a ligature around my neck has loosened, because of course it has. But the invisible noose hangs stiffly down my chest. “They’re from the closing bell.” I slide out the images.
“Oh, cool.” Erika’s tone indicates the opposite.
I turn and, after smoothing the comforter, start laying out the glossies. Suddenly, I desperately want to see our celebration, to be reminded of the joy. There’s one with me clapping next to Phil as he presses down on the controller. There’s also one of us after we switched—he’s smiling at me as I look down at the podium with a huge grin on my own face. I love this image. I will definitely be ordering a larger print for my office. Hard to see my features, but the joy on everyone’s faces is unmistakable.
I pick up the next one. I must have just noticed Betsey. My face betrays me. I thought I’d kept up the facade, but it’s easy to tell in my tight smile that something is very wrong.
Clint suddenly bolts forward and swears.
“Dad.” Erika swats at his arm.
Clint’s face is white as he points to the final image.
37
“WHAT?”I stare at the posed picture of a few of the folks who hadn’t been able to be on the balcony for the bell ringing but wanted their picture taken at the lower-level podium. They look happy.
“Candy?” Clint squints down at the image in his hands.
“What are you talking about?” Erika and I both strain to look around his shoulder.
