“No! He’s too young for Paul Newman. That was TomSelleck.”
“No! Tom Selleck just has a mustache. That man had hair on his chintoo.”
Not bad, I mused. I had been identified as Paul Newman and Tom Selleck. I sat down across from Ryan’s mom and set my cell phone on the table. A worker came by and cleared the table forus.
“Would you like some coffee?” Elizabethoffered.
“Sure. Point me in the direction, and I’ll go getit.”
I retrieved the coffee and then pulled out a picture of Ryan that I took of him at Christmas. He’s smiling in the picture, wide-eyed, his dimple prominent. The way his body and skin felt was burned into my memory, and as I turned the picture around for Elizabeth to see, I could almost feel his face under myhand.
“Do you recognize him?” I askedher.
She shook her head as her eyes fell to the photo. There wasn’t a hint of recognition, which hadn’t surprisedme.
“He’s an incredible young man. He went to college all on his own. He had a scholarship to play baseball for the University of Southern California; the starting third baseman.” I traced my finger around the side of Ryan’s face, hoping that while Elizabeth listened to me that she followed my finger and focused on Ryan’s face. “He was a film student. Had dreams of writing movie scripts.” My mind drifted to his first screenwriting adaptation that he gave me for Christmas. “He ended up moving to Las Vegas, and he finished his degree at the University of Nevada Las Vegas.” I quickly thought about the woman who he had been engaged to and how her parents basically demanded he change degree paths. “He earned his degree in hotel management and works for a huge hotel corporation in Vegas. He even bought a home on his own,” I paused for a moment and looked at her. “He grew up alone. He grew up too fast, all byhimself.”
“He sounds like a lovely young man,” sheagreed.
“Heis.”
“Does he have a family?” she asked and stared at the picture. “Any children or is hemarried?”
I shook myhead.
“No children. He’s notmarried.”
“So, he’salone.”
“No. He’s not alone anymore. He’s happy andcontent.”
I cleared my throat as I tried not to get choked up on my own words. I pulled out a photo of Ryan from his yearbook picture in the third-grade year. My attorney had obtained it along with the rest of his yearbook pictures. I turned the third-grade picture around for her to see. Somehow, he was smiling in all of the pictures, dimple andall.
“Recognize this youngman?”
Elizabeth’s hand covered her mouth quickly, and shenodded.
“Who is it?” I inquired even though his name was listed under thepicture.
“That’s myRyan.”
No.
I took a deep breath.MyRyan.
“What happened toRyan?”
“There was an accident. He died while playing on the train tracks,” she explained. “He had been in the thirdgrade.”
“Were there tracks near yourhome?”
“No. His father worked at the train yard. Ryan was playing on thetracks.”
“Why was Ryan playing on the tracks at your husband’s place ofemployment?”
“Brad took him eachweek.”
Each week. My stomach dropped. Somehow, I found Elizabeth to be in full charge of this memory, and I found truth in it. Every goddamn fucking week, that son of a bitch took Ryan to work. I reached for my coffee and took a slow sip to gather myself. And just when I thought I had myself under control, she aired her reasoning forit.
