But that was well over a year ago, before Jess went to the Silvertip, before she hooked up with Coleman. Now she hasn’t recorded a new show in months.
But there is a bright spot. She’s due to give a talk at a conference in Dallas, CrimeCon, tomorrow. She agreed to the speaking engagement just one month after the rape, when she was starting some baby steps to get back on track—agreeing to see a counselor, trying to get her routine back, doing more fun things with Sam again.
Before, that is, I screwed things up for her and she got even more depressed, refused to make an appointment with a counselor, quit smiling and laughing. When we’d take Sam to the park to play, she’d sit there and watch us like a zombie, like she was only going through the motions. She’s become jumpy, and she’s not sleeping well, either, and when she does, it’s at odd hours of the day that are not great for Sam.
All these months, I’ve been holding my breath that the conference is the one thing she won’t cancel, and so far, so good. It’s one small step in her getting her life a little more back on track.
She has Patrick, Sam’s dad, lined up to take Sam while she’s away even though Patrick’s usually about as dependable as calling a cat to you when you need it. He disappoints Sam a lot. Says he’s going to show up but cancels on him at the last minute. When he does show, he’s usually forty-five minutes late. It breaks my heart watching Sam wait by the window.
But sometimes Patrick comes through when he hasn’t seen his boy in a while, and so far, he’s still planning on grabbing him later this evening. I already called him earlier and warned him not to be late.
But now, the storm. Normally, Jess wouldn’t be bothered by her electricity going out, but these days, she’s overwhelmed with the smallest of things. The power going out is like the universe reminding her that things go all wrong in the blink of an eye.
My tires fight deep puddles collecting on the uneven surfaces of the highway.Please, please don’t let it affect flights out in the morning.I think of Sam and hope he isn’t picking up on his mother’s unraveling.
When I pull up to her house, it’s six. To my relief, the rain has stopped, and a perky blue reclaims the sky above our valley like some grand master has flipped a switch. Bruised clouds cluster above the mountains to the east. This far north in Montana, even in late August, the sun doesn’t go down until around eight thirty, so even with the power out, Jess and Sam won’t be in the dark.
I enter straight into the main room to find Sam playing on the floor, where he’s resurrected his bin of colorful plastic dinosaur figurines from his younger years. He’s making soft growling and gnashing sounds. Relief washes over me that he’s not running over to me stressed out and anxious like he sometimes gets when he’s soaking up my sister’s moods. I take my raincoat off and hang it on the coatrack.
He’s so deep in concentration, he doesn’t even look up when I say, “Hey, kiddo.”
I walk over and give him a kiss on the head, his silky blond hair tickling my chin. He barely notices me. Hating to break his focus, I slide quietly into the kitchen.
Jess has taken out several pans, but she’s not cooking. She’s pacing. The pans sit untouched on the counter beside a bundle of broccoli, fresh garlic, a package of rice, and chicken still wrapped in its package.
“Hey,” I say.
“What am I supposed to do with this raw chicken with no electricity?”
Her voice is too high, like she’s on the brink of crying.
I hit the light switch to double-check that the electricity is still out, then grab the package of chicken off the counter. “It’s fine,” I say.
“It’snotfine. Sam needs to eat.”
“We’ll get him something else, but I’m sure the power will be on in no time. I’m going to put this back in the fridge. It’ll stay cold for a while if we keep it shut.”
She shakes her head, a frantic twitch, like she doesn’t believe anything will ever work right again. I think of how that one night has created a deep chasm between her and everyone else. The pit in my stomach grows. I hate seeing her this way.
“Why don’t you go hang with Sam and I’ll figure out something for dinner that doesn’t need the stove.” I put the package in the fridge.
“But I want to cook for him,” she says. “He had pizza last night. We’re supposed to have something healthy tonight. We’re supposed to have chicken, rice, and—”
Right as she’s about to add broccoli, the hum of the fridge begins and the light on the stove pops back on.
“Excellent,” I say. I’m also about to say,See, things will be okay, but I don’t want to set her off by sounding patronizing. I step up to the counter to start cooking.
“No,” she protests. “I’ve got it.” She puts the pan on the stove and grabs the olive oil. “Just go hang with Sam.”
Her blond hair is pulled loosely into a messy ponytail. Dark smudges lie under her eyes, and the flesh of her cheeks is hollowed out, her cheekbones chiseled sharp. For months now, I’ve been able to feel her thrumming with her own agony—a deep, tormented vibration that permeates the whole house. And usually, I’m overcome with a strong urge to whisk Sam away, to bring him home with me just to get him away from it all for the night, but then I wonder if my own cantankerousness would be an improvement in setting the mood for a child.
“What?” she says. “Crosbie, it’s fine. Just go hang with Sam.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” she says. “I want to cook.”
“But don’t you need to pack?”
