He squints at me.
I clear my throat. “Respectfully.”
“Well”—he frowns like he’s mocking me—“if you sayrespectfullyafter insulting someone, it makes everything okay.”
“Is it your son?”
“My son?”
“Did your son die? Thinking back, I had a conversation with Mrs. Rawlings about him. It wasn’t a long one. But when I asked where he lived, she said, ‘Wherever he wants.’ And that seemed a little weird. But now that I think about it, maybe she meant his spirit. Like a ghost or something.”
Mr. Rawlings twists his lips to the side for a second. “I can see how you might think that.”
“Sodidhe die? God, I’m not trying to be insensitive. If he died, that’s tragic. But tragedy is part of life. You wouldn’t be the first people to have lost a child. But when you keep everything a secret, it makes it impossible for everyone around you not to fuck up and say the wrong thing.”
His forehead wrinkles, and I think that’s my answer. Now I feel like an asshole for a second time. If he cries, I’m outta here.
“A week after my eleventh birthday,” I say, “I was placed in a new foster home. The couple had lost their only two children in a school bus accident like a year or two earlier. I’m not sure why they thought fostering a child was a good idea. The wife got tears in her eyes every time she looked at me. And her husband told me to just mind my own business and stay out of the way unless I could do something other than make her cry. Sometimes I see that same sadness in Mrs. Rawlings’ eyes.”
“How long were you with that couple?” he asks.
“A few weeks. I made the mistake of going into their son’s bedroom and playing with his toys.”
“Then what happened?”
I pull down the neck of my shirt and point to a surgical scar. “Broken clavicle. Fell down the stairs.”
His gaze stays on my chest even after I let go of my shirt. “She pushed you down the stairs?”
“No. I tripped and fell while making a mad dash because I was afraid of what they might do. Experience taught me to assume the worst.”
His eyes shift, meeting my gaze and blinking slowly. “Our son’s name is Seth. He’s alive, but we haven’t heard from him in seven years.”
“Why?”
“Because”—he clears his throat and turns in his chair, so he’s staring out the window instead of at me—“his two-year-old son died on our watch.”
Jesus …
I run my fingers through my hair and lace them behind my head. Then I open my mouth to respond, but I have nothing. Less than nothing. What’s the response to that? It’s okay? No. The kid is dead. It’s not okay.
“Some things feel unforgivable,” he mumbles just above a whisper. “This is one of them. It’s not a misunderstanding or petty fight. He lost everything. And now we have too.”
I slowly shake my head and stand. “Mr. Rawlings, I-I can’t make this better for her or you or anyone. Whatever you think I can do, I can’t. I’m not your son. I can’t bring your grandson back. There is nothing special about me. You know this. I’m a fuck-up just trying to keep my head above water. And everything that comes out of my mouth is stupid, and probably hurtful even if I don’t mean for it to be. So this isn’t going to work. I can’t be?—”
“Flynn,” he says, turning toward me. “Have you ever heard the phrase,throw anything at the wall until it sticks?”
I nod.
“Well, that’s what I’m doing because I’ve lost my grandson, daughter-in-law, and my son. I can’t lose my wife too. But that’s what’s been happening. Every day, she continues to disengage from our life together. Every smile feels forced. But for you, she’ll get out of bed. She’ll go to Pilates and matinees. And for your new female friend, she’ll make tea and wear her best smile. A real smile. I’m not asking you to replace anyone we’ve lost.” He sighs slowly, shaking his head. “I’m just asking you to give her a new focus. And I don’t care if you don’t know what you’re doing. Just keep … doing it.”
Screw the money. I don’t want this. My whole life has been doom and gloom. One tragedy after another. What if I give him back what’s left of the money and ask to call it even?
“If you think I’m doing a good job, then why the stupid Pilates getup? Why give me shit about the cat?”
He offers a sad smile. “Maybe you’re my muse too.”
I wrinkle my nose. “How’s that?”
