“You are,” I said quietly.
“Mrs. Bailey, I’m on my way to interview your son, CharlieBailey, at his place of employment, the Rosewood Park and Pool. This is just a routine interview but I wanted to give you a courtesy call, since he’s only fifteen.”
This was happening. This was real. A cop was going to interview my son. How could I make this stop? How could I make this go away?
“Mrs. Bailey?” said the detective.
I began moving quickly, putting the brisket back in the fridge, turning off my stove top burners, and tossing my Target purse over my shoulder. “No. I don’t give permission,” I said. This was happening too fast, and after Whitney had left, promising to text me my new lawyer’s name immediately, I had been biting my fingernails to the quick.
Whitney had not texted a lawyer’s name immediately. She had not texted at all. I considered googling lawyers, but didn’t want to make a mistake. Why should I hire some janky, affordable guy if Whitney was going to come through with a winner?WasWhitney going to come through? Jesus, I hated asking favors of people, ofher.I knew it was time to find a way to get free of my dependence on Whitney. But how?
There was a pause, and then the detective said, “Is there a problem, Mrs. Bailey?”
“No,” I said quietly. Ofcoursethere was a problem. Fear reared up inside me: if Charlie was arrested and his photo—or God forbid,my photo—was in the paper, Patrick might see it. Mymothermight see it, or Darla. Everything I’d run from could find us here. Even thethoughtof Charlie seeing Patrick in whatever state he was in now…Charlie taking in the fact that his roots led back to tattooed, chain-smoking Cape Cod people…it made me want to run.
But I’d made us a home here. Where could we go?
I should have been thinking of the woman. Of what had befallen her, and if my son had been a part of it. I should havebeen thinking of Charlie, what he had experienced and how to help him through it. But I was not.
I was thinking,Run.
Searching frantically for shoes, I found one pink flip-flop by the front door and a silver-colored one under the couch. I slipped them on and went outside into the 94-degree morning. “No reason…I just…” I stammered, jamming my key in the Mazda 5 ignition. “I’ll bring him in. I’ll bring him to you,” I said. “Would that be OK?”
He sighed. “That’s fine. When can we expect you?”
“Right away,” I said.
“OK,” said Detective Revello. “Do you need the address? I’ll text you my information.”
“Thank you.” I hung up, feeling crazed. I called Whitney again, and she didn’t answer.
I parked and slogged through the heat to reach Rosewood Pool. There he was, my adorable son, leaning against a guard stand holding a red flotation device. He was smiling up at the willowy brunette in the chair.
Oh, how I loved this boy in the red shorts I’d bought for him when he’d forgotten to buy his own pair at the end of the six-week Lifeguard Training sessions! His knees. His hair. The hair on his knees. Charlie’s brilliant blue eyes—they were Patrick’s eyes, I’d give his father that.
“Mom?” said Charlie, spotting me. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, hon,” I said. “Can I talk to you a sec?”
“Um, OK,” said Charlie, sending a look to the girl that made her laugh. I knew I was being made fun of for some reason, which made me self-conscious.
“See you later,Charles,” said the girl.
“Seeyoulater, Kelsey,” said my son. (Of course her name was Kelsey.) She ran a hand underneath a curtain of hair andswung it over one shoulder like a horse’s mane. Ray-Ban sunglasses covered half her face, but I could still see her smirk. Why a smirk?
“What’s up, Mama Bear?” said Charlie as we walked toward the shaded entrance. (I loved this nickname, and the confident way he strode across the pool deck. His lifeguard swagger! It was different from the way he acted at home, deferential and quiet. I swelled with pride seeing my son so confident and self-assured.)
“A detective from the Austin Police Department called,” I said.
“Oh,” said Charlie. His demeanor changed immediately, and he looked terrified. My heart sank, his reaction confirming my fears.
“He says it’s a routine interview,” I said, the hope in my voice sounding a lot like desperation.
“I need to check my phone,” said Charlie. “They make us lock it up while we’re on duty.”
“I think you better tell your boss you’re going home.”
“Now?”said Charlie.
