Page 54 of When the Smoke Clears

Instead of parking at the cafe where I’m meeting Melissa, I park less than a block away in the bank lot behind Town Square. It’s a two-fold decision; for one, I’m shit at parallel parking, especially on Bull Creek’s narrow Main Street. More importantly though, the short walk will give me a chance to fortify my nerves against whatever may be coming in this meeting.

The green space in Town Square hosts a central gazebo, which is often used for live music like during the Fall Festival or for farmer’s market events. Today, families mill about or pass through on their way to visit shops on the next block.

Melissa is already seated at a bistro table outside of The Jim-Dandy where the original library used to be. The floor-to-ceiling windows expose the mostly empty interior. She has a takeout cup before her and watches people passing by.

I’ve never eaten here. In fact, the only times I’ve stopped in were with Leah and Izzy during past Jingle Bell Bash events, when we ordered their spectacular hot chocolate.

Melissa smiles timidly at me when I approach. She stands awkwardly, as if she’s unsure if she should shake my hand or not.

I gesture at the chair across from her and we both sit.

“How are you?” I can’t begin to imagine what she must be going through, no matter how we got to this place.

She takes a deep breath. “Disappointed. Ashamed. Hurt, obviously. I love my son, despite his faults.”

“I’m truly sorry for your loss. I had my own, recently, and though it’s not the same, it was also very painful.”

One of her hands moves to rest around the base of the cup. She fiddles with the textured outer layer. “How well did you know Colt?”

I clear my throat as a cover for determining how forthcoming to be. “I didn’t know him very well, honestly. In fact, I only met him a few weeks ago.”

She presses her lips together. “Whatever happened between you two, I know it was because you were defending yourself.”

My brows furrow. “That’s a bold statement for someone to make about their own child.” I can’t help my curiosity.

“I told you. I know—knew my son.” She swallows. “I’m going to assume you don’t know much about his past. Or if you do, it came from Alan and not him.”

Adrenaline spikes through me at the mention of Colt’s father and my stepfather. I’m still disgusted every time I think about it. Another scalding shower to scrub off the outer layer of my skin sounds preferable right about now.

“I don’t know much about him. Alan never spoke of Colt—at least not to me—and when we met, we didn’t realize the connection. Colt figured it out after.”

“I’m not surprised Alan never mentioned him.” She shakes her head. “I won’t go off on a tangent, because we aren’t here about him. I am sorry for what you went through, though. I feel partially responsible.”

“Responsible?”

Her fingers tear at the sleeve on the cup as a cold wind rushes through the covered sidewalk our table occupies. “Colt was struggling. He had been for many years. It started when he was a teenager, around when Alan left. At first, I assumed it was because of the divorce. We never told him why, and I thought his paranoia stemmed from feeling like he didn’t have the whole truth. But things continued to get worse and eventually, I realized it wasn’t about that. Not entirely.

“I tried to talk to Alan about it once, but he dismissed me as usual. It was the last we spoke, actually. Past that, I tried to get Colt to talk to someone, but he was adamant he didn’t need a ‘shrink’”—she adds air quotes—“and since he was so close to being on his own, there wasn’t a lot I could do.”

She shakes her head sadly before continuing.

“He wanted to go into the military, but I don’t think he passed the evaluation. He wasn’t very open with me after the divorce, but he seemed to become suspicious of me after he moved out. We spoke a few times a year, only when I reached out to him.”

For whatever reason, I notice how dry her lips are when they purse. I remember being near dehydration from tears after Nana passed. And also because I was living on coffee alone for a few days.

“I wish I could’ve convinced him to see someone. He needed help.” She averts her gaze, studying the bistro table.

“Was he having hallucinations?”

Her lids droop, and she rubs at a place on her forehead absently. “I’m not sure. Sometimes he would mutter to himself.” She gives me a questioning look. “But everyone talks to themselves sometimes, right?”

I recall times that it seemed like he was having a side conversation with someone else.

“Colt’s fuse seemed to get shorter and shorter. He was never an especially patient person. He got that from Alan.” She wrings her hands on the table. “A few months back, he shoved me into a wall when I suggested, again, that he talk to someone. It was the last time we spoke.”

She’s sharing so freely, like she hasn’t been able to discuss her concerns with anyone. I can’t bring myself to interrupt or stop her, even though I can’t imagine why she’s telling me all of this.

“I don’t know what the department has shared with you, but I’ve been very honest with them that I don’t think you were in the wrong. Colt could be downright obsessive about the things he wanted, for whatever reason. If that’s what was happening with you, I’m not sure there’s anything you could have done to change his mind. I truly hope this investigation is put to rest and you can move on with your life.”

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