Page 16 of The River Is Waiting

“Whyshouldyou defend him? It’s not like he treated you any better.”

“I let all that go a long time ago, Corby. I just wish you could, too.”

“You know how many times he’s seen the twins? A grand total of once. He showed up unannounced with some presents that Natalie, Wife Number Three, had bought—newborn outfits that the kids had already outgrown. And he didn’t drive here just to see them. He hadn’t switched dentists when he moved to Rhode Island and was in town to get his teeth cleaned.”

Mom purses her lips. “Eat before it gets cold,” she says.

She doesn’t seem to have an appetite either. At one point, she puts her fork down and asks if she can say something. I nod. “Niko’s death is going to hurt like hell for a long while. There’s no way around that. But you and Emily are going to have to weather this tragedy, keeping Niko in your hearts without letting his death paralyze you. Eventually, I mean. You’ll have to move on for Maisie’s sake.”

“Yeah, you know what, Mom? I know you mean well, but the last thing I need right now is a pep talk.” I grab my mug and take another good-sized gulp. Swish it around in my mouth, then swallow, letting the burn in my throat comfort me.

“Well, I’m sorry if that’s what it sounded like, Corby, but I’m worried you won’t be able to move forward if you allow yourself to be consumed with guilt.”

“Except Iamguilty, Mom. I’m the one who put the car in reverse.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m trying to say the right thing but instead I’m—”

“At the hospital today? This detective showed up to interview me and it looks like they’re going to arrest me.”

She shakes her head but I see the fear in her eyes. “For what? Being human enough to let your guard down for a couple of seconds? Anyone who knows you can vouch for the fact that you’re a loving and capable father. Their primary caretaker.”

“Mom, hediedunder my care.”

She steeples her hands and places them against her mouth. I count the number of times I inhale and exhale as I wait for her response. “Do you think you need a lawyer?” she finally says.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I have to go down to the police station tomorrow afternoon. They want to ask me more questions.”

She goes over to the counter. Her back is to me, but I can tell from the way her shoulders are shaking that she’s crying. After she’s composed herself, she comes back and sits. “Do you remember thar horrible story in the news a few summers ago? About the mother who forgot her baby in the back seat of her hot car for hours because she’d gotten mixed up about what day it was? They didn’t charge her with anything because they said she was only guilty of human error and that the death of her child was punishment enough.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” I say. “And I also remember everyone’s outrage because they thought she’d gotten away with murder. Emily had her suspicions, too, I remember. And Jesus, theycrucifiedthat woman on social media.”

“You know what?” she says. “I think I’d better just keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Mom. It’s helpful to have you to talk to.”

She smiles sadly, then gets up and starts clearing the table. I grab our plates and go to scrape the uneaten food into the garbage. Sitting at the top is the French toast I burned that morning. Without warning, that sensation I experienced earlier comes back. I’m falling in space, hurtling toward an inevitable crash. As I grab on to the counter to steady myself, the plates slip out of my hands and smash against the tile floor. “I’ll get it,” Mom says.

She grabs some paper towels, gets down on her knees, and starts scooping lasagna off the floor and stacking broken pieces of pottery. I crouch down beside her to help with the mess, but instead, a choking sob rises up from my throat and I burst into tears again.

She grasps my hands. “I know you’re in unbearable pain, Corby. Time will help it become less intense, I promise, but for now all you can do isbe there for your wife and daughter and keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

“I love him so much, Mom. How can we not have him anymore?” She strokes my head and quiets my sobs. “And how is Emily ever going to forgive me?”

“She’ll find a way because you need each other, Corby, and Maisie needs you both. You’re a family.”

Once the kitchen is cleaned up and the sofa bed is made, Mom says she’s going to go home. At the door, she hands me a baggie with two pieces of candy inside. I look at her, puzzled. “Pot gummies,” she says. She’s always relied on weed, but years of waitressing have given her the back spasms that made her eligible for a medical marijuana card. “I’d rather you used these instead of drinking yourself to sleep,” she says. “Don’t forget, alcohol is a depressant and that’s the last thing you need right now. I’ll check with you tomorrow after the breakfast shift to see what you guys need. Just remember: you’re going to get through this and you don’t have to do it alone. Good night. Get some sleep. I’ll call your father when I get home. He may already have heard, but if not, I’ll let him know.”

Standing at the front door, I watch her drive away. Across the street, there’s an upstairs light on. Their downstairs is dark, except for a flickering light from a TV. I close my eyes and see a soundless movie of that morning: Shawn and Linda in my rearview mirror, running toward me, waving frantically. Why did I keep backing up? Why didn’t I stop?

I close the door and lock it. Go into the bathroom and flush my mother’s gummies down the toilet. What if Maisie somehow got ahold of one and put it in her mouth? Or what if I took one and they did another tox screen at the police station tomorrow? They probably already have me pegged as some kind of substance abuser. Having THC in my bloodstream won’t do me any favors. If I have trouble getting back to sleep, I’ll take a couple of my Ativan. How could they fault me for that when I have a fucking prescription?

As quietly as I can, I walk down the hall to our bedroom and stare at the light beneath the closed door. I hear Emily murmuring. Has Maisiewoken up? Is Emily trying to soothe her? Emily’s voice is just barely audible, but it suddenly dawns on me that she’s singing. “The wheels on the bus go round and round…”

I knock softly. The singing stops. I hold my breath, waiting. I guess she’s waiting, too—for me to go away. Then the song resumes. “The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish all through the town.”

Back in the living room, I flop down on the sofa bed, thinking I’ll just rest my eyes before I get up and…

What the…? What time is it? Why is my cell phone still ringing after I answered it? Oh, the landline. Someone’s calling on the landline.

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