Then the house was silent.It was an oppressive, staticky silence that seemed to build and build—a combination of ambient noise and the whisper of blood in my ears until the so-called silence was like this incessant, shimmering chime.
“Dad came home from the store,” Eric said.“She was already gone.A heart attack.Maybe a stroke.”
It wasn’t clear if this was for me or for Bobby, and there was no way to tell from Bobby’s face if it was new information.But after a moment, Bobby said to me, “Eric’s a doctor.”
That seemed to call for something, so I took a page out of the family book and nodded.
Eric’s eyes tightened, and he looked away.
More of that silence came pouring in.
What did good boyfriends do in this kind of situation?What would I want someone to do for me and my family?I’d want them to be attentive.I’d want them to be compassionate.I’d want to know they cared about my family.
So, I said to Bobby’s dad, “How are you doing?Can I get you anything?”
Nothing.He stared out over his mug of tea.
“We’ve had the police all over the place,” Eric said to Bobby, like this was somehow Bobby’s fault.“And they’re not saying when the medical examiner will release her, so that’s great for trying to plan a funeral.”
Bobby nodded.
And then we dropped into another of those conversational troughs.
I tried not to, but I found myself looking around the kitchen.Neat.Clean.Everything put away, not that I’d expect different from a family of Mais—everything except the reusable grocery bags on the counter.One lay on its side, as though it had been left unattended and fallen.Bok choy spilled out of it, and a package of rice noodles, and three dark plums.A framed photo of the Mai family hung on one wall.It showed Bobby and Eric as children; their dad looked a little less stooped, with a little more hair, but not much different otherwise.The woman in the photo was petite, her hair worn in a short, sensible bob, in a skirt and blouse combo that made her look older than she probably was.The picture was small, and it was on the other side of the kitchen, but it was hard to see Bobby in her.
And still no one had said anything.
Something clicked in the fridge, and the sound of running water came briefly—incongruous, disorienting; maybe, by some miracle, we were about to get flooded out.Mr.Mai’s tea gave off a faint, malty aroma.It was barely eleven, and somehow it felt like this was one of the small hours of the morning, the middle of the longest night I’d ever lived.Bobby had his hands folded in his lap.Mr.Mai held his mug.Eric ran a finger over his jeans.
I was the one who broke first (big surprise).Besides, this was something I actually knew something about, something that might be helpful for them to know too, if only to give them context for what must have been one of the most awful nights of their lives.“I know that must have been difficult, having the police here, but I think it’s protocol.”
Eric looked at me.Mr.Mai didn’t.
“With any unattended death, I mean,” I said.Eric was still looking at me, and the room felt hotter.“In case—well, just to be sure.”Okay, I told myself.That’s enough.But my mouth kept moving.“And, of course—” Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.But the word I was trying not to say popped out anyway.“—the autopsy is required to determine the cause and manner of death.”Sweat popped out across my face and under my arms; a flush prickled my neck and down my chest.Mr.Mai was looking at me now.“It usually doesn’t take more than a couple of days, although you’ll probably have to wait several months for the full report.”
The room tilted.I tried to take deep breaths withoutlookinglike I was taking deep breaths, and it worked about as well as you’d expect: I couldn’t get enough air, and the room kept tilting.That familiar white noise started up in my ears, a high, rushing sound that made it feel like I couldn’t hear anything.
But Eric pushed back his chair, and the legs scraped the floor, and I heardthatfine.As he stood, his gaze swept over me, once, with the expression of someone who had turned over a rock and found a new kind of bug.
“I’ve got to get home,” he said.“Alice is alone with the kids.”He gave me one last look and added as he started for the door.“You should probably call West; you know he and Mom were close.”
Chapter 6
It wasn’t agreatnight.
I mean, it was hard not to take Eric’s parting shot personally, although in a weird way, it had felt directed at Bobby as much as at me.And on top of that, the fact that Bobby’s dad wouldn’t say anything—like,nothing—was increasingly oppressive.Not that Bobby said much either.
In fact, after Eric left, we sat there, with the malty scent of the tea and the occasional click from the refrigerator followed by the sound of running water, in a kitchen that was too well-lit for the hour and the moment.Checking the time on my phone seemed like the ultimate rudeness, and holding Bobby’s hand felt like it would bring down the wrath of God.So, I sat there, and from time to time, when I couldn’t help myself any longer, I brushed my knuckles against his knee to let him know I was there.
Eventually, Bobby told his dad, “I’m going to get Dash settled.”
Mr.Mai nodded.
As we left the kitchen, I heard him behind us, pouring his tea into the sink.
Bobby carried our bags down the spiral staircase.The basement was completely finished, with a beautiful walkout that had tall windows.Night pressed up against the glass, and dull little amber nubs of suburban light were the only thing out in the big black.
His childhood bedroom had been stripped down to a bed with a white comforter, a dresser that I could tell, just by looking at it, was empty; a lamp with a dusty jute shade; and plastic storage bins stacked along one wall.The closet door was open, and inside, it was full of clothes in dry cleaner bags that clearly weren’t Bobby’s.No photos of Bobby.No posters on the wall, no jerseys or trophies, not even a rock collection.The bathroom down the hall was equally impersonal.No cute soaps.No seashells or air plants or “nice” towels, the kind you knew you weren’t supposed to actually use.