Page 40 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I guess not, because she doesn’t miss a beat.
“The police called his office because his number was the only one saved in Tate’s phone.”
My mind spins, racing to make sense of what she’s saying. As far as Dr. Wilde knows, I’m Tate Weakes. And I am very much not dead.
How do I explain her estranged son isn’t dead but instead has engineered some sick, messed-up hoax?
“Who found him?”
“The doctor didn’t have any details. He didn’t even know who called. Just that it was the police. The person left a message with his service, but no name.”
“That’s odd,” I manage.
“Another odd thing is that Tate didn’t tell his psychotherapist we were estranged. The doctor seems to think we had a relationship.”
This is exactly what Dr. Wilde would think because he and I have talked at length about how my mother and I have never dealt with our shared ordeal and the impact that silence has had on our relationship.
I let her keep talking because I know she needs to, but I’m lost in my thoughts, only half-listening, until I hear the words, ‘crime lab.’
“I’m sorry, Mom. I missed that.”
“I said I wonder, since you work for the crime lab, if you could reach out to the authorities in Ohio to find out what happened. Maybe ask how he died and how we can get his body back? I don’t know what else to do. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Her voice breaks.
“You start by going over to Mrs. Chavez’s house. Stay with her. Let her comfort you. I’ll make all the arrangements. I’ll take care of this.”
All these years later, Jessica Chavez is still my mother’s neighbor and best friend. She won’t hesitate. She’ll take one look at my mom and envelope her in a badly needed hug.
“That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll do that,” she says, too vaguely for my liking.
“Let’s do it this way. Stay on the phone and walk across the street to Jessica’s now. I’m not going to hang up until I know that you’re with her.”
“Honey, I’m going to be okay.”
“Humor me anyway.”
“Tristan,” she begins in a tentative voice.
I immediately know what she’s about to ask and my chest tightens. “Yeah, Mom?”
“You don’t think … what if Tate killed himself? Like your father did. What if he did something and couldn’t live with himself anymore?”
It’s an understandable question. Unless, of course, you know damn well, like I do, that Tate’s not dead. But I certainly can’t tell her that.
I exhale slowly. “Look, we don’t know anything about Tate’s life. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe he got hit by a train. Maybe he had cancer. Maybe he died rescuing a bunch of stray animals from a fire. Don’t let your mind immediately go to suicide—or any of the rest of it.”
“You’re right.” I hear rustling as she puts on her shoes, the jingle of her keys. Eventually, the door opens and closes, and the faint sound of street traffic filters through the phone as she crosses the street. “Okay, honey. I’m at Jessica’s.” The doorbell rings.
“I’ll take care of this,” I promise.
“I know you will.”
“Oh, Tara. This is a nice surprise.” Jessica’s voice, distant, comes through the phone. She must see something on my mother’s face because her voice falls. “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“My son is dead,” Mom blurts.
“Tristan’s dead? Oh my God, what happened?”
“No, not Tristan.”
