The Things We Didn't Say Read online

  The father looked back at me over his daughter’s tangled hair, and mouthed, Thank you.

  I was next. I didn’t think about them again until I came back to the lobby with a prescription in my fist. Jewel’s daddy was crouched, zipping up her coat. His coffee-dark hair was a mess, I noticed. I also saw a scar along his jawline.

  “I hope you feel better soon, kiddo,” I told her, ready to pass out of their lives.

  “You, too,” her father said, looking up at me, straightening her coat. “I’m Michael Turner.”

  “Casey,” I replied, supplanting my last name instead of my given name, unthinking.

  “I can call you and let you know how she’s doing.”

  It was so transparent. I blushed, I think, or it might have been the fever.

  Then he scooped her up and muttered, walking out the door. “Or not. She’ll be fine, it’s just a virus.”

  “Maybe you could just e-mail me an update,” I said, walking with him through the door, and I rattled off my address, which was one of those that was easy to say and remember. I’d picked it brand-new, cutting off old ties in the process.

  He disappeared into the night, and I dragged myself home, assuming the pleasant memory of his wide-open marble-blue eyes would be all I’d ever have of this really good dad I saw in a waiting room.

  Maybe it should have stayed that way.

  I grind out my cigarette, and the phone buzzes. Angel must have snuck me a text between classes.

  Not there? Will call Mom.

  Mallory. Oh, shit.

  Dylan’s room is not the smelly den one would expect from a teenager.

  It’s not what you’d call neat, but it’s not filthy, either. No crumbs, no half-empty cans of pop. His dirty laundry is in the hamper, not stinking up his room. I almost wish it were disgusting, because I’m afraid Dylan is becoming a mini-Michael, that is to say, old before his time.

  I value how responsible Michael is, truly, especially given what I went through with my brother. But Dylan is still a kid, even with a smudge of mustache on his upper lip.

  I pull open the closet, holding my breath, bracing myself to see empty hangers as if he’d packed his things.

  But no, it looks just as crowded as ever with his black T-shirts and oversize sweaters. Anyway, it’s not like he could sneak a duffle bag into the car with his dad.

  If Jewel had turned up missing, I’d be in a panic. She’s vulnerable, small.

  But Dylan is a teenager. And he got dropped off at school. This much we know.

  My cell rings. Michael.

  “Hi.”

  “Any sign of him?”

  “Nothing. Angel hasn’t seen him at school, either. I think she’s going to call her mother.”

  “Well, maybe she had something to do with it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe she decided to take him to an amusement park, or the movies . . . you know how impulsive she is.”

  “But she could have signed him out of school, claimed he was sick or going to the dentist or something. Dylan would have wanted her to, rather than get detention for skipping, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe I should come home.”

  Yes, please. I don’t know what to do. “I don’t know. What would you be able to accomplish? Sit around and wait.”

  “I could call his friends.”

  “I already checked with Jacob’s mom. She said they’re not even friends anymore.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. His clothes are still here.”

  “Of course they are. He didn’t just take off.” The scorn is palpable. I know why; it sounds like I’m comparing him to Mallory.

  “He went somewhere, didn’t he? Did he walk right into the school?”

  “I told you, I dropped him off.”

  “Don’t snap at me, I’m trying to help.”

  A heavy, aggrieved sigh. “And I’m at work and my son is missing.”

  “I thought you weren’t worried.”

  In the silence of his nonresponse, I can hear newsroom noise: a din of intense conversation, like a loud and disgruntled crowd.

  “Michael?”

  “I’m here. Just keep trying his cell, and call any other friends you can think of. Get the band parent list out of the junk drawer and try them. If a bunch of his friends are skipping school, then we know it’s probably nothing. It’ll be fine.”

  “I guess.”

  “What?”

  “What if Mallory comes over here?”

  “Well, we can’t very well tell her not to. Dylan’s her son, and if she wants to be at the house while we track him down—”

  “By myself, though?”

  “She’s not going to eat your spleen.”

  I try to chuckle, and it comes out more like a cough. “Good to know she stops short of cannibalism.”

  “We’ll find him, and I’ll kick his ass, and everything will be fine. If Mallory turns up, just . . . play it cool. Stay breezy, relaxed. Don’t hyper her up.”

  Relaxed. Right.

  I hang up the phone and go out to the patio for another smoke. I’m going to need it. I check my watch after I light up. It’s afternoon already, and all that I’ve consumed since one bowl of cereal at breakfast is nicotine and tar.

  That means it’s almost time for my mother to call. I call her instead to get it over with so I can go back inside and call Dylan’s band friends.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Edna! Hi, honey. How’s your day going?”

  I lie to her for the sake of simplicity. “Okay. Yours?”

  “I ran into Petey at the store. You know he’s still asking about you.”

  I know this, because he called me not long ago. “I’m engaged, Mom. And why did you give him my cell number?”

  “I’m just saying. If you decide that raising someone else’s kids is not your idea of fun . . .”

  “I didn’t sign up for fun. I love him.” I prop my cigarette in my phone hand and cover my eyes with my free hand.

  “Fun and love used to go together, you know.”

  “It wasn’t always fun with Pete. We had plenty of not-fun times. Remember Billy’s funeral?”

  She gasps like she’s been sliced. “Edna Leigh.”

  “I’m just saying, you only think he’s a saint because we broke up. It’s nostalgia.”

  “He just fit in so well.”

  “Did he ever.”

  “Don’t you start with me. I know you’re too good to even visit us anymore, but you don’t have to criticize every move we make.”

  “I’m not criticizing. I was agreeing.”

  “How great can this Michael be if he doesn’t even want to meet your family?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say again, because it is.

  “It doesn’t have to be. Anyway, are you coming to Wanda’s baby’s party this weekend?”

  My cousin’s baby’s first birthday. They’ll even break out the beer for a toddler’s party. By the end of the night, they’ll be shooting cans off the back fence and having wrestling matches in the yard. They won’t talk to me, either, instead whispering behind my back about how I blew town right after my brother’s funeral, not even staying to support my grieving parents. Some of them outright blame me, I know.

  My mother insists they don’t, but I can feel their heavy stares, see it in the way they turn quickly away if they happen to meet my eyes.

  “I can’t. I’m swamped with work.”

  “I just bet.”

  “Can we not fight? I don’t have it in me today.”

  “Me neither, honey. I ran across Billy’s old hunting jacket today.”

  “Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m not. But I’m standing up, so there ya go.”

  “I’ll try to come to the party, okay?”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “I’m trying to do the right thing, here.”

  “I know, baby. I’m sorry. It’s not the best
of days.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I’ll call you later. I promised Wanda I’d babysit, and she’ll be over soon. You know, I can’t wait to be holding your own baby, darlin’.”

  “One step at a time. I guess I’m old-fashioned enough to get married first.”

  “Now don’t you start in on Wanda.”

  “I’m not, I just don’t need the pressure. I’m only twenty-six.”

  “I’m just saying. I love those baby cuddles, and when I get to be a grandma, I’ll climb up on the roof and scream for joy! Oops, there’s Wanda’s car. Love ya bunches.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I’ve seen pictures of Wanda’s baby. She’s so deliciously chubby I want to stick my nose in her neck and blow raspberries. Her wispy hair looks like golden feathers, and with her pursed mouth she’s like a pudgy little bird.

  I used to fantasize about what my baby would look like, my baby with Michael. She’d have loads of thick black hair, just like her father, and hazel eyes, like me. Like my brother’s.

  At a furious, rapid pounding I nearly drop my phone. The doorbell broke a few months ago, and the front door is so thick you have to jackhammer it to be heard. I hurry inside and through the front room curtains I can see a tall stack of white-blond hair.

  I yank open the door.

  “Where’s my son?” Mallory cries, gripping my arm like she’s drowning.

  Chapter 4

  Michael

  Kate startles me as she says in my ear, “Oh, the copy desk will love you for that.”

  Typing up the mall shopping story, I’d written, “ ‘It’s a tough economy, but we’re all hoping that with credit finally loosening up, the shopping season will give retailers a nice boost,’ said Kenneth Delaney, spokesman for the Michigan Retailer Association, otherwise known as Captain Obvious.”

  I backspace past my sarcasm. “I wasn’t really going to leave that in.”

  “Get your fun where you can, eh?” Kate flops into her chair at her desk, just to the right of me. “I had the fun of interviewing your father.”

  “Sorry. But then, I’m interviewing your mall managers, so I guess we’re even.”

  “It was fine. He returns calls, knows how to spew a pithy quote, doesn’t nitpick the story after it’s published. My idea of a perfect source.” She stretches her arms over her head, tipping back in her chair. Her blouse rides up to reveal a sliver of skin, and I glance away.

  “Yeah, he’d love to hear that. He loves to be perfect at anything.”

  “Tell us how you really feel, Mike.”

  “You know how family is.”

  Kate’s cell goes off, singing, “Since you’ve been gone . . .” She mutes the phone and tosses it theatrically in her bottom desk drawer. “My ex. His own special ringtone.”

  “What now?”

  “He thinks I owe him money. He’s thinking of suing me. He thinks he’s God. What else is new? I swear he invented crazy. And I married it. What the hell were we thinking, Mike?”

  “Kate, I have to finish this up. I may have to get out of here early today, so—”

  “Okay, sorry. Very diligent of you.”

  My dad’s voice echoes across the years: What the hell were you thinking?

  My mother was sobbing into her hands like I’d just told her I had incurable cancer.

  “I hope she’s going to get it taken care of,” my father snapped, pacing in front of the brick fireplace, his shadow slicing across the floor.

  My mother gasped. “Henry!”

  “Marian, they are not equipped for this. How can he start a family and graduate at the same time? And then support a kid on a starting journalist’s salary? He’ll be lucky to support himself. We’re still paying for his car. And who is this girl, anyway? We’ve never heard of her. What happened to Heather?”

  “Another guy happened to Heather. And I told you, her name is Mallory.”

  “Mallory, the name tells me nothing. What is she studying? And why in God’s name was she not on the Pill? This is the nineties, you have to be a mental defective to get pregnant accidentally.”

  “I will not let you talk about her that way!” My voice came out unnaturally high and reedy. Some big-talking man I was.

  “Oh, great, now I suppose you’re in love with her.”

  My mother wiped her eyes, her face shiny wet in the firelight. “Are you?”

  There was hope in her face. Love would make it okay for her, because then it wasn’t a terrible mistake, it could be welcomed instead of dreaded. I saw it all in her mouth slightly agape, her breath caught.

  “I’m very . . . we’re passionate about each other.”

  “Too bloody passionate,” interjected my dad, who’d sunk into the club chair near the fire.

  “We weren’t thinking—”

  “What else is new.”

  “Henry! That’s enough.” My mother drew herself up, her five-foot frame looking like a sliver compared to my dad’s hulking form in the chair. “Michael needs our support. And this is a grandchild! Not a problem to be discarded! I’m not happy about the way it came about myself, but what’s done is done.”

  My mother wrapped her thin arms around me. I rested my chin on top of her head.

  “Mikey. We’ll figure it out. And I think we’d better meet her, don’t you think?”

  My phone yanks me back to the present moment, alerting me to a text.

  Mallory’s here, no Dylan yet, reports Casey.

  Poor Casey, having to fend her off alone. But there’s this story, stupid as it is, and I have to get it done. Then I’ll get home. And everything will be fine.

  The words in my notebook swim in my vision. What was I thinking indeed?

  But without Mallory, there’s no Angel, no Dylan. And there was very nearly no Jewel because I’d finally packed my bags to go . . .

  “Mike.”

  When I pull myself out of my thoughts, I notice I’d been tracing my scar.

  Kate waves her hand in my direction. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  “Just tired,” I tell her, waving her off, forcing myself to stare again at the screen.

  She lowers her voice and rolls her chair a little closer. “Is it Casey?”

  I fight to keep from rolling my eyes. In an idiot-moment over a lunchtime Reuben, I’d told Kate that Casey is a terrific girl but she didn’t seem up to the stepparenting gig. Kate had covered my hand with hers, and I let myself feel sad, and I let myself be comforted for a moment that stretched a little too long. Since then I’ve had to be vigilant about being professional, friendly, and no more.

  Yes, Kate’s gorgeous, and she’s also full of sympathy and sweet, understanding smiles. I also happen to know she’s cunning and calculated, which is one reason she’s such a goddamn good reporter.

  “I can’t talk right now,” I tell Kate, and she finally rolls back to her screen.

  I look at the computer clock. It’s now 2:00 P.M. That means no one has seen or heard from Dylan in over six hours. He’s not answering his phone or texts. This is not like him. In fact, he’s the most dependable of all of them. Though he’s been quiet lately, even by his standards. What have I missed?

  I tell myself again it’s probably nothing and buckle down to get the story done, so I can get home and make damn well sure it’s nothing.

  I’m just spell-checking the shopping story and removing all sarcastic asides when two e-mails arrive. One is from the publisher, reminding all of the four o’clock meeting. The other is from Kate.

  Hey Mike,

  I know you’re not just tired. You have “ex stress.” I can see it all over your face. Been there, done that. Oh, come to think of it, still doing that.

  Hang in there. I was going to say it will get better but it probably won’t! Anyway, wouldn’t want you to stick your head in an oven or something. This place would be boring without you.

  Want to get a drink after work? My treat.

  K.

  I slide my e
yes over to her. She looks sideways at me and smiles a little, one of those encouraging smiles, a silent “chin up!”

  I e-mail her back, wishing I could move to an empty desk farther away from her without the gossip mill starting to churn.

  Can’t. Potential crisis at home. Report back to me about 4 o’clock meeting, though. I have to leave.

  I file the story and go hover by Aaron to get his attention. He’s on the phone with someone combative, based on his repetition of the phrase, “I understand what you’re saying.”

  I can’t take it anymore. I seize a piece of paper out of a notebook on Aaron’s desk and scribble: Home emergency. Have to leave. Story filed.

  I toss it in front of his face. Just as I turn to walk away, I catch a glimpse of him whirling around in his chair to say something to me, but I pretend I didn’t see it and just go straight for my coat.

  It’s a struggle not to speed as I drive home. Mallory and Casey are not a good mix together, not on the best of days. I kept them apart for a long time, and discouraged the kids from talking about Casey. I didn’t forbid it, exactly, I just told them that Casey was only a friend and their mother didn’t have to hear every detail of my life.

  Dylan and Angel got it, tragically fluent in the language of divorce.

  Jewel, though, talked about Casey painting her toenails. When I picked the kids up, she screamed at me about this new “girl” dolling up Jewel like “a harlot.”

  My crazy hope to see Dylan sitting on the porch is dashed. The porch is empty, and it’s unsettling to be home now during the week, the sun still high.

  Just inside the front door, I hesitate, listening.

  I don’t see Mallory until she’s on top of me. She’s hurtled herself at me, torpedo fashion, clinging to me and weeping. “Where is he, Mike? Where’s our baby?”

  “Where’s Casey?”

  “Do you think I care where she is? Where’s our son?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”