Shatter My Rock (11 page)

I
don’t mean to stare, but I can’t help it. Owen’s body seems to crave my touch. I
mutter, “Somewhere in between, I guess. My husband made the call.”

His
tone turns reproachful. “And why was that?”

This
question stumps me. “I don’t feel well,” I say. “Are we almost done?”

It
appears as if this is the wrong response. Abruptly, he says, “There’ll be an
autopsy. We’ll need you to stick around until the results are in, then we can
release the body.”

“How
long will that take?”

“A
day or two,” he tells me, “depending on how busy the medical examiner is.
Usually they’re pretty quick.”

“Is
that really necessary? We know how he…”

“It’s
the law,” the deputy informs me, “in the death of a child under three. Standard
procedure.”

Nothing
about this process feels standard to me, but I’m in no position to argue.
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll be at six sixty-nine Seafarer Way.”

We
stay with Jenna and Carson overnight, but then I convince Tim that we should
head back to Rhode Island until Owen is ready for us. The police I leave in the
dark.

“Are
you going to work?” Jenna asks, as Tim slings the final piece of luggage into
the backseat of the van.

“I
don’t think so,” I say.

“You
should take a leave.”

“I
know.”

Ally
is already fast asleep, buckled in and ready to go. With Tim’s approval, I have
kept her calm the last eighteen hours with steady doses of cough syrup and comforting
religious perspectives on death and the afterlife. Perspectives that ease my
mind too, solidify my belief that Owen is in the best place possible. Then
again, I know I will not join him there.

Jenna
leans in and pecks Tim on one cheek, then the other. “Are you sure you don’t want
me to drive?”

“Nah,”
he says weakly. “I’ll be all right.” He glances at me. “Claire can take over if
I get tired.”

My
husband is emptied to the core, more exhausted than is fair for any human
being. “Don’t worry,” I say as I slip into the passenger seat. “We’ll call you
by six.”

It
has been quiet for so long I nearly forget Tim is driving and Ally is dozing in
the back. Yet I sense them with me, fellow travelers on an uncharted path,
slashing through the brush one machete whack at a time, carving a common way. “Can
you stop at the next rest area?” I ask, my aching bladder besting my
indifference.

Tim
says, “It’s thirty miles.”

“That’s
fine.”

I
want to ask him how he’s holding up, but my guilty conscience forbids it. Instead,
I let the silence speak volumes of its own. Briefly, I rest my eyes, but sooner
than I expect, I hear the blinker ticking.

“Friggin’
idiots,” Tim grumbles under his breath.

When
I open my eyes, I see an RV blocking our path, its elderly driver struggling to
park in an unauthorized spot. I suggest, “Go around.”

Tim
huffs. “No shit.”

He
cranks the wheel, but it’s obvious we can’t make it past. He lays on the horn, powers
the window down and shouts, “Any day now, asshole!”

The
RV remains frozen with indecision, but Tim is done waiting. He bangs the van
into reverse and zooms us backwards, nearly clipping two cars that have lined
up behind us. With a little screech, he spins the van into an empty spot,
stomping on the brake just in time to avoid flattening a small child who has
wandered into our path from between two pickup trucks.   

I
suck in a breath, glance over my shoulder at Ally. She is still asleep, which,
for a moment, spikes a shard of panic through my gut. Maybe I have overdosed
her, killed her too. “You coming?” I ask Tim.

He
sets his jaw, stares out the window and shakes his head.

“I’ll
be right back.”

We
are an hour from home when Tim finally has something to say. “I keep hearing
him,” he announces out of nowhere.

Without
asking, I know what he means, because it’s happening to me too. Every foreign
sound my brain transforms into a plea from Owen. “The tunnel was the worst,” I
say, “with all the echoes. And that goddamn low-pitched hum.”

Ally
wriggles around in the back, yawns through her slumber.

“I
like it.”

While
I’ve had months to prepare for this reality, Tim is only hours in. “You do?”

“He
sounds happy.”

I
can only pray this is true. “I don’t know.”

He
waits a while before giving voice to my biggest fear. “Do you think he knew
what was happening?”

My
throat tightens, chokes any response I may have uttered. Once the question has
long passed, I whisper, “No.”

There
is a lengthy lull in the conversation that neither Tim nor I are willing to
break, but then a lead-footed driver shatters it for us. “
What the hell?
”
Tim spouts, his eyes fixed on the rearview.

My
gaze darts to the side mirror, where I notice a jacked-up SUV, its tires half
as tall as our van, zigzagging inches off our bumper. I glance at the
speedometer, but we are already doing ten miles over the limit.

“Back
off, fuck-face!” Tim growls.

I
reach up and twist the mirror sideways, so he cannot see. “Just ignore it.”

But
there is no way to ignore what happens next, because when Tim taps the brake,
he inadvertently pulls the pin from a live grenade. Instead of slowing behind
us, the SUV lurches ahead, bumps us in the rear with enough force to send us skittering
into the breakdown lane.

We
are lucky Tim is such a practiced driver, all those grocery runs and doctor’s
office visits having stacked up in his favor. In as controlled a manner as possible,
he coasts us to an easy stop on the shoulder of the highway. Then he bolts out
of the van.

There
is not enough time for me to stop him, even if I had the composure to do so. And
my primary concern is Ally. “Are you okay?!” I spin around and holler, my eyes
wide with fear.

Ally
is awake now, dazed but intact. “Uh-huh,” she mutters.

I
make a move toward my cell phone, a 911 call at the forefront of my mind, but
an avalanche of shouting male voices gives me pause. I order Ally, “Stay here.”
Then I scamper out of the van, prepared to do battle on Tim’s behalf.

Before
I can intervene, though, my husband catches sight of me and barks, “Get lost!”

I
freeze where I am, steal a moment to ponder the scene. In Tim’s shadow stands a
younger guy, maybe in his early thirties, his chest puffed out, his stumpy arm
cocked as if he may try to drop Tim with a below-the-belt punch. The bumpers of
both vehicles, I notice, are trashed.

“Come
on,” I urge, as Tim spits a string of obscenities at the twerp’s face. “Let’s
go.” This lowlife has earned whatever verbal lashing Tim wishes to dole out,
but I’d rather not risk a knife to the gut or a sawed-off shotgun to the back
of the head.

Tim
waves an arm my way. “Beat it!” There is power in how he speaks, strength
fueled by pain and rage. A dark force he is preparing to unleash.

The
twerp gets off half a step in Tim’s direction before Tim cold-cocks him in the
face. A spurt of blood issues from the twerp’s nose and falls in thick gobs to
the pavement, where Tim drags his foot through it as he winds up for the next
strike. But the twerp moves faster, charges at Tim’s midsection and wrestles
him to the ground. And now a second man springs from the SUV, leaving the
passenger door gaping in his wake.

“No!”
I screech. “Stop!”

It’s
now two on one, and Tim is on the losing end of the scuffle. I move in, chance
a couple of quick jabs at the twerp’s kidneys with my sandals.

The
commotion brings Ally from the van, sets her on the sidelines staring in horror.
It’s not enough that her brother is dead, but now these strangers aim to erase
her parents too? “Daddy!” she cries. “Don’t!”

Our
daughter’s presence spells the beginning of the end for these thugs, because
now Tim cannot lose. Will not. With the strength that possesses only those in grave
danger, he throws one man aside, then the other.

I
rush to Ally, draw her quivering frame to mine, invite her to sob openly at my
chest. My mouth moves separately from my brain, screams things that drift back
to me as the disconcerting tones of a record album played backwards: devil
speak.

With
three or four more wild punches, Tim leaves the twerp writhing on the pavement
and his buddy scurrying toward the onramp for help. “Go!” he shouts at me and
Ally, and this time we obey.

Muffin
is waiting on the doorstep when we arrive home, a fact that sends Ally, albeit
reluctantly, to cloud nine. “Oh my God!” she squeals, after the appropriate
amount of dour silence. “He’s back!”

I
can’t decide if this is a good turn or a portent of strife to come. I squint.
“Is that really him?” But there is no doubt about it: Tim’s horse of a dog has
risen from the dead.

Ally
throws her arms around Muffin’s neck and peppers his nose with sloppy kisses,
which he returns on a grand scale. I glance from Tim to Muffin and back again,
noting two unlikely things: First, Muffin is as portly as ever, and, second, Tim
appears none too pleased to see him.

The
four of us rumble into the house as we have thousands of times before, our ease
together painful for how it both amplifies Owen’s absence
and smoothes it
over. It’s not until I spot the blinking light on our answering machine that I
register our failure to share the news of Owen’s death.

Tim
pauses by the phone, stares down that red flash as if he has the power to will
it away. “I’ll start calling people,” I say at his back. “Why don’t you take a
shower?” On his face are nicks and scrapes, fresh bruises and splotches of
blood.

He
drops his head in his hands, falls to his knees and releases a guttural wail.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop him.

The
call from Det. Jack Hanscom comes fourteen hours later, moments after I have
dropped Ally at school. I am officially on bereavement leave, but my daughter
must push through the final weeks of fifth grade.

I
veer into the lot of a McDonald’s and knock the van into park. “Hello,” I
blurt, narrowly saving the call from ending up in my voice mail box.

There
is an empty pause before I hear, “Mrs. Fowler?”

“Yes.”

“This
is Detective Hanscom.”

I
already know this from the caller ID. “Uh-huh.”

“We
have some news about your son.” He stops and waits for me to inquire, but I
don’t. “Trouble is, we’ve been having a hard time getting ahold of you.”

Flatly,
I say, “Our daughter had school.”

“When
we told you to stick around, it wasn’t a request.”

This
role-reversal has me tongue-tied; usually I’m the one giving the orders. “It’s
a four-hour drive,” I offer.

“Make
it three,” he says. “And bring your husband.”

Tim
refuses to get out of bed, even when I inform him of the detective’s call and no
matter how stridently I beg. Every molecule of fight, it seems, has deserted
him.

I
stand cross-armed at our bedside, assuming the countenance of a hardened nun. “We
have to.”

To
the pillow, he mutters, “For what?”

“Don’t
you want him back? We have to claim the…”

He
burrows deeper into the mass of blankets, tells me with his body that he doesn’t
care. Or that he cares too much. I crawl in beside him, let my lips on his neck
say I’m sorry, that I still love him, that I need him more now than ever
before. His fingers on my spine reciprocate, tell me he will be the rock of
this family to the bitter end.

“Should
I call your mother?” I ask softly.

“I’ll
do it.”

Despite
my promises, I have yet to notify anyone of Owen’s fate. “Okay.”

I
slip off to the bathroom so he can have his privacy, a quiet space to collect
his thoughts. But there I find my own demons. I open the faucet, splash some
cool water on my face and neck, let my skin drip dry. In the rushing stream I
hear,
You did it, and now you must pay.

The
drive to Maine takes longer than it should, and not because Tim spares any pressure
on the gas pedal. Instead, it stretches out from heavy quiet, the kind of nothingness
that devours a man whole. As we exit the interstate, I ask, “Do you know where
we’re going?”

“The
state police barracks?”

“I
think so,” I say.

“Call
Jenna.”

I
take Tim’s advice, let Jenna know we have returned. “Hi, it’s me,” I say,
confident she will know my voice until the day she dies. “Can we stop over?”

She
hesitates. “To the house, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I
don’t think so,” she tells me. “It’s taped off, and there are cameras everywhere.
We’re at a hotel.”

“Cameras?”

“The,
uh…
accident
made the national news.”

I
cannot figure how the drowning of an infant could garner such attention. “The
national news?”

Tim
tenses beside me, shakes his head and sighs.

Jenna
says nothing.

“We’re
meeting with Detective Hanscom,” I say. “Do you know where the state police
barracks are?”

“Listen,
Claire,” she says, “you need to be prepared for…”

The
idea that I may be a suspect in Owen’s death surprises me not at all. “I know,”
I say. The police have every right to turn their focus my way.

“I
can talk to them for you, tell them whatever you think might help.”

In
the face of everything I’ve done, drawing Jenna into this quagmire seems
innocuous. Yet I don’t have the stomach for it. “Just point us in the direction
of the barracks,” I tell her. “We’ll take it from there.”