Title: Breach (1/2)
Universe: Post-The Following
Rating: PG/PG-13
Pairing: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy
Summary: We haven't gotten a call like this, one that rings out loud in the middle of the night, for years and years.
Author's Note: I don't ever write in first-person, but… Here goes. Feedback is very much appreciated if you have a few minutes.
. . .
It isn't the sirens that wake us that night, but the phone. I scramble in the dark as its shrill call tears through our silent house, my mind racing through all the different horrific possibilities of what I will hear when I answer and press the receiver to my ear. Being woken up in the middle of the night by a ringing phone is never a good thing, and I've had enough bad things to happen in my life that I don't need to stretch myself to imagine the worst.
I've just come to terms with the fact that I'm about to hear the sound of my sister-in-law sobbing on the other side of the line—or some crisp doctor's voice informing me she's had some sort of fatal accident—when there's a sharp crackle and a recorded voice fills my ear.
Hello. You are receiving an automated alert that there may be an escaped convict in your area. The fugitive is a middle-aged white male, five-ten, approximately 160 pounds, with brown hair and blue eyes. If you see anyone matching this description in your area, please remain in your home or another safe area and call 911 immediately. Do not approach or interact with this man; he is considered dangerous and may be armed.
Still half-asleep, the sterile voice that greets me sounds like something out of a dream, quickly turning into a nightmare as I am abruptly thrust into full, racing consciousness. At my side, I can hear Ryan only faintly as he rouses beside me, groggily asking me what's happening, who's on the phone.
"It's…" I hardly even know what to say. I'm still thinking of Jenny, still confused as to why this call is not about her, still not fully comprehending what I just heard. "It's from the prison," I mumble, still going over the recording in my head. Middle-aged white male, five-ten…
"Give me the phone," he orders at once. He's wide awake now, all sleep leached from him. In the darkness, I can see his eyes turning wild. "Claire, give me the phone!"
I don't even have time to hand it to him before he's wrenching it out of my grasp and shoving it his ear, swearing into the receiver before he can even hear properly. But then the recording must have kicked in again, because only a few seconds into his tirade, he breaks off, and the rigid muscles in his face and neck relax.
It's only an escaped convict. I can see the realization as it dawns on him, and I can almost feel the relief he feels as he sinks back against the headboard of our bed—it's that potent.
He listens to the recording one more time, hearing it from the beginning this time, without the distraction of his own fear, before hanging up the phone and passing it back to me. I miss the cradle a couple times before the receiver lands; my hands are shaking at my own slip-up, and at his reaction. I haven't seen him so furious or so frightened in years, and it's put me on edge. It doesn't help to know that it was all my fault—if I hadn't spoken so casually, he wouldn't be sitting here trying to slow his heartbeat and even his breathing. I wouldn't be reaching out to touch his chest, to place my palm over his pacemaker gently in order to help him calm down.
When I said prison, I meant the State Correctional Institution at Greenfield: located about fifteen miles northeast of our Richmond suburb, it is our county's nearest—and only—representation of the criminal justice system. It's only a medium-security prison, though, so it doesn't get many front-page bulletins, and it's set out in the no-man's land between two smaller towns that most of the time I forget it's even there.
But of course that wasn't the prison my husband was thinking of when he was woken so suddenly in the middle of the night by a ringing phone. He was thinking of somewhere else, of the only prison that has any remaining relevance to our lives, the only prison that we might indeed get a terrifying call from in the middle of the night: ADX Florence, that federal super-maximum security prison squirreled away in the mountains of Colorado. That impenetrable, isolated fortress where Joe is being held until an execution date is decided upon.
And so of course Ryan would be furious and scared getting a call like that; the last time we got such unexpected calls, they were from Joe, and they triggered the mutilation and massacre of countless people—those standing right next to us, and others across the entire country. In fact, the last time he spoke to us—outside of a courtroom, that is—he'd been seconds away from murdering us.
"It's nothing," Ryan says now, drawing me back to the present, if not totally dispelling my memories of the past. "It's just a precaution, Claire."
"Right," I nod. I refuse to tell him that that's the same phrase the FBI used when they stuffed my house to the gills with police officers, hours before one of them tried to kill me: it's just a precaution. I don't tell him it's the same thing the federal marshals told me before they locked me up in a hotel room for weeks on end, only to have a pair of madmen gun down the doors to get at me: it's just a precaution.
"They'll find him soon. I'm sure they're already—"
He breaks off, and I look up as I see his head snap to the side. His eyes have caught some sort of movement that mine have not yet discerned, and my body tenses, imagining what it could be. Who it could be. I've just convinced myself that Joe's hiding in our closet with a knife when Ryan gets to his feet and walks to the window on his side of the bed.
"That was quick," I hear him murmur.
I'm lost for a frantic moment before he reaches out and pull the curtain back, and I see what he must have seen a second ago: passing strobe lights in blinding shades of red and blue.
Cautiously, I get to my feet and join him at the windowsill. Even though I know now what distracted him, there's still that voice in the back of my head, telling me things can get worse. Telling me there could still be a murderer hiding somewhere in my home.
"They aren't using their sirens," I hear myself say, though I can't remember ordering my lips to move.
Ryan shakes his head. "No, they won't want to alarm people yet," he replies. As if that phone call in the middle of the night wouldn't be alarming. His eyes are fixed on the view from our bedroom window, tracking everything, and I wonder if he's just surveying or actually scouting for dangers.
I look out on the street as the cop car passes by slowly, and take a peek at some of our neighbors. Around the block, I see a couple lights coming on here and there. Some go out again just as fast as they came on; others stay on as I watch. To my surprise, no one comes outside. Usually they're curious about such peculiar situations—at least, they have been curious about the ones that concern me—but the passing cruisers have not brought one ogling couple out of their front doors.
I realize, belatedly, that it's because they're afraid. They're staying cooped up in their houses behind their reinforced and dead-bolted doors because they think that's where they'll be safe. Foolish, I find myself thinking, almost laughing at their expense. How can they be so naïve?
I'm still watching the neighbors and their light game of illuminated windows when Ryan steps away from our window and leaves the room. I don't think anything of it until I watch the cruiser pass by the block again, and then pull into the circular driveway in front of our house.
I'm running before I can even form another thought, sprinting to the front door. I do not like the sight of cop cars in front of my house; I do not trust the words that come out of the mouths of those uniformed men and women. But by the time I get there, Ryan is already shaking the officer's hand, bringing him up onto the porch. I can feel my heart pounding in my throat, and I can see spots of light illuminate the edges of my vision as I reach for the door. For a second, I'm terrified that I'm going to faint—but then I remember that we live in a neighborhood full of people that have just been abruptly awoken from their beds. A neighborhood full of people that need a distraction. A neighborhood full of people that are all, now, watching me.
As I step out onto our front stoop, I have to fight the urge to reach out to Ryan and pull him back into the house. I know it would look strange—and, to this hunting cop, suspicious—and the last thing I want to be is the subject of gossip again. I do my best to slow my breathing and listen, catching up to the conversation that is going on between my husband and this cop, and watch.
The officer is very young, maybe not even thirty. He's carrying on a polite but restricted conversation with my husband about the escaped subject, standing all the while with his hands resting nonchalantly on his duty belt. Every couple seconds, he glances over to me, calculating. He doesn't look anywhere else except our faces; he never turns his back to us or away from his partner waiting in the car. Does he see us as a threat? Or am I reading too much into this?
He's young, but surely he must be able to recognize us. If he hasn't connected the dots already, he will once he drives away, once his partner makes a passing comment about the oddity of the couple he just conversed with. Then he will want to run back, and ask us what it was like. What he was like.
They all want to know.
I decide in a flash that I do not like this man, and I do not want him on my porch. I do not want him talking to my husband. I want him to go away and never come back. I do not want to see him here, standing on my front step with his feet splayed wide like he owns it. I do not want to see him standing there with his hands resting on his duty belt; the possessiveness of it, the implicit warning, rubs me raw. His fingers are just inches from his baton, his pepper spray, his handcuffs, his gun. He could use them on us, if he wanted. He doesn't even need a reason. We could be obstructing justice. We could be harboring a dangerous fugitive. I, after all, have done so before.
"So, no luck yet?" Ryan's voice brings me back into the conversation, and I tentatively edge to his side. I don't want to be any closer to this cop than I already am, but I don't want to be, either.
The officer shakes his head. "Unfortunately, no. We haven't gotten a second sighting since what you heard on the call, sir."
The cop rattles off the words easily. The line is clearly rehearsed, and I know if I can pick it out, Ryan must already be on the trail of what this man's trying to hide.
"Really?" Ryan asks, frowning and scratching the back of his neck as he asks the question, playing the role he's seen so many times. It's harder to look clueless than you might expect, but he pulls it off well. "You mean you haven't heard anything in the last twenty minutes?"
The officer stiffens. It's a minute movement—but after spending years with cops, after being married to one, I can spot even the smallest change in emotion immediately.
"No, sir." The officer's voice is crisp now, his eyes narrowing a bit as they flicker between us. I wait for more, but—
"All right, just wondering." Ryan smiles, and just like that, he's finished. It takes me a second to realize why he gave up so easily: my husband knows where this man is coming from; he's been on that other, uniformed side. He knows this officer has his rules to follow, his protocols. And of course no one would want to make this mistake of giving too much information to civilians.
And what civilians we must look like, standing here on our front porch in our flannel pajamas, the rest of the house dark behind us, the lawn neatly manicured and the front stoop swept. I wonder for a moment, as I feel Ryan warm and solid beside me, when in the world we became suburbanites. When we were allowed to.
I reach down for his hand, and squeeze it quickly.
The officer sees this and, catching my eye, he offers what actually seems to be a genuine smile this time. "But I wouldn't worry there," he adds, clearly for my benefit. I wonder what number I am on his internal list of frightened, ordinary housewives he's had to reassure in the middle of the night like this. "Our guy won't get far in the cold."
Not unless someone helps him, I think, we all think, but no one says. I shiver, despite the warmth of my clothes. Ryan lets go of my hand to wraps an arm around my side; he presses me to him.
"We'll find him soon," the officer reiterates, no doubt uneasy at seeing the lack of relief on our faces. He's used to being good at making homeowners feel better. "We've got teams coming in, and dogs, and we'll get helicopters, if it comes to that. He won't get far."
"Helicopters?" My voice rises without my say, and I sound truly scared now, even to my own ears. I wish I didn't. I don't want to be some easily frightened housewife whose biggest fear is a cheap horror movie plot. I have seen worse than this, lived worse than this. This is nothing.
But I have led a peaceful life for too many years now, and I find that even the slightest upset in what has become my routine knocks me off-kilter. I am uneasy, I am nervous; yes, I am frightened. The cop can see this now, and he does his best to comfort me; clearly at ease doing so, he practically launches into a whole presentation about how more manpower doesn't necessarily mean more danger, and on and on he goes until there's a crackle on his radio and he breaks off to reply to it.
"Well, I should be going," he says to us afterwards, tucking his radio back into his belt before glancing back at his partner with a quick wave of acknowledgment. "Chief wants us to start setting up a perimeter. The streets will likely be blocked in this area until we're sure we've cleared it, so if you're planning on driving anywhere…"
I let his voice fade into a murmur in the back of my mind, and turn to my husband, wondering what he makes of all this. But he isn't listening, either, I realize. No, he's just staring straight ahead, his eyes boring into the blinding lights as a few more cop cars pass by. I feel my throat go dry as I watch him. I know the rest of the world, our world, will be dim, muted, when he finally looks away. But his eyes will adjust, as mine have, to the everyday. There is much to find there, once you know how to look.
So I let his eyes wander, let his mindset shift, as I say goodnight to the officer and head back inside. The garish red and blue lights track my progress, reflecting off windows and mirrors and family portraits, beckoning me back to the dangerous and the unknown. But I am not as drawn to it as my husband is, I am not roped in by the siren song of others' screams, and I walk quietly back to the kitchen without faltering. I keep my footfalls faint, silent, straining my ears over the chatter from outside so I might hear the other pair of feet that should be following mine.
It takes about a minute, but then there he is again: returning to me, like always.
I'm leaning with my front against the counter, propped up on my palms, when I feel his arms wrap around me from behind. They slide over my stomach, locking together, holding me to him. I lift my arms up and cross them over my chest to cup his shoulders, holding him to me just as firmly.
"I'm sorry about all this tonight," he murmurs in my ear, his voice low, apologizing the way he always does for things like this: deeply, profusely, for the things that hurt me that are in no way his fault or his doing. His head is bent down so as to be level with mine, and I close my eyes at the familiar heat of his breath against my ear and neck.
"It isn't your fault," I reply automatically, because it isn't, how could he have anything to do with that escape? But once I say the words I'm no longer certain what he's apologizing for. The escaped convict who brought a manhunt to our door? Or the fact that he wants so badly to leave us all behind him and join that manhunt without anything holding him back? And by saying what I just said, have I absolved him of this want, of this—I will call it what it is—addiction? Have I?
Perhaps he's following my train of thought, because his next words calm my racing thoughts.
"I know you're worried about me, Claire, but that's not my place anymore to be out there. I know that." He nestles his face into my neck, burrowing into my warmth. "I'm here now. I'm staying here, with you."
He chooses his words so carefully and it makes my breath hitch, to hear him speaking so honestly to me. I know how it tears at him to bare himself like this, to come to terms with his own reckless nature before me, and I'm grateful each time he tries. It has taken him years to come to this point, and even now, I know it's still a struggle. Hiding his emotions from others will always be instinct for him. To him, sharing what he feels makes him vulnerable, and being vulnerable makes him weak, an easy target for exploitation. For him it is a dangerous, perhaps fatal thing, to let someone else know what's going on inside your head or your heart. But he trusts me.
In gratitude, I tighten my hold on him in silent thanks, squeezing his shoulders with my fingers, and then lean back against his tall frame, allowing him to support me from behind for a moment. Then I turn in his arms to face him.
"Thank you," I whisper, looking up at him so he can see my eyes. I wrap my arms around his neck and lift myself up to kiss him. "Thank you, honey."
His lips are reticent to leave me when I break the kiss, and so I hug him afterwards, keeping him close to me as I know he wants to be. I don't know how long we stand, entwined like that in the kitchen, before he pulls away. I clutch his hands reflexively when he does so, and I hate myself for it. Can't I trust him enough by now to know that when he pulls away, it only means that he will be coming back soon? I know I do not make it easy for him. I know the depth of my need to be with him, and I know it doesn't always manifest itself in the best ways. But I am trying to be better. I am trying to give him his space, his time. I am learning to trust fully the fact that he will always return to me, no matter what my darkest fears might say.
"I can go and check on Joey, let him know what's happening, if you want," my husband offers when we pull apart, and I nod at once, grateful. I know this escaped convict situation will inevitably lead to questions about Joe and Ryan's so much better at talking about him with Joey than I am. He wants to know so much, Joey does, and I never know when I'm telling him too much. These past few years, I've settled on telling him nothing at all just so I don't inadvertently cross a line we can't come back from. I know one day we will have a conversation about the past, about his father—one that we can't take back—and I don't want it to happen now. Not while he's still a boy, living in my house, eating at my table. Not while he still loves me so unreservedly. I can't fall in his estimation, not now.
"Okay," I nod, releasing Ryan. "Go ahead. But keep it simple with him, all right?"
"I'll try."
"I'll be in bed," I tell him, squeezing his hand one last time before walking away. He lingers for a moment, standing still, but I refuse to look back at him. I like to imagine his eyes trained on me, his thoughts worrying over me, but I'm too anxious that I'll see his face turned to those red-and-blue lights, his mind on that man whose description we received earlier. So I don't look. I turn my head away and I go back to bed and I wait for him to come back to me, counting the seconds and keeping a watch on the door, telling myself all the while that I am being patient and understandable.
Though I expected Joey to keep Ryan longer, my husband returns to me less than five minutes later, pulling our bedroom door quietly shut behind him. I straighten myself in bed, sitting up to watch as he makes his way to his side. I search him for signs of exhaustion, of worry, of defeat that these conversations with our son usually elicit in him, but his face betrays nothing. Maybe he does look a little tired—but it's nearly one in the morning now. He's allowed to look tired.
"How was he?" I ask, turning to him as he settles into bed.
"Oh, you know." Ryan shrugs, but I catch the grimace that flashes across his face before he hides it. "He said he was fine."
I can't hold back the sigh, and it spills from me, over-dramatic. "Great."
"It's just Greenfield, Claire."
I nod, and make myself bite back the immediate response that jumped to the tip of my tongue: For now.
"I know," I whisper instead, because it's what he wants to hear, and I look down as I do so, that way he won't see the evasion in my eyes.
My refusal to meet his gaze must have told a different story, however, for in seconds, he's gathering me to him, wrapping his arms tight around my back and hooking his chin over my shoulder blade. "I love you," he murmurs to me, his voice so soft and quiet as his hands caress my arms and shoulders. "I love you and everything will be fine. I promise. Everything will be okay. This isn't a big deal; this isn't like before. Low-profile escapes like this happen all the time. It'll be resolved soon."
"I know," I say again, forcing my voice to be a bit louder, and bit firmer this time. "I know." I hug him back, meaning only to do so momentarily, but soon find that I can't let go. My arms tighten like vices around him, and in mere seconds I am clinging to him, unable to so much as breathe without him attached to me. It's times like this that make me truly scared: when he's here with me, holding me, promising in that steady, believable voice of his that things will be okay. This is the time when I wait for it all to fall apart.
But he knows this.
My husband senses my desperation at once, and it is a credit to his patience, and the strength of our marriage, that he proceeds calmly. He starts by extricating one hand from my death grip; with it, he reaches behind my head to stroke my hair gently, combing it in great swaths from shoulder to shoulder. At some point he begins murmuring to me. They are meaningless little words, but they are everything to my addled and over-processing brain. They cut through the racing thoughts, making me focus solely on the stimulus he is giving me.
"Sh, sh, sh."
He keeps up a steady, soothing beat.
"You're fine, we're fine, Joey's fine. Everything will be fine."
His hands move from my hair to my back, smoothing out the knotted muscles and calming my shaking body as he repeats these words over and over and over again. I find myself smiling, grateful, into his neck as I feel his hands move and listen to his soft words. He knows better than anyone else how to make me feel better, even at a time like this. Having experienced the same terror I experienced, he is my perfectly suited partner in recovery and in daily living. He knows exactly what it is like, now, for he experienced the same thing back then. Sometimes, when our roles are reversed, and it is me holding him, me whispering sweet words into his ears, me promising that all will be well, I find myself comforting him as much as myself. I know he must feel the same; I know that he knows we are both in this together. I shut my eyes, remembering that we two, we are equals, and then I burrow myself closer to him. I nestle my head into the crook of his neck for warmth, drawing in a deep breath as I do so in order to take in his scent, too. Sometimes, just the mere smell of him so close can calm me beyond anything that he might be able to say.
"Love you," I whisper once I have my voice back, and my wits. His soothing hands have slowed against me over the past few minutes, but I cling to him tightly still, not yet ready to part.
I can hear his soft exhale of air as he smiles at my declaration. "Love you too, baby," he whispers. His breath is warm against the side of my face, and I feel my cheeks heat further when he presses a kiss to one side.
I open my eyes. I know my cheeks must be red—I always blush at his sparingly-used endearments—but I also know that he likes it when they are. I tilt my face to meet his eyes, and when he leans forward to kiss me, I let them fall closed again, and lose myself in the feel of his lips against mine.
His hands have begun to roam again, not protectively now but much more freely this time, and I wonder if this has been his plan, his intention, all along. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he's used sex in lieu of anti-anxiety medication to help calm me down. And it certainly wouldn't be the first time I've let him.
I run my hands through his hair, deliberating, and finally choose to pull him closer. Even after nearly four consecutive years together, his hands still make my body shake and my heartbeat quicken at moments like this. I lift my face toward his so he can have more of me, and so I can have more of him. I draw his arms tight around me once more, this time separating my legs as well as my lips to welcome him. I rock my suddenly hungry body against his, wanting him to be closer, and naked, and inside me.
But then images flash in my mind—my imaginings of that runaway convict, now holding a bloody knife; my memories of Joe with that same knife; visions of my husband's face pale and bloodless, my child dead beside him—and I have to tear myself away. I simultaneously want to shove Ryan away and clutch him closer, want to know that he's alive and want to keep him far from me so he will stay that way.
He thinks he's cursed, but I know it's all me. He might have had death run rampant through his family, but he isn't the one that brought this down on all of us in the first place. And he isn't scared anymore, not the way he used to be, not the way I still am.
"Sorry," I try to whisper hoarsely as I shift away, but he merely shushes me, saying I don't have to explain or apologize. Saying he understands. Saying—
His voice fades to nothingness, to background chatter no more discernable than the crickets outside, as my heart pounds in my ears for the umpteenth time tonight. I hate being like this. I hate being scared, being unable to move on; I hate keeping us stuck in the past when all I've ever wanted is to break away from all that and start a new life. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
But we have started a new life, he'd tell me if he could hear those exact thoughts. He'd take my left hand and kiss the wedding band he personally placed on my finger all those years ago, and then he'd kiss my lips. We have moved on. Don't you remember?
Even thinking of him doing that, as he has so many times before, calms me somewhat. Just having him here beside me at a time like this and not out in the world is enough.
I lie in his arms for a while, burrowing myself into the warmth of him, the warmth of our bed, and the serene feeling of utter safety that his presence has always given me—since I've learned to accept it, that is. At some point, I must have fallen asleep, for when I hear a knock on our bedroom door, I jerk awake. I can feel Ryan stumbling back to consciousness beside me, too, so I know he must have dozed off at some point as well. My mind is already running, already trying to decode what is happening, what is wrong, when the knock sounds again. It's a soft one, I realized belatedly, my whole body relaxing. It's not urgent, not informative. Just questioning. Curious.
I know who it is already, and so I call out, "Come in," without hesitating, pushing myself up into a sitting position as I do so and making sure I'm decent.
When my son peeks his head in through the doorjamb, I smile. "Hey, honey. How are you doing?"
Joey shrugs, deciding to focus on us first. I know how we must look—matted hair and sleepy eyes and yawning mouths. He bites his lip. "I didn't wake you guys, did I?"
"No," Ryan and I lie at the same time. But Joey hardly even seems to hear us.
"They have helicopters now," he says by way of greeting.
For a moment, we all remain still and listen to an aircraft above us do some sort of flyby. It makes a loud, terrifyingly close sound—like a beast descending on our home. I glance at the clock beside or table, wondering how long it was since we last spoke to that policeman on the doorstep. He made it seem like helicopters were a last resort. He made it seem like the guy would be caught by the time they got involved.
"Yes, they have helicopters," I answer quietly, realizing that it is now well past 2 AM and the search has been in effect for nearly four hours now. Do they have a cut-off point for these searches, like they do with kidnappings? After twenty-four hours, will he never be caught?
I look to my son, standing there in the doorframe, and realize with a pang of loss that he looks old, much too old. I want to draw him into my arms, hold him close, and whisper that everything's going to be just fine. I want to tell him that tomorrow is another day, and tonight will mean nothing once it dawns. Part of me knows that he wants this, too. That's why he came knocking on my bedroom door in the middle of the night: he wants to be reassured by his mother. But he's fifteen now and fifteen-year-old boys don't tolerate being held by their mothers. Fifteen-year-old boys aren't scared, not ever.
"Do you think they'll find the guy that escaped soon?"
I don't know why I start at the question; of course Joey would know the details by now. He has a laptop and a cell phone and he has a constant, reliable Internet connection. I hadn't even thought to look, not during or in between my panic attacks, but of course the breakout is all over the news by now. How long have has our neighborhood bathed in red-and-blue strobe lights, listening to the repetitive runs of helicopter flybys? An hour? Two? That's more than enough time to write a quick headline. Escaped Convict on the Loose. Terror in the Suburbs. I wonder what angle they'll go with before remembering that there's only one: sensationalism.
I start to answer, to say something meaningless about the inevitability of the man's capture, before I realize that my son isn't looking to me for an answer. Not for something like this.
I try to not be hurt, try not to be peeved, when I see how his eyes are locked on Ryan, how he's almost leaning forward so he'll be able to hear his answer faster. I used to spend weeks worrying that Joey would never fully trust or accept Ryan enough to turn to him for anything, let alone comfort at a time like this. But here he is, falling over himself in order to be closer to his stepfather.
This is a good thing, I think, reminding myself. But I can help but wish they would bond over something else, something… lighter.
It doesn't help that over a decade of single parenting has made me selfish, and greedy, when it comes to my child's affection. I want to be the omnipotent force in my son's life; I want to be the one he turns to when he wants anything and everything. I want to be the one he goes to for comfort and protection always.
"It shouldn't take much longer," Ryan says, answering Joey's question. "They might just not have expanded their search fast enough. But now that they have, it shouldn't take long, no. Not with all the people they've brought in."
Joey opens his mouth to ask another question, but seems to think better of it, for he closes it again without saying anything. I try to ignore the way his eyes briefly shot to mine before he decided not to speak, and do my best to change the subject.
"Why don't you sit with us?" I ask, too eagerly, desperate to fill the void. "You can sit here and wait until—"
"I'm fine," he interrupts, turning his head away from me. "I don't need to be baby-sat, Mom."
"I… I wasn't saying you did," I reply. I sound unconvincing to even my own ears. "I just thought…" I trail off, having no defense. Silence falls between us once more. But at least Joey stays, wedged into the doorframe.
It's another minute or two before he speaks.
"So… How did you know?" he asks. I know the question isn't directed at me, but I listen with rapt attention anyway. I will not be shut out of this conversation, too. "When you came up to tell me, Dad, I didn't even see it on the news yet. It wasn't even on any bulletins online."
"We got an automated call," Ryan answers, just as I'm about to explain.
"What did it say?"
"Just basic information. It gave us a description of the guy, told us to call 911 if we see him. That sort of thing."
Joey nods, but he does so slowly, and I can't help but tense. I know he's faking it, this moment of understanding; I know he's dragging it out for some reason, but I don't know why. And then he looks down and opens his mouth and I know why he hesitated with this question before, why he looked at me before he decided not to ask it.
"If… If my father was the one who escaped… Would we get a call, too? Would the police show up at our house?"
"If your father escaped from prison, we would be in witness protection and already halfway across the country before the police could even dial our number, Joey."
My son stares at me blankly. I don't usually participate in conversations like this, let alone take the lead, and the shock of my doing so is written all across my son's face. For the briefest second, it almost makes me smile.
But the place it comes from—an inability to see me as an authority figure or responsible for my own family's safety—makes me bristle. It makes me more than bristle.
"What?" I snap suddenly, my eyes cutting to his. I know that my voice has risen past a civil level, but I can't quiet it. "You think I've never thought about it? You think I haven't looked into what will happen to us when he breaks out again? You think I'm not capable of—"
"If," Joey says quietly, interrupting my rising voice.
I stare at him, cut off, waiting for him to continue. If what? I wonder. What is he talking about? For a few seconds, he stares down at me in silence, refusing to elaborate. "What?" I finally demand. "If what?"
"If he breaks out," Joey replies quietly, his hazel eyes colder than I've ever seen them as they meet mine. "You said when he breaks out again. You meant 'if.' Right?"
"Oh, I…" My anger deflates at once, immediately replaced a torrent of remorse and shame. Fuck, I think to myself, shutting my eyes tight, wishing my heart wouldn't hammer so hard in my chest at a time like this so as to steal focus from everything else. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Honey, of course," I force out, opening my eyes and trying to keep my voice light. Reassuring. Believable. "Of course I meant 'if.' If he breaks out."
My son is not convinced. I can see it immediately, in the dead stare he gives me, in the way he juts his chin out, just like he always has when he feels he's been wronged. He stares me down for a long while, turning me into nothing more than an ant, before he deigns to speak to me. "God," he whispers hoarsely. He tries to keep his voice low, but I hear it anyway: I hear it crack. "You are such a shitty liar, Mom."
I open my mouth to speak—my first instinct is to tell him not to swear at me like that—but he's already jumped to his feet and moved to the door. It's only as he's stepping through the door and reaching back to slam it behind him that I see the first tear fall to his cheek.
"Joey! Joey!" I call after him, starting to get out of bed, but Ryan's hand clasps tight onto mine and holds me still. I can feel my own eyes filling with tears and I hate myself—both for what I said, and what I failed to make him believe. And for how I'm reacting now, like a powerless child. It used to be effortless for me to assure my son that all was well; it went without question that he would believe me. But now it's next to impossible for me to convince him of anything, least of all anything that involves his father.
A rustling in bed besides me turns my head, and I look over to find Ryan already up, heading to the door our son disappeared through. "I'll go," he tells me, a weary sigh falling from his lips.
"Yeah," I mutter, furious at myself and at him and at everyone all at once. "Yeah, you go," I spit out. I draw the covers tighter around me, though I what I really want to do is throw them off and run out of the room just like everyone else. "You're the best with him anyway, aren't you? All those private conversations gave you two your own secret language."
He turns on me faster than he has in years, the anger visible on his face from feet away. "You don't get to be mad at me right now, Claire. Not over this. Okay? Not after what you just said to him." He throws out his hands. "Jesus, do you honestly think he would want to talk to you right now?"
"He should!" I counter, raising my voice despite knowing that I have no good argument to back it up except desire. "He should want to talk to me about this; he should come to me with these things! He should—"
"Why?" Ryan's voice is so quiet when it interrupts mine that, and for a second, its softness stuns me more speechless than his anger did. His eyes rest calmly on mine as he continues speaking, taking what I know must be utmost care to keep his voice level. "When have you ever invited him to have those sorts of conversations with you? When have you ever made it clear to him that it's okay for him to come to you with questions about Joe?"
His words hit me like a punch in the gut, leaving me breathless—because I know all that he's insinuating is true. I know it from the bile I taste in my mouth, from the stinging in my eyes, from the sudden dryness in the back of my throat. I know because my own guilt and humiliation at being a failure as a mother are tearing me apart from the inside as he, the better parent, stands there and watches.
"Ryan…" I whisper, trying to reach him with my eyes as I sit frozen in shame. "Please, you know it's—you know how I—I can't—"
"Yes, I know it's hard," he finishes for me. "I know how difficult it is, Claire, believe me. But…" He shrugs, smiling sadly. "Sometimes you just have to make an effort, okay?" He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, massaging a sore spot there. "You just have to try with him, that's all."
"I… I am," I protest weakly, wishing I wasn't lying but knowing more than ever that I am. "I am trying."
Ryan smiles that sad smile again, his voice lingering in what softness remains between us. "Sure you are, sweetheart."
And then he's heading for the door, and I both want him to go and want him to stay. "I'm sorry," I cry out, pushing myself up onto the bed and crawling after him. "Ryan, please, I—" But he's already at the door, already stepping through and reaching out to shut it behind him—
And then he stops.
From my perch on the edge of the bed behind him, I see his tense muscles relax, and hear the large exhalation of breath as he lets it go. Lets it all go.
"I know you're sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry too." He pauses. "But I have to go talk to him now, Claire."
I bite down on my lower lip hard so he won't hear me cry. He doesn't need to have to deal with me, too—not now. "Will you—Will you tell him that?" I call out. I hate how scratchy my voice sounds, but there's no saving it at this point. "You'll tell him I'm sorry, that I didn't mean it?"
Ryan sighs again, and I find I'm shaking, waiting for his answer. I know that it all comes down to this, for whatever Ryan tells him, Joey will believe. Either he can do as I've asked or—
"I'll tell him you didn't mean to frighten him with what you said," Ryan begins quietly, turning, finally, to face me. He looks so tired. So weary. "I'll tell him that because I'm certain it's the truth. But I won't lie to him. I won't tell him that you didn't mean it."
"Ryan—" I try to interject.
But he shakes his head. "Don't go trying to lie to me too, Claire. We all know you meant what you said. Don't pretend otherwise."
There's a beat, a pause. I know he's waiting on purpose, giving me a chance to own up to it all. But I can't. I need more time; I need more space. I—
"I'll be back late, I'm sure," he sighs finally. "You don't have to wait up."
I fall back then, and let him go without another word to stay or to try to understand. I know he won't; I know he can't—at least not right now.
Nonetheless, I disregard his suggestion and I wait up for him to return. It takes a long time for him to come back to me this time, though I don't know if that's because Joey needed more time than usual or because Ryan just didn't want to be in the same room as me until he had cooled off, too. I take turns pacing the floor, refolding clothes, and cleaning the already-clean bathroom while he's gone to while away the time and attempt to occupy myself. At least a hundred times I must've walked to the door with the intention of opening and going after my son—to set him straight, to apologize, I don't know—but each time my hand rests on the knob, I know I can't. Not only would he turn away from me, I wouldn't know what in the world to say in the first place that might help the situation.
It's better than Ryan went after him, I know that. But it still tears at me to know that I'll never have that sort of relationship with my son that I once did.
We used to talk about everything, he and I. He had plenty of questions about his father when he was young, and I answered them all the best way I knew how—honestly. I told him why I was his only parent at home, why I wasn't married like the rest of his friends' mothers, why he couldn't ever see his dad or talk to him. I told him why his dad was in prison and why he wouldn't be coming out. I left out the more explicit details for when he was older—I had always planned on telling him right around this age, actually—but I'm sure Ryan covered that ground for me months ago. Perhaps years. I wish there was something left for me to tell him, or some way to explain it all in a manner he would understand and accept, but now…
Now it's too hard, too dangerous, to revisit such questions or to be the people we used to be. Back then, things were simpler. Back then, the idea that Joe would escape from jail and attack me was almost farcical. He had killed people, yes, and he had pretended for years to be someone with me completely counter to who he truly was, but at the time of his first arrest, I had never envisioned that he held any ill will towards myself or towards our child. I knew there was something wrong with him, of course, but to me, there must have still been a part of him in there—a rather large part, I believed—that was still my husband.
Looking back, I suppose that line of thinking was some sort of coping mechanism. A way to deflect guilt. A way to hold onto some part of what had been my life as it all slipped through my fingertips very fast, very brutally, and very publicly. A way to hold onto my own identity.
Eventually, when I run out of things to fold or clean, I find myself staring down at my hands as the minutes, and perhaps hours, pass me by. I don't look at the clock. I don't want to know how long it takes my husband to comfort my crying child for me. I don't want to know how long he will rant and scream about me (I've been hearing periodic shouts from upstairs). Instead, I look down at my hands, at my wedding ring, come to terms with the only thing I want: I want my family to be together. I want us to love each other and trust each other always. I want us to turn to each other when we are scared or upset as readily as we would when we are happy. And if I need to talk to my son about his father to accomplish that, I decide alone in the dark light of the night, then that is what I will have to do. I owe it to him, to myself, to the survival of my marriage and my family.
I don't know how long I sit, with the weight of that decision both crushing and freeing me, before there's the sound of footsteps outside my door and quiet knock that I immediately invite inside. I don't look up when the door opens, but instead keep my eyes trained on my wedding band, blocking out all else. I know my husband must be standing there, in the doorframe, watching me, and as he watches, I reach over and slowly twist off the ring and tilt it to the side so I can see the etching inside. It's dark in the room, but I don't need light to be able to know what it says.
Another chance.
I roll it in my fingers, brushing the pad of my thumb against the date etched into the opposite side of the interior of the ring. It feels like just yesterday that I married him. And it feels like twenty years ago, too. I suck in a breath and draw my knees to my chest, willing myself to find courage. Speaking now in front of my husband will be a hundred times easier than speaking to my son, but I have to start somewhere. Plus, Ryan deserves an explanation, too.
"You and I give each other second chances all the time," I begin, keeping my eyes trained on our engraving. "I love that about you; I love that about our marriage. We're forgiving of each other. We're understanding. We make mistakes, but we always figure out how to make it better and move on." Carefully, I slide my ring back on my finger and then close my eyes, hugging my knees tighter to my chest. "I want to be that way with Joey. I don't want him to break away from me, not over this. Not over him." I draw in a breath, struggling to speak through the tears I can feel starting to clog my threat. "I want another chance with him, too. I want to talk with him, tonight. Try to fix things. Will he let me, do you think? Or is he—is he already gone?"
I don't wait long for an answer, not in real time, but my worry has elongated time, slowed it down. Every second that passes without a response to my plea feels like a day, a year, of silence. I can feel myself aging as I linger, stuck in limbo, forever waiting.
And then he speaks:
"I don't think I'm quite gone yet, Mom."
. . .
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I would love to hear thoughts in the comments. :)