I don’t know what to say.
“She did this. She did this. She did this! She did this!” The last coming out as a small cry, breaking.
I find my voice. “I’m sorry, Kid. I did what I had to do to protect you.” I don’t know if he can hear me because he’s still chanting, “She did this, she did this,” in a low voice, rocking in my arms. Has he always been so small?
“I’m sorry. But I have to keep you safe. I have to make sure that no one can take you away from me. Can you see that?” My words are soft, as I know saying them any louder will make them false. “I made a promise to myself the day she left. Through all the anger I had, through all the fear I carried, the guilt, I made a promise. Do you know what I promised, Kid?”
He rocks. She did this she did this.
I raise my hands and put them gently to his face, stilling his movements. His eyes fix on mine, and I wonder just how much one kid, no matter even if he’s the Kid, can take before he cracks. I put my forehead against his.
“Do you know what I promised?” I ask. He shakes his head and a small drop of water falls from his eyelash. “I promised myself that no matter what happened, that no matter where we went, no matter what came our way that you would always be first in my life.”
He groans softly.
“I promised that you were going to go to school, that you would always get whatever you wanted. I promised that I would put everything I had into making you proud of me and making you someone I would always be proud of.”
“But—”
I shake my head. “Quiet.” I kiss his forehead, and his little arms go back around my neck. “I never wanted you to go through what she did to us ever again. I thought that I could be strong enough for the both of us. I wanted to give you what I never had. And—” And I can’t continue because the words have become stuck in my throat. His hands clutch at the back of my head, and I feel anger and despair rip through me, and I cling back to him.
“Earthquakes?” he whispers in my ear. “Papa Bear?”
I nod. No one knows me better than he.
He slides his way from my lap and puts his hand in mine and tugs. He pulls me to the bathtub, and we climb in. He crawls back into my lap and tears start to fall, and we feel the world shaking around us, the ocean at our feet and getting higher. Eventually we drift away, going wherever the current takes us.
YOU did this, it whispers. I feel it crawl up from the black and flit behind my eyes, sparks shooting in the darkness. When you get to look back, when the memories and the faces of those involved start to fade, just remember: you did this. At least you will always have that, right? Right? Bear?
Oh, Bear.
You did this.
SOMEWHERE, a phone rings.
There is a moment of deceptive clarity, those few precious seconds between waking and awake where everything is right, everything is okay, because the slate is clean. The world makes sense because it’s not a place with hurt and anger. It’s just blank, a perfectly imperfect sane insanity. Then logic sets in, synapses fire, muscles spasm, the heart makes itself known as blood vessels and veins constrict and contract, and I remember everything. My eyes are tacky and crass. My throat feels like I swallowed gunpowder, my head the victim of a hangover from alcohol I never drank. I force my eyes open.
I’m still in the bathtub. Alone.
The phone rings again, and I hit my head on the soap dish on the wall as I try to move to pull it from my pocket. I cringe, and my finger bends painfully as it’s stuck in denim. My ankle is on fire. I curse and yank the phone from my pocket, the ones and zeros of the display saying Anna. Anna. Anna. I hit ignore. It’s so much nicer to be able to hit ignore rather than having to ignore a ringing phone.
“Tyson?” I rust out. The bathroom is semi-dark, the door propped open slightly, and sunlight spills in through the crack, illuminating a toothbrush. I pull myself up slowly, discovering quickly why people don’t spend the night sleeping on porcelain. I open the bathroom door, squinting at the light. It looks like morning. “Kid?” I say, a little louder this time. No response.
I ignore the way my heart picks up speed, skipping here and there. I go down the hall to our bedroom. Empty. Hers too. I check the kitchen. The living room. The balcony. I check the closets, the cabinets. Under the table, over the table. “Tyson?”
My phone rings again. Anna.
I run to the front door and open it, stepping out into the cool morning air, and look around wildly. Someone laughs. A truck drives by. There’s a TV playing somewhere close. A siren. A dog barks. A sneeze and a horn. This morning sounds normal. It’s a lie. I pound on the door next to mine. Nothing. I pound again.
It opens slightly, Mrs. Paquinn’s eye peering out. It widens when it sees me, and she opens the door fully. One hand is clutching her robe at the n
eck. “Bear?”
“Is he here?” I say, shattered. “Is Tyson in there with you? Kid!” I shout past her.
She shakes her head. “Bear, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him since I left him with you last night.”
“He’s—he’s gone?” I tell her or ask her. I don’t know which. “I can’t find….”