Page 7 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

The contemplation on Jonah’s face, when he strides back toward me, says whatever message was relayed is about to change my world. It’s like when we were kids and he tried to shield me from the death of our father, taking it upon himself to act as a human tampon for all the scary shit he didn’t think I could handle. In turn, he and my mother took the brunt of Gordon Stiever’s death, leaving me with little grief to contribute and a lifetime of daddy issues that bled into every relationship after.

“Nola, sit tight for a few minutes. I’m gonna … check this out.”

Still holding Oli, I lurch forward. “Check what out, Jonah? What happened?”

“They found Denny.”

“And?”

“Not here, Nola.” His eyes fall on Oliver, and it’s right then I realize it isn’t just my pain he’s shielding, but my son’s. “I want to check it out, okay?”

“I want to see for myself.” The words tumble aimlessly from my lips, because I’m not so sure I want to see what’s twisted Jonah’s face into tight lines of worry.

“No. Stay with Oliver. He needs you right now.”

His words strike me across the face like a slap of reality. Yes, of course. My son needs me. Oliver needs me far more than Denny right now.

My attention shifts to my son, whose once irritating little cowlick reminds me of the one I constantly had to pat down on the top of Denny’s head during the better parts of our marriage. One that led to our very first kiss, while sitting on the deck of the half-pipe ramp he built at his mom’s.

It somehow fails to register that the caustic conversation we had earlier in the night was our last, aside from his apology. Some small part of me still believes he’s alive, and he’ll be annoying the shit out of me once everything is settled.

The bigger part of me knows that’s a lie.

The heart is an anchor. And mine feels like a stone that’s been cast out to the ocean, left to sink into the bottomless darkness.

2

Nola

Six months later …

“Tell her I’m a bad mom. Just say it,” I whisper, staring through the window of a small conference room.

Inside there, Oliver sits beside a heavyset woman, who’s spent months trying to help him find his voice again. A speech therapist, but DeeDee is more than that.

His eyes are on me, angry and resentful for scheduling an appointment two days early. Speech therapy is Friday, but so is the psychotic day of shopping, otherwise known as Black Friday, which means I have to cover a double shift, so here we are. Him hating me and me hating myself.

“I know I’m a shitty mom,” I mutter. You don’t have to say it.”

“You’re not a shitty mom.” The voice startles me, and I turn just enough to catch Oli’s psychologist, Sarah Buckley, standing beside me. “You can’t change what happened to him, Nola. And no matter how much you try to blame yourself, it isn’t your fault.”

“This again, huh?” I snort, returning my attention back to Oli, who won’t even try to work with DeeDee. Instead, he looks every bit the rebellious teenager that he isn’t yet, with his arms crossed, brow permanently furrowed. Even through the glass that separates us, I can feel the hostility. He’s only eleven, but the anger he carries makes him seem so much older. “You know, I think about that night, and the one thing that bothers me most is that I woke Denny up before I left. He’d have probably stayed passed out on the couch while Oli slept, otherwise.”

“If you’re trying to convince me of something, you’re doing a crap job of it.” The gentle stroke of her hand down my arm adds just enough contact to spring tears to my eyes. “You were looking for opportunities to make him a better husband and father.”

“That’s the problem,” I say through a blur of tears. “I’m not a quitter. But if I had been …”

“Oliver is still here, Nola. Focus on that and quit beating yourself up for things you can’t go back and change.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not my therapist. That’s not fair.”

“Doesn’t stop me from caring.” Her arm nudges mine, and I offer a smile. “How’s the pottery going?”

“Haven’t really done a whole lot of it in the last few months. Picking up shifts leaves me exhausted most nights.”

“You’re a hard-working mom. Remember to take time for yourself.” She crosses her arms. “Take a bath, read a book. Whatever you have to do to unplug and enjoy that time without the guilt. It’s good for Oliver to understand that, as well.”

“He hates me. He knows Denny and I were … that our marriage was …. I still resent him, even after death. Every time I have a moment where I think I could forgive him, I remember that he took my son to meet with a drug dealer in an abandoned building. He endangered his life, and for what? A fix?”