I wondered if I’d see a spark of recognition in his eyes, a reaction to his name. But the swirling darkness around him remained impenetrable.
Evan’s voice crested inside the closet, summoning the final angel, calling for the light.
“You didn’t have to kill anyone,” I told Andrew. “Your father’s soul was freed the moment he confessed. He wasn’t trapped in the void between the interplanes. But my father was…”
Andrew snarled. Fresh rage as he understood what I’d finally figured out. He raised his knife.
And I curled my fingers around the handle of the gun I’d found in the master bath. From my father’s ashes dumped down a sewer, to his old service weapon taped to a toilet. In these last few seconds, it all started to make sense.
Andrew stormed down the hall.
And I had seen my father staring from his eyes.
My mother always smelled of oranges and ginger. She would feed me strawberry Popsicles on hot days, and stay up with me when I was sick. She loved the Sunday comics and used to pore over Vogue magazine, debating which expensive outfit she would one day love to buy.
Natalie liked to snack on fresh lemon slices sprinkled with sugar. She’d eat out the pulp, then curl the yellow peel over her teeth and smile at everyone. That last summer, she’d started using lemon juice to bleach out the freckles spattering across her nose. Though I never told her, I secretly loved her freckles and hoped every day to see some on my own face.
Johnny’s favorite game had been hide-and-seek. He could contort his body into the tiniest spaces, and we couldn’t find him. One day, he wedged himself behind the water heater and couldn’t get out. Natalie laughed, but I could tell he was scared. I held his hand while my mother doused him in vegetable oil. Later, after he’d taken a bath, he shared his favorite comic book with me just to say thanks.
Andrew, charging. Six yards away, five, four…
My father, a crush of darkness roaring down upon me like a freight train.
… three, two…
“Evan!” a man cried behind Andrew. Michael Oliver, cresting the stairs.
“Michael, Michael, the police. They’re here, they’re here!” Victoria screamed from downstairs.
“Mommy!” Evan yelled from the bedroom closet. “Mommy, Daddy!”
And then Andrew was upon me.
“Look out!” Michael roared.
A crash of breaking glass from the entryway.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
Love and light. Light and love. A family’s last stand.
“Die!” Andrew howled into my face, knife arcing down.
I thought of my mother’s love. I remembered my siblings’ goofy grins. And this time I didn’t hide.
I pulled the trigger.
The recoil snapped my arms up. The gun connected with Andrew’s chin, knocking him backwards. Did I hit him? Was he bleeding? I couldn’t tell. My ears were ringing, my eyes tearing from pain. My right hand throbbed, burnt from the ejecting brass.
Evan still screaming. Footsteps pounding up the stairs.
“Police, police! Drop your weapons!”
Andrew picking himself off the floor, shaking his head.
I noticed two things at once. His right side was bleeding, and he still held the knife.
He looked down at me and started to grin, just as Michael Oliver tackled him from behind.
“Son of a bitch. How dare you hurt my family. Son of a bitch!”
“Drop your weapon! For God’s sake, drop it!”
Sergeant D.D. Warren had topped the stairs, blonde curls flying. She had her drawn weapon pointed at me, and her gaze locked on the tangle of grown men. Her partner, and Victoria, poured into the hall behind her.
“The police, Michael,” Victoria was trying to say. “The police.”
“Mommy?” Evan cried from the closet.
“Drop your weapon!” D.D. screamed again.
I put down the gun, my gaze still on Andrew.
“Kick it away. Behind you,” D.D. ordered.
I did as I was told. Michael was on top of Andrew now, bashing Andrew’s forehead into the floor.
“Stop it!” D.D. yelled angrily. “Police! Get up, get away. Now!”
Her voice must have finally penetrated. Michael slowly released Andrew’s hair. He rose shakily, breath shallow, expression wild. D.D.’s partner stepped forward to assist.
“Evan’s in his closet,” I spoke up. “He needs help. Please?”
Those words seemed to finally rouse Michael. He stepped back from Andrew. Victoria was already scurrying by the detectives into her son’s room. She returned a minute later, Evan in her arms.
She looked at her husband. He looked at her. The next instant, they were together, parents, holding tight, their child cradled between them.
And I felt an ache, deep and endless inside my chest. My mother, Natalie, Johnny.
I love you. I love you. I love you. And I miss you so much.
A brush against my cheek. A flutter, like butterfly wings against my right temple. I wanted to hold on, hold close.
I love you, I thought again. Then I let go, as I should’ve done years ago.
The other detective was beside Andrew’s prone form. He reached down to feel for a pulse while D.D. covered him with her gun.
The detective frowned, looked back at D.D., made a small shake of his head.
I realized then what we’d all missed before: the pool of blood slowly growing beneath Andrew’s body. When Michael tackled him, Andrew had still been holding the knife. Apparently, it had finally found a target.
“Everyone out,” D.D. ordered flatly.
We moved to the driveway, where the sun was coming up. Michael and Victoria remained huddled close, Evan nestled between them, refusing to let their son go. I stood off to the side, turning my face toward the light.
EPILOGUE
We’ve found a school for Evan. It’s full-time care in a family-friendly environment in southern New Hampshire. The kids live in actual homes, with trained caretakers serving as surrogate parents. The campus includes a lake, huge gardens, and neighboring woods. The curriculum combines a structured schedule with plenty of outdoor time, where kids get to breathe fresh air, learn to garden, and benefit from the healing powers of nature.
The school even utilizes meditative training to help agitated children improve their self-soothing skills.
Evan’s nervous, but not morally opposed. We can visit on weekends. If his behavior improves, he can come home for the holidays. It’s beginning to feel manageable. Yes, he’s on medication. Yes, he’ll be going away. Yes, we have many “learning opportunities” ahead.
But the school is beautiful. Evan’s calmer. And our family is healing again.
The DA decided not to press charges against Evan. Our lawyer argued Evan had been unduly influenced by Andrew Lightfoot’s now obviously violent tendencies. Prosecuting a child who’d just been kidnapped by his spiritual healer didn’t make for great headlines, so the matter was quietly dismissed. After another week at the acute care unit, a bit of tweaking with Evan’s medication, and the development of a long-term plan, Evan was allowed to come home to finish out the summer before heading to his new school.
It gave me time to heal and go back-to-school shopping with my daughter.
Last week, Chelsea visited Evan and me twice, Michael acting as chaperone. Evan became overexcited, slamming his fingers in the front door, then tripping over his own feet and knocking his sister into the TV. But Chelsea hung in there, I hung in there, Michael hung in there. The calmer we remained, the calmer Evan became. By the end of the second evening, we even managed a family game of charades. Chelsea won. When I gave her a congratulatory hug, she clung to me and cried. So I cried with her.
Sometimes, that’s just what you need to do.