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There is a ringing in my ears.
“What did she say?” I ask, almost to myself. I fumble for the remote. It’s on the couch between Lily and me. My hand wraps around it, but my hands are shaking so badly that I drop it the first time, to the floor. The back snaps off the remote and batteries come out, rolling under the coffee table. I reach down to grope for the batteries, snatching them from the floor and forcing them into the little springs that hold the batteries in place. I snap the back on. I rewind live TV. I listen to it again, scootching forward, sitting on the front edge of the couch, leaned into the TV.
“Dr. Hayes was found dead yesterday morning with a gunshot wound to the head...”
A gunshot wound.
Beside me, Lily is limp. I look over at her in disbelief. She has an arm pressed to her stomach and she’s folded over it, like she might be sick.
My jaw is slack. My eyes are wide.
I rub at my forehead. I shake my head, trying to mentally absorb what I just heard.
A gunshot wound to the head.
Cautiously I ask, “What does she mean when she says a gunshot wound?”
Lily shakes her head in denial. Some feral sounds rise up to her throat. Her hand moves to her mouth, where she holds something back, a cry or a moan. She utters to herself, “No. No. No,” all the while still shaking her head.
“Answer me, Lily,” I say, my voice more firm. “What does she mean when she says a gunshot wound?”
“I don’t know,” Lily says. Her head whirls in my direction. Her eyes are wide and gaping, and, in them, there are tears. She shakes her head harder. It’s vigorous, her hair whipping around to slap her in the face.
“I thought you killed him with a rock. Did you...did you shoot him, Lily?”
My words are incredulous.
“I... I did kill him with a rock,” she asserts. “I did. She must be mistaken, Christian. She must have her stories mixed up, or the medical examiner got it wrong. Someone must be wrong.” She reaches for me. “You have to believe me.”
I find myself staring at her. Lily’s hair parts down the center. She has high cheekbones, a small forehead and big, round, larger-than-life eyes that remind me of those characters from Japanese anime. I love her eyes. They’re a rich, warm brown and always make me think of integrity and goodness.
But what if there is something in those eyes I’ve failed to see?
I ask, “When is a news reporter or a medical examiner ever this wrong?”
Lily’s mouth just falls open.
My chest feels heavy, like there is something weighing it down. It’s hard to breathe, to push up against the weight of whatever it is—shock, dread—to let my lungs expand.
There is the taste of something bad in my mouth, like metal.
I wish more than anything that I could go back to five minutes ago, to a state of blissful ignorance, when I believed that what my wife told me was true.
NINA
My mother is standing in the hallway when I step out of the bathroom. I didn’t expect her to be there. I thought she was still asleep when I went into the shower a few minutes ago. I barely even see her as I come out of the bathroom, practically running straight into her. Her voice stops me dead. “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, and I startle, throwing my hand to my heart.
“Mom. You scared me. I thought you were asleep,” I say.
“Where are you going?” she asks again.
“Work,” I say.
“Honey,” she says, her voice gentle like a lullaby. “You can’t go to work. Jake is dead, sweetie. You’re mourning. You’re grieving. No one expects you to go to work today.”
I hadn’t forgotten that Jake is dead. I only thought that if I kept busy, if I kept working I could somehow outrun grief and that the grief wouldn’t catch up with me.
There is closure in knowing that Jake is dead. There is resolution, a finality to the events of the last few weeks. With that comes comfort. I know where Jake is now. I don’t need to look for him anymore.
