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“Itisalive,” he responds, exasperated. We’ve had this conversation so many times. “Isabelle, the police are working on it.”
Isabelle.He doesn’t call meIzzyanymore.
“You’ve got to stop this. All of it,” he says, gesturing to the dining room. I noticed him steal a glance earlier, that subconscious flinch as he rounded the corner, like steeling for a punch, his eyes skipping over all the pictures cluttering up the space where an oil painting of our wedding once hung. “It’s not healthy. Besides, it looks—”
“How does it look?” I interrupt, anger building in my chest. “Please, tell me.”
“It lookswrong,” he says, wringing his hands. “You, standing upand doing that in front of some sick audience the day before the anniversary. It doesn’t looknormal.”
“And what exactly would look better, Ben? What would look normal? Doing nothing?”
I stare at him, my nails digging into my palms.
“Theyhavenothing,” I continue. “They haveno one, Ben. Whoever did this is still out there. Whoevertookhim…” I stop, biting my lip before I start to cry. I exhale, try again. “I don’t understand why you don’t care. Why you don’t want to find him.”
Ben shoots up from the couch, his face suddenly flushed with blood, and I know I’ve gone too far.
“Don’t youeversay that!” he yells, pointing his finger at me. There’s a bead of spit on his lip, quivering. “Don’t youeveraccuse me of not caring. You have no idea what this has been like for me. He was my son, too.”
“Is,” I correct, my voice a whisper. “Heisyour son, too.”
We’re both silent, staring at each other from across the living room.
“He could still be alive,” I say, feeling the tears well in my eyes again. “We could still find him—”
“Isabelle, he’s not alive. He’s not.”
“He could be—”
“He’s not.”
I watch as Ben sighs, pushing his hands through his hair and tugging at the ends. Then he walks over to me and wraps his arms around me. I can’t bring myself to hug him back, so instead I just stand there. Dead weight.
“Isabelle,” he whispers, his fingers running their way through my hair. “I hate being the one to keep telling you this, I really do. It rips me apart. But the sooner you accept what happened, the sooner you can move on. Youhaveto move on.”
“It’s been a year,” I respond. “How can you move on in a year?”
“I haven’t,” he says. “But I’m trying.”
I’m quiet, feeling his hands on the back of my head; his breath on my ear, warm and damp, and the gentle thump of his heart against my chest. I open my mouth, ready to apologize, when suddenly, he pulls back.
“Speaking of which, there’s something else, too,” he says, dropping his arms. “Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
I cock my head, unsure of how to answer.
“My therapist talks a lot about how part of moving on is being open to new possibilities,” he says. “You know, getting excited for the future again. Whatever, or whoever, that entails.”
“Okay,” I say, crossing my arms tight, trying to ignore the hopeful twinge in my chest. I can’t deny that I’ve thought about this: The possibility of Ben crawling back. Of apologizing for leaving me when I needed him the most.
But I can’t say that I blame him, either. Losing a child makes you lose a lot of things. Your rationality, your mind.
“I wanted you to know that I’m seeing someone.”
His words hit me like a stomach punch, swift and hard. I try to hide my shock, but I’m sure my expression shows it because he doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“It isn’t serious or anything. It’s new, just a few dates, but Savannah’s a small town, you know. People talk. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Oh,” I finally manage, my nails squeezing into my sides, making it hurt. I imagine them leaving little crescent-shaped slits in my stomach like bite marks, sinking deep into my skin.
