“Sean.” It’s no longer a question. “You changed your name…why would you do that?”
“Mom…” My voice sounds so small. It feels weak, her name quickly dissipating. I’m trembling. There isn’t a bone in my body that can hold the rest of me up. Hold me together.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find you? That you could hide from me?”
Eli is in his bedroom. Tamara is still out, so it’s just me. Me and my mother on the phone. I can see her, imagine her after all these years, still as young as the last time I laid eyes on her. Still as beautiful. Sunk in the murk. The water all around us. Swallowing us whole.
“Why?” she asks. “Why are you hiding? Why did you run away from me?”
“Because…” Because I’m afraid. Because I’m ashamed of what I’ve done.
To her. To Mr. Woodhouse.
This is all my fault.
“Don’t worry, hon,” she says, her warm voice offering up some semblance of security. She’s trying to comfort me. “Of course you’d run. Who wouldn’t? After what you did?”
I look around the kitchen. The house has settled into its stillness. Her voice feels like footsteps on the floor, the warp of the wood bending with each step. She’s coming closer.
Closer now…
Closer…
“All those lives you destroyed. The families you tore apart…You did that, Sean. You.”
“I…I’m sorry.”
“That’s very considerate of you, Sean. Should I call you Sean? Or do you prefer Richard?”
She’s mocking me. Taunting me. Is Mom laughing? This can’t be happening, I think. It’s not possible.
“It’s not you,” I say.
“Then who is it, Sean? Who am I?”
Kinderman. Her face pops right into my head. Could she have found me? Tim and Nancy had severed ties with her immediately following the trial. They’d gone out of their way to distance me from anyone associated with the case, no matter what they said to the press.
“My mother is dead.”
“Does that mean you won’t talk to me?”
“This is sick,” I hiss into the phone. “Whoever this is, you’re sick.”
“I believed you, Sean…Every word.”
“I’m calling the police!”
“What are you going to tell them? Will you tell them about me? About you, Sean?”
I need to hang up. Turn off the phone. But it clings to my skin. Everything feels like it’s covered in a glistening film, like I’m caught in a cobweb. It’s too late. Too late to run.
“I see you’re drawing again, Sean. I love it when you draw. I always have.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she says. “I saw you. Saw your picture of me.”
She’s here. She’s seen me in the studio. Seen the sketch. Where is she calling from? Could she be here now? Outside our house? Is she in our yard, peering through a window?
“Go out to the studio. I have a gift for you.”
“No,” I protest. But it’s weak. My voice is so small. A boy’s voice.
I’m powerless against her. I do as I’m told.
“There’s something I want you to see…See for yourself.” She continues to talk as I leave the kitchen. “I’ve found someone new for you to sketch.” Her voice follows me as I step outside, crossing the yard to the garage. “To inspire you…” The cold air crystalizes in my lungs, each breath scraping my throat. “It makes me happy to see you expressing yourself again.”
A harsh odor washes over me as soon as I open the garage door. Sweet meat. Spoiled fruit. The grease of it coats my throat the moment I breathe in, unable to spit it out. I suddenly remember that it’s Weegee. I left him in my studio last night and forgot to dispose his body after the Eli incident. Now the smell of him has permeated the space, clinging to the beams. Wood has a memory for scent, absorbing decay. Now it’ll never forget. My studio will smell like death forever.
Before I enter, I know someone has been inside. There are small white squares scattered everywhere.
Polaroids.
My studio is filled with them. Dozens of photographs taped to the walls, arranged on the floor, attached to the easel.
And they’re all of the same person.
A girl.
Sandy Levin.
Some are out of focus, her form fuzzy around the edges. The camera came too close to her, the flash blanching her pale skin. She’s wrapped her arms around her shins, shielding herself from the probing lens, as if to protect her against its intruding gaze. In some pictures, she glances off, trying to hide from the camera. In most, though, she stares directly at the lens, looking out at me with empty eyes.
My stomach clenches. She’s everywhere. “I…”
“Yes, Sean? What is it?”
I forgot I was even holding the phone. My mother’s voice startles me. “I didn’t do this.”
“Do what, son?”
“This wasn’t me.”
“If it wasn’t you, then…who?” She answers her own question. “Was it Richard?”
I buckle forward and vomit across the floor. Angel hair pasta fans over my feet. Her hair. The swell of bile from my stomach came so quick I didn’t have time to run for the door.
This wasn’t me. This wasn’t me. It’s all I can think, can say, repeating it to myself over and over, echoing through the studio. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t—”
“You’re married now,” Mom whispers into my ear. “You have a son. You must be so happy. To have this new life. But it can all go away, Sean. Families can be so fragile, can’t they?”
What if…? the gnawing thoughts whisper. What if you’re talking to yourself?
I glance at the phone in my hand, suddenly wondering if I’m even talking to my mother—or not. Am I doing this to myself? Who else but me knows what happened?
Mom did.
Bringing the phone back to my ear, I ask, “What do you want from me?”
“You’ve made other people very, very angry, Sean. Stirring the pot, like you have. Double, double toil and trouble. They’re watching you right now. They want to finish what you started. Full circle. Unless…”
Silence from the other end. “Unless what?”
“You can end this, son. It’s the only way.
