No Hiding in Boise Read online

  “I don’t really know when I’ll be back. Maybe a few days, but maybe longer,” I tell her.

  “Longer?” she asks, curious.

  I shrug. “I guess I’ll just see.”

  I put the sugar packet back in its container.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Oh, well, I don’t know,” she says. “It depends on the moment you ask me. There are times I feel just fine, like I can tolerate this new life. And, just minutes later, I’ll start sobbing.”

  “I assume that’s normal,” I say. I meet her eyes. “Do you miss him?”

  “Jed?” she says.

  Her eyes flicker down, then up again. “I do. He lived with me, so it’s just strange that he’s not there. And there’s so much I want to know … about what happened.”

  “There’s so much I want to know too,” I say.

  It’s risky, possibly rude, to declare this, but I figure Joyce deserves my honesty.

  “Of course,” she says. “Everyone wants to know why. The police are interviewing all of Jed’s coworkers, his friends, whoever knew him. I asked them what the point was. I mean, he’s dead. What does it matter? But I guess they are as determined as anyone to understand the motive.”

  “Do you have any idea?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I told the police I’m as shocked as anyone. I’m his mom, you know? People think mothers know their children best, but I don’t know if that’s true. We have these blind spots, as mothers. There are some things we just can’t see.”

  I nod and sit back in my chair, resigned to coming to terms with leaving Boise without any answers.

  “An old friend of his came by yesterday. The girl who showed up at the service,” she says.

  I remember the woman, hardly a girl—in her mid- to late twenties, I’d guess. I hadn’t wanted to pry and ask who she was.

  “She said Jed called her the night of the shooting. Said he was going to kill himself. Didn’t say anything about a bar or shooting other people.”

  “So he was suicidal?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not that I knew of. Like I said … blind spots.”

  “Maybe you weren’t blind. Maybe he was just good at hiding.”

  “Maybe.”

  I can’t help but wonder if Jed just didn’t want to tell his friend his real intentions, his plans to shoot up Ray’s. It must have been a plan, something he’d thought about doing for months, years even. Nobody just shoots up a bar on a whim, do they?

  “Do you think he just didn’t want to tell his friend the truth? Like, maybe he was hiding from her too?” I ask.

  I wince a bit, preparing for Joyce to defend her son, his morality, the fabric of his being. But she just sighs.

  “It’s possible,” she says. “But maybe it was impulsive. Maybe something set him off. His friend, Lindsey, she said they were on the phone and it sounded like someone cut him off while he was driving. She heard him cursing and going on. Then he hung up.”

  Those words—cut him off—bring immediate goose bumps to my arms.

  “You okay?” Joyce asks.

  I must look as shaken as I feel.

  “Um, yeah, I think so,” I say.

  I’m not though.

  Those words—cut him off.

  I feel slightly dizzy, unsteady, like I might pass out.

  “Tessa?” Joyce says.

  She’s staring at me, her brows knitted together with concern.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what happened.”

  I close my eyes. The darkness helps.

  I feel Joyce’s hand on mine.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “You’re safe.”

  My body feels warm, radiating heat. The nape of my neck is sweaty.

  Cut him off.

  It means something. From that night. But I can’t put it together.

  “I had a flashback or something,” I say, shaking my head, as if to rearrange its contents, hoping they will make more sense in their new positions.

  “About that night?” she says, her brows still colliding into each other.

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  She looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for a bit of information about her son. I don’t have information though. Or I don’t know if I do.

  Cut him off.

  “It’s nothing,” I tell her.

  Because it might be nothing. I don’t know what it is.

  My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Ryan.

  Hey babe. Just wanted to say I love you. Call me when you get there.

  “You have to go?” Joyce asks.

  She still looks concerned.

  I don’t really have to go, but I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to be here, with her, if I remember something else.

  “Yeah, I should get going,” I say. “I told my mom I’d be on the road soon.”

  I tap my phone, as if to indicate the text is from my mom.

  “Right, of course,” she says.

  We stand from the table at the same time and then walk toward the door together. She holds it open for me, then we stand on the sidewalk, facing each other.

  “You’re sure you’re okay? Maybe you should wait a bit to drive.”

  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  “Well, then take care of yourself,” she says.

  She says it like we won’t see each other again, like she knows this may be my last day in Boise even though I’m not sure I know that yet.

  “You too,” I say.

  “I’m sorry we had to meet the way we did. I’m sorry for what Jed did.”

  “I know you are.”

  “Would you mind keeping in touch? Just a text every now and then?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  I can picture it now—sending her texts when all the happy events of my life happen, texts that assure her that her son’s actions did not define my life.

  I assume I’ll have those happy events, the standard ones—a love, a marriage, a family. This assumption is what keeps people going, isn’t it?

  “Can I give you a hug?” she asks.

  Her arms are already outstretched. As awkward as I feel about this, I cannot reject her.

  I hold my arms out, as a show of agreeance, then let her embrace me. It is not a loose hug, a half-assed hug. It is a tight, long, meaningful hug. I don’t know the last time someone gave me one of these hugs.

  “Thank you,” she says, though I feel like I should be the one thanking her.

  As she pulls away, she lets her hands run down my arms. When they get to my hands, she squeezes.

  “Thank you for letting me mourn him,” she says.

  Her eyes are glassy. I know when she gets to her car, she will let her head fall to the steering wheel and she will cry.

  I return her hand squeeze. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

  I am still left to wonder when she lost him. It was before that night. Long before, most likely. She might not even know when, exactly.

  We part ways, walking in opposite directions toward our cars. I turn around to see where she is parked, and she is turning around at just the same time.

  “Drive safe,” she says. “Please.”

  “I will,” I tell her.

  When I get to my car, I take a Post-it from my center console and scribble “Text Joyce” on it. As a reminder, for when I get to Bend. Because I’m sure she’ll want to know I made it.

  JOYCE

  LATE SATURDAY NIGHT, WHILE Gary and I were sleeping in his bed, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at the University of Vermont shot thirty people, killing fifteen, during a rampage at a restaurant near campus. It’s all over the news this morning.

  Just the sound of the reporter’s voice makes me nauseated. They all have the same tone when reporting tragedies.

  Details are still coming in.

  The shooter appeared to act alone.

  No names have been released.

  It’s all too familiar. Every shooting from now on is g
oing to be all too familiar.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I say, bending at the waist.

  I heave, but nothing comes up.

  “Goddamn it,” Gary says, turning off the TV.

  For a second, I think he’s angry at me for putting his quilt at risk of vomit. But then I realize he’s angry at the shooting, maybe angry at himself for turning on the TV, expecting a leisurely start to our day, only to find a horror show.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  My palms are clammy, which always happens when I throw up.

  Gary grabs a water bottle from his nightstand, hands it to me. I take a tentative sip, not sure my stomach will appreciate having anything in it.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Gary pushes himself off the mattress, stretches his arms overhead with a sigh. Then he turns around to look at me, hands on his hips, boxer shorts wrinkled and bunched up between his thighs like they always are in the morning.

  “In a way, it takes the spotlight off Jed,” he says.

  I can tell he’s not sure this is the right thing to say. I’m not sure either, but it is true, regardless. Jed is no longer “The Latest Shooter.” In a sick way, this is relieving; in another way, it is horrifying, horrifying that Jed will just be a name on a list of atrocities, surrounded by so many other names.

  “Do you think this guy was copying Jed?” I ask.

  I can’t help but think this. This nineteen-year-old, this kid, shot up a restaurant. That’s similar to a bar. It’s less than two weeks after the Ray’s shooting. Was this kid inspired by Jed? Or, if not inspired, encouraged? Did Jed’s actions validate this kid’s own dark thoughts? I will probably wonder these things about every shooter on the news for the rest of my life.

  “No, I don’t think he was copying Jed,” Gary says, with a definitiveness I appreciate.

  I want to ask how he knows this, but I resist. He won’t have an answer. And, really, I’d rather just take his word for it. “You up for any breakfast?” Gary asks. “I can make a Sunday feast.”

  There it is again, that resilient appetite of his.

  “No breakfast for me, but I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes,” I say.

  When he leaves, I reach for my phone, curious what people are saying on the message board about this latest shooting, about Jed. I’m hoping what Gary said is right—they will stop talking about Jed, move on. I imagine this message board used to be some other mother’s nightmare; now it is mine. Soon, it will be someone else’s.

  JR2018:

  This dude used a Remington 870 pump-action. Crazy mother fucker.

  JimJam19:

  Prolly saw the Boise dude and was like, ‘gotta do better than that guy.’

  JR2018:

  For sure.

  Boyseeeee:

  U guys heard the police in Boise are releasing info soon?

  JR2018:

  Snore.

  LvAll21:

  I’m sure the families want the info, @JR2018.

  JR2018:

  You guys are boring as hell. I dunno why I still check this board.

  JR2018:

  LvAll21:

  I don’t know anything about the police releasing information. I set my phone on the nightstand and reach for my purse. I have Detective Kinsky’s card in the zipper pocket of my wallet. I’ve been meaning to call him. Well, no, that’s a lie. I’ve been wondering what he knows, but I’ve been too scared to call him. Now, though, I need to know—before the public, at least. I need to know what people are going to be saying about Jed.

  I expect his voice mail because it’s Sunday, but he answers after two rings.

  “Detective Kinsky,” he says.

  I sit up in bed, my back ramrod straight against the headboard.

  “Uh, hello, this is Joyce Ketcher,” I say.

  “Hello, Ms. Ketcher,” he says, not missing a beat, as if he’s been expecting my call.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you on a Sunday. I was just going to leave a message.”

  “Well, no need. I’m here.”

  He’s not friendly, but he’s not unfriendly. He is businesslike, to the point.

  “I guess I was just wondering if you had any information,” I say. He doesn’t respond immediately so I add, “I heard there might be information coming.”

  “Word spreads, I guess,” he says with a sigh. “Yes, we are planning a press conference for next week.”

  My face starts to get hot. It seems like if they were planning a press conference about my son, they should notify me.

  I hear Jed: It’s not about me, Mom. It’s about what I did. They don’t give a fuck about me.

  I clear my throat. “When is this press conference?”

  “I believe our media relations director said it would take place on Tuesday.”

  “And can you tell me what I can expect to hear about my son?”

  I spit the question at the phone. I’ve given up on trying to hide my agitation.

  “How about you come down to the station tomorrow? I can give you a summary of our findings at this time.”

  Findings.

  There are findings.

  “Tomorrow,” I say. “Okay.”

  “Any time is fine,” he says. “You have yourself a good Sunday, Ms. Ketcher.”

  He hangs up before I can say anything else.

  I feel like I’m going to vomit again.

  Right on cue, Gary calls from the kitchen: “Food’s on.”

  ANGIE

  DR. HARRIS CALLED THIS morning, said he wanted me to come in to discuss “next steps.” After ten days of waiting and wondering and what-if-ing, it’s time for next steps.

  When he comes in, he doesn’t see me at first. I’m sitting in one of the cold, uncomfortable chairs against the wall. When I say, “Hi, Dr. Harris,” he flinches and turns around. I’ve startled him, clearly. And seeing his reaction makes me like him just a little bit. He is human, after all.

  “Good morning,” he says, his voice even.

  I rise from my chair, as if I’m greeting the president. His ego seems to demand this.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” I say.

  He called just after eight o’clock, said he wanted me to come to the hospital before he went into surgery at nine. But I had to arrange for Aria to watch Evie; there’s no day care on Sunday, obviously, and Aria doesn’t wake up until nine. I told him I’d be there at ten, and he seemed irritated. That might be his baseline mood though—irritated.

  “I’d like to discuss next steps with your husband’s care,” he says.

  “Right,” I say.

  He stands on one side of Cale’s bed and I move to the other, across from him. It’s strange to have this conversation with Cale right there, but not listening. Or maybe he is listening. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I read this one man’s account of his coma, and he said he could hear voices. When he woke up, he knew things that had been discussed in his room, things he couldn’t have known any other way. I would guess that Dr. Harris would scoff at this. He seems to be a man committed to what the science proves. Most doctors would have to be, I suppose.

  “We are at a point when we are ready to turn off Cale’s sedation medications and see how he responds,” he says.

  I nod slowly. “Okay, so what does that mean?”

  “When the medications are out of his system, we can see how his body reacts. We’ll monitor his breathing, start removing some of the life support devices,” he says.

  “What’s the prognosis?” I ask. Then, unsure if I want to know that, I clarify: “I mean, what’s the best-case scenario?”

  He crosses his arms over his middle. “Best-case scenario, he breathes well on his own, we start to see voluntary movements, that kind of thing. Frankly, his MRI yesterday looked more promising than I’d thought it would. The brain is an amazing organ. Think of the waking-up period as his brain rebooting itself. We just have to see what kind of neurological
deficits he faces if he wakes up.”

  “If,” I say.

  “There are very few ‘whens’ in this line of work.”

  He smiles, and I feel oddly proud of my ability to elicit it.

  “Okay, so this is the best thing to do, right?”

  He must know I am trusting him completely. He must know that loved ones want someone to tell them what to do. In a way, I can’t really blame him for his God complex. I want him to be God.

  “I don’t see any reason to keep him sedated,” he says. “He has reached a point when it makes sense to encourage him to wake up.”

  I nod.

  He looks at his pager, which I’ve realized he always does when the conversation seems to be coming to a natural conclusion. It’s possible he’s not being summoned; he just wants an excuse to exit quickly. Which is exactly what he does, without a goodbye.

  I look at Cale, take his hand like I always do, confirming the warmth.

  “Can you wake up?” I ask him. I don’t whisper; I use my regular voice. I can’t help but think of the man who said he could hear voices while in his coma. I want Cale to hear me.

  “Evie misses you,” I tell him. “Wake up for her, okay? I miss you too,” I add.

  Because I do. Even though I’m angry and confused, even though there is still so much I don’t understand, I miss him in the most basic way. I miss his presence in the house, his smell, his voice. He has the best voice—deep and strong, a voice made for radio, a voice that gives women chills.

  WHEN I GET home, Aria and Evie are playing on the kilim rug in the kitchen. This is Evie’s main play area, mostly because we spend most of our time in the kitchen and it’s just easiest for her toys to be there. She likes to be near us, isn’t old enough to go play independently in another room. It drove Cale nuts to have to navigate around her things. One morning, he stepped directly on one her plastic Little People. He started hobbling around on one foot, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the other. He looked ridiculous. I couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t find it funny.

  “What’s my favorite girl doing?” I say, kneeling down next to Evie.

  She pats the ground. “All the way,” she says.

  These days, kneeling next to her is not enough. She demands that we sit on the floor next to her and give our full attention as she pretends to assemble meals with her plastic food and plates.