AFTER PIZZA, THEY DECIDED TO go into Littleton for a movie. They didn’t even know what was playing and they ended up at Alvin and the Chipmunks’ The Road Chip. The noise of helium-filled chipmunks made Ben’s head ache, but Jake laughed and bounced in his seat. There were only a handful of other kids in the audience: another dad who spent the whole time surfing on his mobile phone and a mom wearing ear plugs, taking a nap. This is what it’s like, Ben kept thinking, this is the other world outside the motel rooms and foster homes. Nothing grand, no velvet drapes sweeping back to reveal mountain vistas. Just a child laughing, the smell of buttered popcorn.
It was late coming up Jones Farm Road, fireflies swarming above Ed’s fields, the grass raked into neat concentric rows. Ben stopped and turned the engine off so they could wonder at the flickering magic lights, the feel of the cool, soft air on their skin.
“Dad.”
Ben caught the word. It winded him.
“Yes?”
But it was a statement, Ben realized, not a question. An arrival.
They drove home. The door was open. Just for a moment, Ben felt his mother’s kiss, and the wild, blind lurching love he’d had for her, regardless. Lying together on the motel bed when the men had gone and her high was still soft, she’d kissed him. “I’m sorry, Ben, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But he hadn’t known what for.
Ben got out of the truck, and he went around to take Jake’s hand. They went in. Shevaunne was still asleep on the sofa. It was as if she had never woken from her morning slumber. But she had arisen at some point: the TV’s sound was back on, the spindle was gone from the counter.
“Mom’s still asleep.” Ben gently maneuvered Jake toward the bathroom. “Go brush your teeth.”
He looked down on Shevaunne, dribbling out of the corner of her open mouth. Her works were out on the table, the burnt spoon, the thick rubber strap, the clean needle, and the empty spindle with its special, secret spike of fentanyl. These were so normal to Jake he hadn’t even noticed; the way other mothers fell asleep with their knitting or a book. She’d had time to put the syringe down after she’d dosed. He gazed at her placid face lost in nod. She looked so harmless. She was supposed to be dead.
The tap in the bathroom turned on, Jake was brushing his teeth. Ben leaned into Shevaunne, so close, the handsome prince to kiss the sleeping princess. She was still breathing, only just. He picked one of her pink socks up from the floor. With his right hand he shoved it in her open mouth as he took his left hand, finger and thumb, and pinched her nostrils shut. He felt her body buck weakly and he heard her gasp and gag. Her eyes opened. She looked out but not at him. It didn’t take much, she was already dying, her heart maxed out, and within the count of one-two-three she receded. It was so simple. He felt a rush of fear and then joy and the smell of his mother’s vomit. She’d looked surprised like a jack-o’-lantern when he’d found her, and he’d turned her over because he couldn’t shut her eyes—they kept sliding back open like cheap blinds, those windows to her soul where none had been, only hollowed out, just like a pumpkin, and he’d calmly—then as now—picked up the phone and dialed 911.