CHAPTER 17

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17

TYLER

Mom’s watching the news. She’s in the kitchen, reading a paper on her tablet and sitting in front of the news on the TV as she ignores the phone smashed to pieces all over the floor. “Hey, Mom.” I kiss her on the forehead. It’s nice. Boys should kiss their moms.

She does her usual, and doesn’t look me in the eyes as she says, “Any luck finding your brother?”

I grab the dustpan from the closet and stare at the ticker on the screen. Dow is up, apparently. That’s good news for somebody, I’m sure. I sweep up the plastic remnants of phone. “No.”

“We shouldn’t have let him go back into rehab. We should have known that it does no good. A lot of money for nothing.” She takes a sip of her coffee. Eyes on the tablet. Hate tablets. Their gaming platform sucks.

“We had to give him another chance,” I say.

“He doesn’t need another chance. He doesn’t use them. Do you know how much rehab costs? Money for nothing, Tyler. For nothing.”

I’m too tired for this. “Mom, of course I know how much it costs.”

“It’s money I should have used to help you,” she says, her voice trembling.

Shit. “Mom, I’m fine, OK?”

“No. No, I should have seen you sliding, baby. Should have gotten tutors or counseling or something to help you. I know you and Rick think it’s OK but I don’t. I’m your mother, I should have been doing more for you.” Her lips press together. Press so hard they turn white. “We can’t make Brandon get better if he doesn’t want to get better. He’s selfish. And he’s a liar. We shouldn’t trust him, shouldn’t believe him, shouldn’t believe that he cares…”

I throw the broom into the cabinets, chest tight. “Jesus, Mom, he’s your son!”

She puts down her coffee, hard, liquid splashing on her shaking hands. “No, not really, not anymore.” Her shoulders tremble and her lips can’t keep steady and she cries. Cries in her power suit. Doesn’t look so strong when she’s crying.

“Mom.” She does this. I forget. Forget how easy it is to break her. Especially now that B’s gone again. I should have known. I grab her, wrap her up in my arms, let her cry. She’s so delicate, like a kitten. Even when she looks normal, even when she looks tough, she’s not right. Her mascara runs onto my shirt and she wipes her eyes and she sobs. Big, earth-moving sobs from such a small woman. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking, OK? You have me, Mom. You’ll always have me.” I kiss the top of her head and hold her until she steadies. But I still hold her after she stops. Hold her tight so that she knows that I love her. That I’m not Brandon.

Some guy is talking on the news. Financial stuff is over. Now there’s a breaking story. Hate the morning news. Hate that they act like some nine year-old playing the violin is real news. This sounds like real news, though. At least to me. “Good news in the War on Terror. The Pentagon announced the morning the death of Bashir Hamad, a former ISI officer and a known Al-Qaeda sympathizer. Anonymous Pentagon sources have stated that Bashir Hamad was known to have operational links to insurgent forces in the region. It is also believed that he had ties to some of the individuals who funded the 9/11 attacks. Bashir Hamad and his accomplices were killed overnight en route to a planned attack on the Al-Quaddari prison in the Helmand province of Afghanistan.”

My heartbeat picks up, one beat at a time, like kernels of popcorn starting to go. They show a picture of some guy in a turban, in-set eyes and long, bushy beard. “Hamad has been wanted by coalition forces for some time. He is believed to be responsible for leading a 2006 attack on Marines in Marjah that led to the death of three US servicemen.”

I’m happy he’s dead.

Mom slips out of my arms. Grabs her coffee and walks it over to the sink, shuffling her feet along the floor. She kisses me, quietly, quickly, on the cheek. And waits. Waits for me to say something, to look at her. Anything. But I can’t move. I can’t. Freaking. Move.

It’s the truck. The image on the news. It’s my truck. Gray truck blown to bits on the side of the road. It’s my truck. My jail. My heart beats so loud that it rings in my ears.

Rick’s got one hell of a sim if it can simulate a mission that took place, hours, minutes, before.

Fuck. Or did I just kill Bashir Hamad?