29.

Zack stands at the bedroom window, staring at his own reflection. It’s too dark to see anything else out there. Did he say good night to everyone? He did in his head. Lately, he finds himself saying things first in his head to check how they’ll sound to others. Then he forgets to repeat them aloud. It’s as if speaking them silently is enough, and he loses interest in going further. Not having to deal with responses feels good, even refreshing. Some things he’s forbidden himself to say out loud: I will never do construction work again. No more repetitive pounding, no more drilling noises echoing through the hard hat until he wants to scream. He can’t climb another fucking beam without wanting to jump off. He’s scared. Terrified. And Lena won’t hold him in her arms to make him feel better.

He lies down on the bed, still dressed. Why undress only to dress again in the morning? One routine expectation after another controls his life and saps his strength. He’s so tired of the same words repeated so many times—bathe, eat, crap, find work, do this, do that—and to what end? Nothing changes, nothing at all. Casey tried to do something about the way things work even if it was only with paint. His son didn’t want to make it easy for them—whoever the fuck they are—to take away what belongs to his family. He closes his eyes and waits for the blackness.

Zack’s asleep when she enters. She sits in the rocking chair, the darkness a shawl around her, and sips at the wine. As her eyes adjust, she notes that he’s still dressed. Maybe Stu’s right, leave him be. But what if he doesn’t look for work? What then? Lord knows. Stu’s words were sweet. He’s been unaccountably considerate and not at all his usual combative self with her. Why’s that, she wonders? His reassurance that she would get through the turmoil brought to mind the words of one of her teachers. After her mother jumped out the window, everyone—family, friends, neighbors, and strangers—expressed sympathy for her loss, but in their eyes she also saw awe, because such an act inspires awe. Only her high school teacher, Ms. O’Farrell, skipped the sympathy and said words that really mattered. She was young enough, Ms. O’Farrell told her, to get over the tragedy. It was her duty now to mother herself and to create the person she wanted to be, that it could be done, and Lena could do it. She didn’t hold her hand or place an arm around her shoulders. Her tone was stern, commanding, and without noticeable compassion. And it sounded like truth.