83. Strangers Who Watch

My mom just shakes her head.

“What?” I ask.

This is the understatement of the year.

I just took off with her car, without a license and without telling her, and ended up shooting a guy in the leg just as he was attacking Jocelyn.

Yeah, so what?

I can tell she doesn’t even know where to begin. I wouldn’t if I were her.

Try walking in my shoes, Mom. There’s a lot more I still haven’t told you.

“Chris …” she says, then stops.

She looks tired.

“I didn’t want you to know—I didn’t want to involve you, Mom. But sooner or later—I don’t know.”

It’s a little past seven, and Jocelyn is sleeping in the next room, knocked out by some pills my mom gave her. When we first got home my mom started to launch into me till she saw Jocelyn by my side and I explained what happened.

Her first response, after taking Jocelyn in her arms, was to tell me to get the phone so she could call the police. But Jocelyn convinced her not to.

I’m not sure if it’s because she’s humiliated or trying to protect herself. Or trying to protect us.

I didn’t tell Mom about the other stuff. I’m not sure how to begin.

“Where did you find the gun again?” she asks.

“In the closet upstairs.”

“This is the second incident involving a gun, Chris.”

“I had nothing to do with the one at school.”

“And yet you shot a man tonight.’’

“What was I supposed to do?”

“You tell me, that’s what you do.” I can hear the desperation and anger in her voice. “You need to tell me things.”

“She was in trouble, and I didn’t know else what to do.”

“You come to me. Now you’re in trouble.”

“He was going to hurt her, Mom. … He would have raped her.”

Mom shakes her head, then rubs her temple. Her hair is messy, bits of gray showing in the dirty blonde locks. The bags under her eyes seem dark and heavy.

“I should call your father.”

“What?”

“He’d know what to do.”

“Mom, you can’t.”

“Who else should I call?”

“Don’t. Don’t involve him. It’s none of his business.”

She shakes her head again. “What’d you do with the gun?”

“I tossed it in the woods on the way home.”

She nods, believing the lie.

“We have to tell somebody,” she says.

“What’s Wade going to do? Go to the cops and say he got shot while trying to rape his girlfriend’s niece?”

“Her aunt needs to know.”

“Her aunt is gone until Sunday.”

“She needs to know. I would want to know.”

“Let Jocelyn tell her,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

Mom sighs. “Why does all of this keep happening to us?”

“I don’t know.”

“I just keep thinking—keep hoping—but it just keeps getting worse.”

“Things could’ve been a lot worse today.”

“I’m not angry with you, Chris. But you have to tell me what’s going on. Especially now that your father is out of the picture.”

“It needs to stay that way, too.”

“Chris.”

“We can take care of ourselves.”

Mom smiles, but I know that she doesn’t believe my statement.

I don’t think I do either.

An hour later, feeling restless and nervous and curious, I slip into my mom’s bedroom and hear Jocelyn’s gentle breaths as she sleeps.

I kneel on the edge of the bed. A fraction of light from the family room slips in, allowing me to just make out the profile of her head on its pillow.

Is it all random, how people meet and befriend one another and fall in love?

Is life completely random, or is there some big, fat purpose behind it all?

If God does exist, how can we explain all the truly horrific things that happen day after day after day?

Jocelyn stirs, and I wish I could hold her.

I dream of a time when I can be close to her.

I’m thankful nothing worse happened to her today. Thankful she called. Thankful that she allowed me in her life to help her.

I’m never going to let anything happen to you, Jocelyn. I’ll die before I let anybody hurt you.

I lay a hand on the shoulder underneath the blanket. I hear her stir and say something, but I can’t make it out.

Maybe my life and this move and the way things turned out with my parents were all meant for me to come across Jocelyn’s path and help her. Maybe it was all meant to save her.

So who’s going to save me?

I hear the restless wind outside and can’t help shivering.

I think of the little puppy Midnight tucked away in the barn and think that maybe, just maybe, it’s better to be hidden and secure in an unknown place rather than trapped by the eyes and ears of strangers who watch.

Strangers who wait.

Strangers who surely know what’s happening.