Heather knocked gently on the closed bedroom door and waited for the muffled invitation before entering the boys’—no, wait, it’s just one again—Connor’s bedroom. He had swept up the broken pieces of the shattered serving bowl and washed the dirty dishes before retreating to his room.
He was sitting on his bed and leaning back against the wall, his eyes puffy and red. His arms were wrapped around his legs, his knees pulled up against his chest, looking much the same as she found him that day in the hospital after hearing that horrible story. Trigger lay beside him, his eyes locked on his master and a paw resting on his foot.
For a fleeting second, she started to tell him to get his shoes off the bed. Instead, she asked, “You okay?”
He shrugged, a barely perceptible movement. “I don’t know. Sad, crushed at losing Jaxon all over again. And so pissed off at… whoever that is… for lying to us. How could he…? Why?” His head dropped as he buried his face against his knees, the tears flowing again. His shoulders shook with his sobs.
She sat on the bed beside him and wrapped him into her arms. His head fell against her shoulder as she patted his back.
She tried to remember when she had last held him like that—maybe the day in middle school when Cecilia had dumped him. She wasn’t sure he had been as upset even then, so maybe it was even earlier when Duke died.
He raised his head and sniffled. “I keep thinking back to the day I first saw him in that hospital bed, looking so like Jaxon, and yet I was struck by how different he looked. I didn’t believe he was back, couldn’t believe it, but then I thought I was crazy not to accept it. I wonder…”
“Wonder if maybe you convinced yourself it was him because you wanted so badly for it to be true?”
“Yeah. I had doubts, you know, things weren’t…” His voice faded away as he stared across the room at the empty bed.
She followed his gaze and felt the familiar ache of a lost child grow in her chest. Except, as it had to have been for him, it was familiar but different this time. Ten years ago had been a slow descent as hope faded with the passing of days and the years of no answers. But this time, the loss of Jaxon was like being shoved off a cliff. He was there. Then he was gone.
She whispered, “Me too.”
He leaned back, his head thumping against the wall, and dragged a shirtsleeve across his nose. “I told myself it was because I was little when he left. That I didn’t remember everything right.”
Heather plucked at the covers, her hands shaking. “I convinced myself it was the change of so many years. He had grown up so much. But”—she let out a long breath, her voice growing quieter—“shouldn’t a mother know her own son?”
Connor’s strong arms wrapped around her and squeezed, his warmth comforting her. She had come into his room to support him, but he ended up giving her the pep talk. “We all fell for it. So many things were so close. We wanted it too bad.”
She kissed his forehead. “Close, but not quite. That’s what bugs me. He was always close but not quite. Like those eyes. Jaxon’s eyes were crystal blue, shiny and bright. This”—she paused, searching for the right word—“kid’s eyes were blue, but faded, dull, almost gray.”
“I figured it was the stuff he’d seen and done. That that man had taken the brightness away.”
Heather sniffled and nodded. “I did the same.”
“And french fries. How could he not remember how awesome fries are?”
“Because he ate garbage for all those years.” She shrugged. “At least that’s what I told myself.”
“It’s when he met Trigger that made me wonder the most.”
The dog whined at the mention of his name.
Connor rubbed the top of his head, stroking his ears between his long fingers. “It was like he’d never seen a dog, was scared of it. I thought, had he forgotten Duke? I mean, Duke slept in his bed as much as mine, so how could he’d have forgotten that? But then he came around real quick, and Trigger liked him, so I accepted it.”
She ran her own fingers through the dog’s fur, meeting her son’s on the dog’s neck. “Trigger’s a good judge of character—you saw how he reacted to the sheriff’s arrival tonight. I don’t care much for that guy, either, so you’re used to trusting his judgment.”
Connor lifted the dog’s head and kissed his nose. Trigger’s tail thumped the bed in response. “That’s the thing I’m sitting here trying to figure out. I mean, Trigger never met Jaxon, not the real one, so he didn’t have any reason to be suspicious. But at the same time, he always liked… whoever. So if he’s bad, why didn’t Trigger tell us?”
“Because I’m not sure he is bad, just… confused.” Heather ran her hand through her son’s hair. He had never had the classic pretty-boy look. With his reddish hair and freckles, she thought he looked strong and ruggedly handsome, even if she was a biased judge. The stubble on his chin called for a razor, but his cheeks were smooth. She was struck again by how much of a man he was becoming. “He hurt me—hurt us—but still, it’s hard to be mad at him, isn’t it?”
Connor nodded, keeping his eyes downcast. “Weird, isn’t it? I’m mad at him for lying, but I’m also worried about him. And what’s going to happen to him.”
She squeezed his shoulders. “They’ll find his parents through that DNA testing, just like they figured out that Kevin was really Jaxon that way. Somewhere out there, he’s got people who miss him like we miss Jaxon, right?”
“Yeah.” His hand ran down the side of the dog’s body in slow strokes as she waited for him to say more. He looked up at her with glassy eyes. “But what if they don’t?”
She hesitated. The same horrible idea had been pestering her own thoughts. “They will, Con.”
Several times, he opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it, only to start again. Finally, he blurted out, “Would you be mad… if I checked in on him? Just to make sure he’s okay.”
“The doctors may not want us to see him. They might think we’ll confuse him more.” She smiled. “But I had already thought I might try to sneak up during my break tonight.”
He nodded with her. “You aren’t mad at him?”
She thought about it for a moment. “A little, I guess, but not really. More hurt and confused. I don’t understand why he would lie about being Jaxon. I want to help him, but I don’t know what’s the right thing to do, for him or for you.”
He looked up quizzically. “For me?”
“Sure. I’m worried about you. We have to bury your brother—your real one—and that’s a big load.”
“I know. It’s just…” He looked down at Trigger as his hand continued to stroke the dog. He spoke softly, “I think I have to see him. Just to make sure he’s okay.”
She looked across the room at the vacant bed, its covers neatly tucked and the pillow fluffed. The bookshelf was devoid of the children’s toys from the past, but the Harry Potter books remained. She struggled with her own feelings of anger toward the impostor, worry about the boy who had been in their family for a few days, and overwhelming grief for her real son. After so many years, she was finally going to bury Jaxon. Her youngest son was gone, as he had been for years. The last week of emotional rollercoaster—the last decade of it—would be buried along with him. They could finally properly mourn his loss.
But her oldest son was still there, hurting but alive. He was no longer a little boy, any more than the long-lost Jaxon was. But his little brother would never grow up, and he was rapidly becoming a man.
No, he was a man. And he wanted to do the right thing, comfort someone he didn’t know even though it hurt him to do so. If that’s what it took for him to heal, then so be it.
“I trust your judgment.” she whispered. “Besides, he needs his books. Why don’t you take them to him?”