Page 22 of The Perfect Son
Denise shakes her head and sniffs. “That’s my fault too. Mark asked me to book the flights and I was really busy that day. I’d only just been promoted and I was struggling to keep on top of the workload. Everyone was asking me to book their flights and hotels for the trip, and I thought I’d done everyone but when I came to send out the confirmation emails I realized Mark’s wasn’t there. By the time I tried to book his flights the ten thirty was fully booked. Mark was really nice about it. He said he didn’t mind going early and joked about it being a quieter flight without all of us on it...” Her sentence trails off and there’s a beat before she speaks again. “I’m so sorry, Tess. If I’d only booked him the later flight in time or spoken to him sooner on that Monday he’d still be alive.”
Denise’s words hang in the air and I know she is waiting for me to tell her it’s OK. She’s waiting for my clemency. For a fleeting moment I wonder how she found out about the crash, how she knew you boarded the plane. Did I call your office? I don’t remember. It’s another blank space where a memory should be. Ian must have done it. He handled everything else.
“It’s not your fault the plane crashed,” I say. “Mark liked going to the office in Frankfurt. He probably would’ve gone anyway since the ticket was already paid for.” It’s not really true, but it feels like the right thing to say.
Denise nods, her posture softening as though my words have lifted actual bricks from her own shoulders and dumped them onto my own.
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper. It is. It is. It is. I grind my teeth together and bite down on my lip before I can snatch back my faux forgiveness.
“Thank you for telling me.” I shuffle my feet to the nook and the side door and see Denise out. I can tell by the way she lingers in the doorway, her eyes flicking to the dinner plates and then back to me, that she’s hoping for more. More from me? Or more relief from her confession? Maybe she is hoping to see Jamie, but I’m not about to let that happen. He’s been through enough. We both have.
“Here’s my number,” Denise says, pressing a card into my hand. “In case you need anything. Call me anytime.”
I nod and open the side door. Cold night air stings my cheeks. The kitchen light shining through the window illuminates a square of gravel on the driveway, but the rest of the drive, the rest of the world for as far as I can see, is black.
Denise hangs her head and steps past me. I’m about to shut the door when she turns and speaks. “I... I wanted to ask you—has anyone called you?”
“Sorry?” My tone is snappish, and I don’t mean it to be, but I’m so tired now. What more can there be to say?
She shakes her head and steps away. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Good to see you, Tess. I’m so sorry.”
Denise strides into the darkness and I hear the beep of her car unlocking.
I shut the door and try to process Denise’s final question. Something about a phone call. I let the thought go and think of you instead.
Oh, Mark. You didn’t need to go. You shouldn’t have been on the plane. If only you’d turned around and come home.
Stop, Tessie. It doesn’t matter now.
It does, but I’m suddenly too tired to argue.
—
My hand trails the wall as I move through the house. A spinning has taken hold of my head—long, meandering loops that make me feel sick to my stomach and tired. Really tired.
I find Jamie facedown on his bed. The room is cast in a pale blue glow from the nightlight in the corner. From the doorway I can’t make out his features but somehow I know he’s crying.
“Jamie, baby?” I sit beside him on the bed.
He lifts his head and looks at me. Even in the gloom his eyes are startling, and glassy from tears.
“Oh, baby.” He heard Denise’s confession. Anger wends through my body. I’m not sure if it’s Denise I’m angry at for off-loading her guilt, or Jamie for overhearing it, but I push my teeth together, waiting for the worst of it to pass before I trust myself to speak.
It’s not Jamie’s fault.
I lie down on the single bed, squishing my body against Jamie and the wall.
I’m sure there are things I should tell him, comforting words I should offer, but my mind is blank—numb. You shouldn’t have been on the plane.
It’s an effort to talk, and my words are as slurred as my thoughts. “I’m so sorry.”
You’ll get through this, Tessie. Just like last time.
You’re wrong, Mark. This is nothing like before. Last time I was mourning a family we couldn’t have—a brother or sister for Jamie. I lay in bed and cried and cried thinking of the family I’d always wanted. I worried so much, wondering why we were failing this time and what our lives would look like without the family I longed for.
You didn’t understand. You thought Jamie was enough for us. Youwere right, but you were wrong somehow too. It wasn’t about Jamie; it was about the picture in my head of days at the beach and Christmas dinners with children laughing and playing.
I couldn’t see past it. I let the worrying gnaw at me until it was all I had inside. The worry worm, my dad used to call it. Did I ever tell you that?“Oh, Teresa’s worry worm is back,”he’d say, opening up his arms and letting me scramble onto his lap when I was six, maybe seven. I’d dry my face on the sleeve of his shirt and tell him my worries about the waves swallowing our house, a hurricane blowing us away, a car crash, a madman, and a thousand other things.
