What the Dead Can Do, page 8
But so far, she’d spent most of breakfast time trying to coax Ethan to eat his.
And that was only when she wasn’t responding to text messages from friends who’d seen Nicole’s assault video—because who in the world hadn’t—and had written to say things like:
Holy shit! UR mom is a BEAST!
My dad says you guys better lawyer up.
R U OK?
And, WAY TO GO NICOLE!
It was a mixed bag. Had been for two days. She put her phone to the side, hoping to keep her focus on Ethan. Maybe even set a good example.
In her opinion, getting a toddler fed first thing was important. Nicole and Dad hadn’t made Ethan’s breakfast a priority. She had plenty to say about it—some absolutely crushing zingers—but why bother? As it turned out, mornings were the only time she had alone with Ethan, and she really enjoyed it. Had Nicole or Dad been paying any attention at all, they’d have been as surprised as she was with how quickly she’d developed a fondness for her baby brother.
He wasn’t really a baby, though, was he? Not technically. Give it a couple of months and he wouldn’t be new either. But for now, new baby brother is how she thought of him.
They shared a bedroom. It wasn’t ideal, but she could visualize a future where they would stay up late, maybe planning a great escape or, at a minimum, formulating a plan to convince their dad to take the whole family snorkeling in Tulum.
Every other kid on her block had been to at least Mexico.
If she expected anything to ever change around her house, she needed an ally, even a young one. In due time he’d be his own force, she guessed, but until then, bedtime was no time to be shooting the shit. Or the poop, as it were. She didn’t even like to think-cuss around Ethan.
Out of nowhere, Ethan roared. Emily recognized it as his best T-Rex impersonation. That sound usually meant food was about to be eaten, so she had come to tolerate those frequent growls—she may have even roared a few times herself in the past week.
“Oh no,” she said. “Not a T-Rex!” And went warm on his grin.
Emily had recently learned more about dinosaurs than she’d ever hoped to. With her help, Ethan’s pronunciation of their scientific names remained far from perfect but scary good for his age. Dino-everything hadn’t been her thing when younger, but talking therapods and sauropods with him was more comfortable than the few conversations they’d had about “Dead Mommy” and “Dead Daddy.” Those were the names Ethan had chosen himself. However, she suspected his decision to use the word “dead” had been heavily influenced by what her brother had heard spoken by insensitive adults, the prying journalists, and maybe even her own damn parents while poor Ethan was in earshot. As an alternative, she suggested preceding adjectives like “Other” and “First” but didn’t want to force the issue. A quick bit of research she’d done into the matter on the internet had suggested she was right to let his decision be.
Ethan was vocal; she didn’t know if vocal equaled bright, per se, but he liked to chat if you had the patience to listen. She had that patience, but it certainly wasn’t genetic. Though her brother used those names for Amanda and Tag, it’d been readily apparent to her that he didn’t truly understand what dead meant. She had only mentioned the plane crash once, asking him, “Do you remember why Other Mommy and Daddy aren’t here anymore?” The question hadn’t stopped him from playing intently with his Legos, and though it felt unkind to ask again, she did. After a beat, he said, “Oh, I ’member.” But when that brief conversation ended, Emily believed that Ethan had only acted like he knew what she was talking about to please her, which tracked with another run at Google that she’d made to get a better sense of all things toddler.
Her recollections felt heavy. She stared at him and then at the waffle. Ethan liked the waffles she made, too, which were just the frozen kind, sure, but he was polite and sweet, and his appreciation for something so ordinary was addictive. Even before she’d landed on a decorated version he’d happily devour, his pleases, thank yous, and the giggles in between were reason enough to leave for school in a better mood than the one she woke with.
After some trial and error over the first week, the Ethan Special had been born: a single waffle smothered in soft butter, drowning in syrup, with one shake of rainbow sprinkles, at least for as long as the shaker-bottle of cake topping she’d found in a kitchen drawer lasted. And all that mess was then topped with a smiley face made from Reddi-Wip.
Was it healthy? The box said the waffle was wheat, so maybe so.
“Good job, Ethan!” she said. “That was a big-boy bite.”
Even with the perfect concoction, if she didn’t cheer Ethan on, he could take a good hour to finish. Which would have been fine with Emily, if she wasn’t someone with somewhere to be. Or someone who had people expecting her to be somewhere, as was the case with her teachers.
“More syrup?” Ethan asked, grabbing for the bottle she’d placed out of his reach.
“If I were to put any more syrup on that thing, they’d arrest me,” she said as she moved the syrup just a touch further away.
She couldn’t remember when her dad had said it, but she knew she’d stolen the joke from him. It fell as flat on Ethan as she imagined it had on her back in the day.
“Let’s just focus on—”
The apartment buzzer rang so harshly it felt connected to Em’s brain. The jolt rattled her body and shook the glass in her hand, spilling half the orange juice onto her perfect creation. Powdered sugar soaked up what it could, but the waffle quickly turned into a perfect little island standing alone in a pulpy, orange sea. Ethan’s sweet laugh punctuated the unfortunate sequence.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” she slipped.
He hadn’t registered the cuss, not really, but her physical accompaniment—arms high and waving tragically—managed to turn Ethan’s laugh up to a level more … pack of jackals.
“I’m glad you’re amused,” she said as she reached for her phone. And she meant it.
It was five past seven. Reporters typically waited until nine to jumpstart the chaos.
Their unit’s street-level entrance had always seemed convenient, but now it meant if no one answered, visitors could shout questions from the very front door Emily had her eye on. That proximity had always felt invasive, but as of late, the pop-ins by news crews had given the buzzer’s trilling extra gravitas.
Dad had recently banned her from greeting the press, legit or otherwise, but two Tuesdays ago, she had opened the door. On that day, Em had made no formal invitation, but by the time she closed the door, an overcaffeinated twig of a blonde woman and her cameraman had set up shop in the family room.
“Now is not a good time. My parents aren’t home,” she’d told them, unnerved but trying not to show it. “We’ve said all we have to say.” How the reporter had thwarted those polite refusals was a blur.
When Nicole came down the stairs to find a TV crew asking her daughter questions, her already hungover expression was the perfect launch pad for a conniption. The reporter left with ample footage of a half-dressed, irate drunk detonating expletives, one who’d recently been put in charge of caring for a traumatized toddler.
That was the last “official” interview.
Since then, Emily had overheard talk of hiring counsel or even a PR agent—even she knew they couldn’t afford it. Putting together a restraining order that might make it a crime for anyone from the media to approach her family was an idea that got floated, too.
It was no surprise to her that Dad and Nicole hadn’t followed through on any of it.
Their ineptitude was habitual.
She wasn’t supposed to open the door now or even communicate through the intercom. That was the fix and the only real adjustment they’d made to keep the grinning vultures at bay.
The buzzer rang a second time. Apparently, the reporters hadn’t gotten the message.
Emily looked at the ceiling, hoping to hear the gallop of parental feet. There were none.
The water was running. It was probably Dad in the shower, and it was easy enough to imagine Nicole was enjoying a prescription sleep. In light of Nicole’s assault, Matthew had decided from here on out, only he would be walking Emily to and from school. Her mom never needed extra incentive to stay in bed, but that decision had given her extra permission to laze.
Whoever was outside, they didn’t wait long to ring the buzzer a third time.
It was the same ringing sound as the first two but somehow ruder. Emily shook a bit in her chair. She shoved herself away from the table, not to answer but to have a peek, and crept with a cat-like stealth toward the door to keep the floorboards from creaking. An arm’s length away from the door, she remembered the wood putty Dad had put over the peephole.
The intercom rang again and kept ringing for many seconds longer than before. Its elongation made the noise shrill, and behind her, Ethan started to cry. Emily turned to see his dish and half-eaten waffle in midair as it fell to the floor. The clatter of the plate’s destruction came right after the buzzer’s tone had ceased. Its impact silenced Ethan, relative to his previous wailing. “Not me,” he said, sucking on dry sobs. “No do it.” Emily’s frown came on too quickly to reverse, but thankfully, her disappointment did not set off Ethan again. He went quiet, almost like he understood. For a moment, only the water running through the pipes could be heard.
Then, a tight series of meaningful knocks were made on their door.
Where was Pepper? He never had any reservations about greeting guests and typically knew someone was outside before they had a chance to use the intercom and its bell.
She looked to the rear of the house for the mutt and might have even shouted for him had she not remembered Dad had boarded Pepper the day before without consulting with the family.
Just until things calm down a bit, he’s been acting off. With sudden changes, dogs can go off-kilter, just like humans—I’ve read it.
Their dog would have been a nice thing to have at that moment. Wasn’t this very scenario why they’d all gone to the shelter years ago to adopt the dog in the first place?
As Em turned back to the door, she caught sight of Ethan in her periphery. He was standing with his right foot dangling in the air in search of a rung to guide him down from her old high chair. A rung that didn’t exist. These attempts to free himself were nothing new. She wished she’d ignored Matthew’s stupid insistence that Ethan always be put in his high chair when at the kitchen table. He didn’t need the damned chair.
“Ethan, sit down!” Her demand was as stern as it could be without giving away their occupancy. In lieu of approaching him to physically force him back into his seat, a tactic that had never gone well to begin with, she widened her eyes into saucers and said, “I mean it.”
“No. I help,” Ethan said. “My mess.”
“Ethan. Sit back down,” she said, adding a one-foot forward warning to fake a walk toward the table, which had been all that was required to bring her brother to heel other times.
“No. I help,” he repeated.
The chair swayed as Ethan sought balance by shifting his weight from one leg to another.
“You’re going to get hurt. Sit down!” she said. Her shout had all the volume required to give up their position unequivocally. “Or no more yummy waffles made by your favorite sister.” Did he think of her as a sister yet? She wasn’t sure. Her threat had just come out that way right before she started a real step back to help him stay put, but—
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! Deep thuds this time. She froze in her tracks.
“Mrs. Shultz, is that you?” a voice asked. The question was followed by three even harder pounds. KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Ethan lifted his left leg off the seat to give more length to his other limb, which was already stretched to its max over the front of the tray. That final shift was all the favor gravity needed, and he and the high chair collapsed to the floor, crashing together to create a thud that sounded far worse than the collision appeared.
Her brother’s crying may as well have been an ambulance.
She ran to him, knelt beside him, and angled the chair to pull his tiny leg out from underneath it. Despite the gentle care of her effort, his bawling got louder.
Steps finally boomed, one after another, rattling the ceiling above her.
“Em! What the hell is going on down there?”
It was Dad, skipping at least two steps at a time while he repeated his question louder.
When Dad rounded the corner, Ethan was crying, the visitors knocked again, and Emily realized she was bawling, too. She held Ethan tight to her chest. It was hard to say whose tears were whose.
Her father’s brow furrowed, and his mouth puckered tight, no doubt holding back the additional inquisition on his tongue as his eyes locked in on the voices from the other side of the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Shultz, we can hear you. I’m with the Administration for Children’s Services. I must insist you open the door. We’d like to come in to talk with you. Could you open the door, please?”
It was the least polite “please” Emily had ever heard. “Should I open the door?” she sobbed. She pulled Ethan closer to her chest, trying to calm him. “I’m sorry, Dad,” she said. “I should have come up and gotten you sooner.”
Her father was wearing only a towel around his waist. “One minute,” he said to the door. “I just got out of the shower.” He knelt on the floor next to her. “For Christ’s sake, Em. What happened here? Give him to me.”
Emily’s arms went tighter around her baby brother.
“Em, give Ethan to me. Now.”
The gasps between Ethan’s weakening wails were painful to hear. She worried the fall might have broken a bone.
“Just answer the door,” she pleaded. “I’ll tell them it was my fault. That’s the truth. It’s my fault he fell—I’ll swear to it.”
His deep breath indicated he was considering the plan, and then Nicole shouted from upstairs. “What’s going on down there? It’s way too early for this shit.”
There was a good chance the tenants in each building on either side heard her.
“Mrs. Shultz, you’re home too. That’s good,” the voice said, teetering between kind and urgent. “My name is Tamira Johnson, and I’m with the Administration for Children’s Services.”
No one inside the home immediately responded to her introduction.
“One of y’all better open the door. I’ve got my phone out. I don’t want to involve the police, so don’t make me. This is just a visit. Very basic, very routine, but that courtesy isn’t a lifetime offer. I can promise you that.”
The woman’s voice had dropped a full octave. Emily was glad it had.
Matthew looked shellshocked, and Nicole’s move from bedroom to living room was no longer pending. Her mother’s much lighter pattering was evident through the ceiling.
Emily couldn’t stop her first thought from escaping. “They’re here because of her,” she whispered to Matthew, nodding toward the ceiling and then toward her phone. “Because of what she did to Claire.”
She was surprised to hear she sounded like she hadn’t been crying at all. Her voice was resolute, and Emily thought that should have troubled her more than it did.
Nicole entered the kitchen, eyes practically gone Terminator, and locked right on her.
Emily decided to finish telling Dad what he had to already know, no longer in a whisper. “She’s the reason we’re going to lose Ethan, Dad! What are you going to do about it?”
THE TEXT | SECTION SEVEN
TIME.
There is no time like the present.
The time is ripe.
NOW is the time.
Time is a construct.
8
TAG
The consequences of Nicole’s assault on the nosy influencer had come quicker than Tag had thought possible, but for all of social media’s ills, it did sometimes throw gasoline on the right fires.
Ethan’s fate was in Tamira the ACS case worker’s hands now.
As he and Amanda continued observing the situation unfold, he thought Tamira’s arrival could be a good thing to happen or a bad thing. That was the way with almost anything in Prior Plane. A hammer can build; a hammer can destroy. Sometimes it destroys something old to build something new, something better. In his experience, that was especially true of broken homes.
Upon entering Matthew’s home, Tamira had been calm and pleasant. The woman could have come in swinging, but even with Nicole, who was struggling to part from her defensive posture and had cursed a few times in a low mutter to herself, Tamira came off more understanding than foreboding. She’d introduced her coworker Curtis to the family as Matthew took their coats.
Though The Text said it wasn’t possible, Tag felt optimistic.
On the other hand, Amanda had gone silent the minute Matthew opened the door for Tamira and her coworker. Even now, her face gave nothing away. As the four adults in the room exchanged meager pleasantries—you have a lovely home, sunny day but a little chilly out, and even an apology to Ethan and Emily for interrupting breakfast—Amanda remained unmoved.
Tag had heard in Second Plane that stoicism was an easy thing to achieve if you were a resident who’d already accepted that any emotion you were feeling wasn’t real. He doubted she’d made progress on that front, but he couldn’t read her thoughts.
Was she hoping Tamira’s arrival there was a blessing in disguise as he was? Not likely.
Help. That was the key word, one Tag overheard Tamira and Curtis use a few times as Matthew worked to settle the children on the couch before joining ACS and Nicole at the kitchen table. Though they’d not been there long, it was clear to Tag that Tamira and ACS were there to help steer Ethan’s new family through a storm he felt he’d inadvertently caused. That had to be a good thing.
“If this is about yesterday, I’m sorry … but that bitch had it coming,” Nicole slurred.
