The Moon Pool (26 page)

Because what Shay had said before she drove away was true. She
had
tried to buy Paul's way in the world. All the tutors, the personal coaches, the Ivy League summer programs, the therapist and psychiatrists and private school counselors—with what she had paid them, they could have bought a summer home on the Cape. If there were a lever you could pull to flush another child's future away so Paul could have succeeded, she would have been first in line.

And then, at the end, she'd had to face her failure. The expression on Paul's face that morning, as he scrubbed the floor, trying to erase the stain of his own rage—guilt and shame and fear and despair.

Colleen was guilty of so many things. She couldn't stand herself. No matter how much Shay loathed her, Colleen loathed herself more. And somehow, despite all her failings, she'd taught her son one solid lesson: how to loathe himself as well.

Take
me
, Colleen whispered, hoping the wind would carry her plea to God's ears.

SEX WASN
'
T THE
best form of self-obliteration, but it would do. Especially when the buzz Shay had worked up earlier in the evening had faded, leaving behind its chalky, dulling aftereffects. Shay knew from her hard-drinking days that it was possible to light a second wave and get hammered all over again, even after neglecting the buzz for several hours, but it took work and generally you wanted to stay in one place after, and she wasn't up for either of those things.

When she got back to the Oak Door Tavern, it was eleven thirty and the crowd was holding strong. She found a parking place wedged between two giant pickup trucks and went inside, stepping around a rowdy group of revelers clogging the doorway. She headed for the ladies' room; she'd had to go ever since they were at the trailer.

Thinking about the trailer made her furious all over again. She'd known so many sanctimonious women like Brenda. Go to church on Sunday and judge everyone all week long. Shay'd been used to people judging her since she was just a toddler, when her hippie mother let her hair grow down past her butt and dressed her in Indian-cotton dresses she tie-dyed herself. These days she figured she was a hell of a lot better adjusted than most of the women she knew. She bought a little weed now and then from a boy who'd once mowed her lawn; she had Mack when she wanted a warm body in her bed. She had a beautiful grandbaby, and her daughter and son-in-law came over every weekend because they
wanted
to, not because they needed a handout or felt obligated.

And she got along great with Taylor, which was more than a lot of those uptight women could say about their relationships with their own kids. Which made her think of Colleen.

The things she'd said. Christ, the things she'd said to Colleen.

After she dried her hands, she reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the poster. Paul was a nice-looking boy. You could tell he was shy from the way he looked at the camera, or rather didn't look at it.

Taylor had taken Paul under his wing the way he always did. He was such a mother hen, always scouting the outskirts of any party for the wallflowers, the tender ones, and folding them into his sparkling orbit. What he had actually said about Paul was that he seemed to be having trouble making friends, but it was because he was
bewildered.
Not disliked, as she'd implied to Colleen. “It's like he's never seen anything like us before, Mom.” Taylor had laughed after telling her about a prank in which Taylor had convinced Paul to drive their shift supervisor's truck up onto a flatbed. Shay hadn't completely understood the story, but she did understand what Taylor was doing, even if
he
didn't—teaching Paul the way things worked, giving him the ticket to belong. Just like when he'd patiently taught Javed Suleman the rules of American football in the backyard before tryouts back in sixth grade. Or Paul's nickname, Whale. Taylor had been the one who gave it to him, and it was his gentle way of showing Paul how to fit in, how his fancy, expensive East Coast clothes weren't doing him any favors in the camp.

What Shay hadn't said to Colleen was that after that, it was always “Paul and I” and “Paul was telling me...” and never again was there talk of him not fitting in.

A girl came into the bathroom, talking on her cell phone, and Shay hastily shoved the paper into her pocket and headed back out into the crowd. She didn't see McCall Whittaker from South Bend, despite taking her time circling the bar. Well, it probably hadn't been her best idea ever anyway, even if it might have bought her a place to spend the night in addition to a few hours of release. Tomorrow was still going to be tomorrow, and Taylor was still going to be missing, and she needed to have a clear head to figure out what to do about all that, and Colleen too.

Actually, what she really ought to do was go back and find Colleen and make sure she was okay. Shay sighed deeply, wondering when she was ever going to learn to think first and speak later. Even though it was looking like she and Colleen weren't going to be able to work together, Shay couldn't just leave her out there, where, it occurred to her, she was as vulnerable as her own son had been when he showed up, a fish out of water.

She was heading for the door when she saw a familiar face. It took a second to click: the man from Walmart, the one Colleen had been hoping to meet up with here earlier. He looked uncomfortable, standing at the end of the bar, staring at his phone. He was the only man in the bar wearing a suit jacket, though his tie had been loosened, and he was also the only man in the bar with a wineglass in front of him.

Shay hesitated, not knowing what to do. They couldn't afford to miss this opportunity. She got out her phone and dialed Colleen, but there was no answer—and she wouldn't have been able to hear her in the din of the bar anyway.

She slipped the phone back in her pocket, thought for one more minute, then headed outside. In the back of the Explorer, she dug through the bags and found what she needed. She didn't even bother returning to the ladies' room to change, just threw her coat into the back and shrugged Colleen's cashmere sweater over her own clothes, pulling it down over her hips. She twisted her hair into a chignon with an elastic from her purse and wiped most of her makeup off with a tissue—and then, on second thought, reapplied her lipstick.

Then she headed back to the bar. She was ready as she'd ever be.

COLLEEN NEVER GOT
to the part she'd read about in the Jack London story, the part where you just want to go to sleep, when all the pain leaves you and you gently drift. On the contrary, it just got colder and her shivering more violent, until the numbness in her fingers and toes was too painful to ignore.

But that wasn't the reason that Colleen finally got up off the bench, her coat pulling away with a tearing sound since it had frozen to the metal.

She got up because she had no proof that Paul was dead. And as long as he wasn't dead, she was on duty. It didn't matter what he'd done. It didn't matter what bad decisions he'd made. There wasn't anyone else, and so she got up.

Her face stung, and she was sure she looked frightening. She pulled the hood tighter. She'd go freshen up, and then she'd get a cup of coffee and figure out what to do next.

Two more posters were taped to the glass doors. Colleen stared at the photo for a moment. Was this how it would be, now? Every door she went through, was she going to have to confront this image of Paul, which had been ruined for her now from what Shay said? Why had Andy used this photo, why couldn't he have used the one from the Cape two years ago, when Paul was laughing and tan and holding up a crab by its pincer?

Because no one else needed to see evidence that he had once been happy, Colleen answered her own question. Only
she
needed that.

She opened the door and stepped onto the mat. The smell of coffee and bacon drifted to her nose. The music was quiet, some country song she vaguely recognized.

Other than the waitress, it was all men. They were sitting by themselves, at the counter, at tables. The digital sign showed that only two showers were in use. No waiting. The only sound besides the music was the clack of a spatula on the grill and the quiet thud of a coffee cup being set down.

Everyone was staring at her. Colleen's hand went to her face—she must look worse than she thought. But to get to the ladies' room, she would have to walk past every customer in the place. She looked down at her pants—they were crusted with dirt from when she fell and there was a tear over the knee, rimmed with dried blood. She hadn't even noticed she was bleeding.

“Ma'am, are you all right?”

It was the waitress, a girl scarcely older than Paul. She was standing behind a row of ketchup bottles. Some had other ketchup bottles balanced precariously on top, the last of the spent bottles draining into the new ones.

“I'm...”

She couldn't seem to get the words out.
I'll be fine. I just need a moment in the ladies' room. Oh, and could I have a cup of coffee, please? Just black is fine. You're a lifesaver. I'll be right out.

“I just... I need...”

She looked from face to face; older men, mostly, their faces creased with worry lines, their bodies thick with years of hard labor. Maybe this was the only place to come if you didn't want the noise, the partying, the strangers jostling you. Maybe this was where you looked for peace.

“I'm Colleen Mitchell.” She wasn't sure why she said it. Her voice sounded broken. Her fingers and toes, as they warmed up, ached intensely. “My boy is one of the missing ones. Paul Mitchell. We put up those posters... well, my husband had those posters put up—I don't know what else to do. I don't know where else to look. I don't know where to go.”

No one moved. The men's expressions didn't change. They had seen things before. Things had happened to them. They weren't young; they were cautious. That was all right. She didn't want their pity or even their compassion.

“Mrs. Mitchell, I knew your son,” the waitress said quietly. “I think you better sit down.”

THE WAITRESS
'
S NAME
was Emily. She told Colleen that when she got back from the bathroom, there would be a cup of coffee and a turkey club waiting for her.

Colleen had been here only fifteen hours earlier for a shower and breakfast. The first time she'd looked in the truck stop's mirror, she'd been shocked by what she saw, by how much she had aged since this whole ordeal began. Tonight, she was not shocked at all. She understood the bargain she'd made: herself for Paul. And if the devil or whoever had been sent to collect had left behind the lines around her mouth, the purple hollows under her eyes, the sagging lifeless skin, she knew it was all part of the trade.

But that didn't mean she couldn't fight back. She splashed water on her face and dug into her makeup kit. Repaired what she could and combed her hair. Dampened a handful of paper towels and wiped the mud off her clothes. Pulling up her pant leg, she inspected the bruise and torn skin. She dabbed at it with soapy hot water, and welcomed the sting.