Things You Won't Say (6 page)

A shower, she thought longingly as she bent down to wipe up something brownish—best not to examine it closely—off the floor. Before kids, bathing used to be an uneventful part of her morning routine. Now ten minutes alone with sweet-smelling shampoo and hot water coursing over the knots in her shoulders felt as luxurious as a week in the Bahamas. But her plans to get up early and sneak one in had been thwarted when Eloise awoke at 5:45, having soaked through her nighttime diaper. Jamie had started to throw the wet pajamas and sheets into the wash, then she’d realized there was
already a load in the machine. It smelled funky—it must have been moldering there for a few days—so Jamie had dumped in a little more detergent and pulled the dial to rewash it, then come upstairs to encounter the stain on the floor. By then Eloise was flopped on the couch, her hair sticking up and her eyes bleary, loudly asking for Barney on TV.

“Shhh, honey,” Jamie said. Was she actually panting from the brief exertion of running up the stairs? She really had to figure out a way to exercise regularly. “No TV this morning.”

Eloise started wailing. Her flair for drama always took a sharp uptick when she hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“You’re going to wake up Sam and Emily!” Jamie chided. As if Eloise cared; Jamie would have to turn to her arsenal of bribes and threats, another violation of parenting rules. The thing about the “experts” on TV, though, was that they were always rested and fresh—not to mention that most of the nannies on those parenting shows weren’t actually parents. They were like sportscasters who’d been cut from their high school teams, called in to nitpick the performance of professional athletes.

“Want some chocolate milk?” Jamie offered. Eloise considered it, then nodded. Jamie fixed the milk in a sippy cup, grabbed Eloise’s favorite chunky board book and a few toys, and set everything on the couch next to her daughter. That might buy her enough time to rinse off—she was pretty sure she smelled like pee now.

But then Sadie started barking at an invading squirrel in the backyard, and Jamie rushed to shush her, too, and seconds later Emily awoke and immediately began bickering with Eloise . . . seven pancakes and one mostly uneaten bowl of fruit later, the kitchen was a disaster, Jamie was limping from stubbing her toe on a chair’s leg, Sadie had managed to overturn her dish of water, and Mike had gone to work, wearing his shiny badge with the black ribbon that made Jamie feel as if someone was grabbing her heart and squeezing it whenever
she looked at it. And her shower shimmered like an oasis, forever just beyond her reach.

Jamie stole at look at the clock. Had the hands stopped, or could it really be this early?

“Let’s go to the pool,” she suggested. Forget the dishes and laundry and all the other chores waiting for her attention. She’d combust if she stayed in the house for another minute. They all needed to be outside, in the fresh air, even if it was so muggy and thick it felt like a wet sheet wrapping around her every time she stepped out the door.

She gathered up sunscreen, towels, bathing suits, goggles, and some water toys and bundled everything into a giant beach bag. Then she filled a cooler with sandwiches and pretzels and drinks. The kids would beg for lunch from the overpriced snack bar, but if she didn’t set a precedent now, her bank account would be empty by the end of the summer. She’d allow them one Popsicle each, she decided.

“Are Finn and Daisy coming?” Emily asked.

“I was just going to call them,” Jamie said. A carefree day might be exactly what Ritchie’s wife and kids needed.

She reached for the phone and dialed the number she knew by heart. Sandy answered on the third ring.

“Hey, hon,” Jamie said. “Up for a day at the pool?”

She kept her tone light, not letting on that hearing Sandy’s high, crisp voice with the hint of a Boston accent, an inheritance from Sandy’s hometown, conjured so many turbulent feelings in her—relief that it hadn’t been Mike who’d walked out the door first, guilt for the same reason, dread that Mike could be next. When Jamie had rushed into the hospital after Mike’s call, the first thing she’d seen was a wall of blue. Dozens of officers lined the hallways outside the area where surgeons frantically fought to save Ritchie by removing the bullet from his skull and reducing the pressure around his brain. By then everyone knew the rookie nicknamed the Kid was dead. His eyes were open and unblinking as he lay on the sidewalk,
Mike had told Jamie after he’d awoken from one of his nightmares, gasping and shuddering. That was before he’d stopped talking to her about the shootings.

Jamie had torn down the hallway, past the officers who were stoic and the ones who were crying, because she’d caught sight of her husband and in that desperate, blurry moment she’d thought Mike had been shot, too. But the blood darkening his shirt had belonged to Ritchie. Moments after Ritchie had fallen, Mike had leapt on top of his partner, covering him, trying to shield his best friend from a second bullet.

It wasn’t until the surgeon came out into the hallway to announce that Ritchie was still alive that Sandy had broken down in Mike’s arms, her husband’s blood leaching off Mike’s uniform to stain her face, sobs exploding from her thin frame. Jamie had patted her back, trying to whisper words of comfort through her own tears. Sandy had pulled herself together when the surgeon added, “But he’s not out of the woods. And there are going to be some complications if he makes it.”

Complications. Such an innocuous word. A complication was a traffic jam, a malfunctioning coffeemaker, two meetings scheduled for the same time. It didn’t begin to describe Ritchie learning to fasten the Velcro on his new shoes and feed himself. It didn’t encapsulate the brain trauma that revealed itself in his halting speech, or memory lapses.

Ritchie
had
died that day, a part of him anyway.

Jamie had tried to reassure Mike that his brief hesitation wouldn’t have made a difference; that the shooter was already in position and the two rifle cracks had sounded within seconds of Ritchie exiting the building. But Mike felt as if he’d betrayed the sacred oath of his profession. He wore his guilt like a shroud, and Jamie was beginning to worry that it would always shadow him. At least Sandy put the blame squarely where it belonged: on the shoulders of the shooter.

Maybe Sandy cried at night, when she was alone in the bed she’d once shared with her husband, but Jamie had never
again seen her break down. Sandy was a cop’s wife, which meant uncertainty and worry had always been familiar companions. Everyone who married a police officer knew that the moment a certain call came over the radio—say a 10-33, code for an officer in trouble—their lives could irrevocably change. Sandy might have been mentally preparing for this ever since she’d said her wedding vows, or maybe, like Jamie, she’d tried to block out the fear that was an unwelcome adjunct to her husband’s job. Jamie didn’t know because they’d never discussed it. Doing so would have seemed like tempting fate.

“The pool sounds good,” Sandy was saying.

“Just grab your bathing suits and I’ll swing by and pick you up,” Jamie said, pulling the jar of peanut butter back out of the cabinet and opening the refrigerator to find the bread. “I’ve got lunch for everyone, too.”

“I made some chocolate chip cookies this morning,” Sandy said. “I’ll throw those into a Tupperware and bring them along.”

“Perfect,” Jamie said, marveling at Sandy’s competence, especially now.

After hanging up and making more sandwiches and managing to shepherd everyone into the minivan, then immediately circling back home to pick up Eloise’s sandals, despite the fact that Jamie argued they were just going to the pool and didn’t need shoes (knowing, even as she spoke, that it was impossible for anyone to win arguments with three-year-olds, who were as determined and illogical as drunks), they drove the two miles to Sandy and Ritchie’s house.

Jamie could see a few off-duty officers working in the front yard, carrying planks of wood from a pile on the lawn to the side door. They were building a wheelchair ramp, she realized. Ritchie would be in one for a few months when he came home. Jamie had no doubt the officers would be back to tear down the ramp when it was time for Ritchie to graduate to a walker. Doctors were hopeful he would be able to stand on
his own within six months or so, but they were less willing to predict how quickly he’d recover mentally—or if there would ever be a complete recovery.

Sandy came out the front door, a beach bag in her hand and Finn and Daisy by her side. One of the officers picked up Finn and flipped him over his shoulder. Finn squealed and laughed, especially when the officer pretended to put him on the hood instead of inside the minivan.

The brotherhood in blue, Jamie thought. Stories about police brutality and corruption always made headlines, but overlooked were these quieter truths: the fierce loyalty and unexpected kindnesses members of the force shared. Sure, they teased each other, often viciously: One pudgy detective was nicknamed Stay Puft in homage to a brand of marshmallows, and another officer, who’d tried to pull open a door marked
PUSH
during his first day, would forever be known as Einstein. Mike was jokingly called Rambo, because of his dark hair and muscles. Insults flew fast and furious around the building at morning roll call, yet whenever someone was hurt or suffering, the force appeared, steadily as the ocean tide coming in.

“Hey, girl,” Jamie called, pressing a button to open the minivan’s side door for the kids. That automatic function was the only upgrade she’d wanted when they purchased the vehicle from a used-car lot. Forget heated seats and sunroofs—when you were carrying one kid and holding the hand of another while juggling three grocery bags and dodging cars as you wove your way through a parking lot, that was the feature that won a mother’s heart.

Sandy climbed into the passenger’s seat and leaned over to give Jamie a hug. “Thanks for this,” she said. Sandy’s dark brown skin was as fresh and unlined as ever, but her eyes looked tired.

She was drawing on a deep reservoir of courage and strength for Ritchie and the kids, Jamie thought. Would she
be able to do the same, if their positions had been reversed? If Mike hadn’t nudged Ritchie out the door first? Jamie pushed away the invading thought.

“I’m so glad you were free!” Jamie said. She waited until the kids strapped themselves in, then waved good-bye to the officers and put the van in gear. “How’s Ritchie?”

“We’re going to have dinner with him tonight,” Sandy said. “He’s getting pretty good with a spoon.”

“That’s great!” Jamie said. Tall, strong Ritchie, who did triathlons and baked his own kale chips before it was fashionable—his nickname was Tree Hugger—was learning to master a spoon. She wouldn’t cry, Jamie told herself. If Sandy could power through this, everyone else should be able to as well.

“A fork’s still a challenge, though,” Sandy said.

“He’ll get there,” Jamie said. “I thought I’d go with Mike when he visits this weekend . . . so if you need a break to get things done around the house or whatever, let me know. I can time it to then so you’ll know Ritchie has company. And you can drop off the kids on Sunday if you want to visit him alone.”

“Thanks,” Sandy said. “They usually like to go with me, but maybe I’ll take you up on it sometime.”

Jamie hesitated, not knowing if bringing up happier memories of Ritchie would be painful or welcome. Maybe Sandy just needed a day off from thinking . . . But in the end, she decided to risk it.

“Remember when the guys answered the call from the woman who was in the shower and had heard a man’s voice in her room? And it turned out to be the woman’s father on the answering machine?”

Sandy laughed and seemed to relax a little in her seat. “They were so mad. They thought it was going to be their first big arrest.”

“And then the next day someone attached an old answering machine to their lockers with evidence tape,” Jamie said.

As they traded memories about their husbands’ early days on the force, Jamie thought about how she and Sandy had gravitated toward each other at softball games and annual picnics, knowing their friendship was inevitable because of their husbands’ bond. Some officers switched partners a few times before finding a good match, but as different as they were, Mike and Ritchie had hit it off immediately. Maybe that was
why
they’d hit it off. Ritchie was calm and placid, whereas Mike’s temper could run hot. Ritchie liked classical music, Mike liked classic rock. Mike once lost a bet and had to eat a kale chip; he’d ended up spitting it out on his dashboard. But through the years, Mike had turned into a fan of NPR’s
Morning Edition,
and Ritchie had recently declared the Kiss song “Beth” one of his top ten favorites.

“Is a bad guy going to shoot my daddy, too?”

The little voice cut through the air.

Jamie froze, but Sandy recovered quickly and answered Eloise, her voice warm and reassuring. For that, Jamie would forever be grateful.

“Of course not, honey,” Sandy said, twisting around to look at the little girl. “Your daddy is very safe.”

Jamie waited for Eloise to continue the conversation, but she didn’t. Kids were remarkable that way; they often spoke truths that adults were too scared to address, then they moved on. At least Jamie thought Eloise had moved on. She and Mike had told the kids about Ritchie’s injury in vague terms, assuring them the bad guy was in jail (the lie seeming less upsetting than the alternative). They’d promised that the doctors would help Ritchie get better. But Eloise’s question seemed to pierce through Jamie like a sharp-ribbed arrow, deflating the sense of optimism she’d tried to conjure for the day.

Jamie pulled into the pool’s crowded parking lot, finally finding a space near the back. “We’re here!” she announced unnecessarily, wanting to fill the quiet.

Mike had never been shot—but he’d been stabbed once, by
a junkie he and Ritchie had taken in after the woman lay down in the middle of the road for a nap. Mike had made the mistake of letting down his guard because she was young and female, but he’d spotted the knife arcing toward his chest in time to deflect it with his forearm. He’d needed twelve stitches, and a white scar still bisected the skin above his elbow. And now he was back at work, a weakened version of himself, patrolling the streets that seemed more unsafe than ever.