Dear Edward(41)

The boy wants to give his uncle an explanation, but he’s not sure what to say, because if he says that something inside his body has changed, such a statement would alarm John. But it’s true. It started yesterday in the car: a stripping of the flat sheet inside him. Walking through that crowd removed the last remaining threads. Hail Mary, full of grace. Edward realizes that he’d never been able to picture himself inside the hearing room. Had he known all along that he wasn’t going to attend? If so, then why did he come here?

He feels newly aware, newly awake. He locates himself, like a blinking dot on a map, in this building, on this floor, on this metal chair with his hands on his knees. He’s 100 percent in Washington, District of Columbia, a state that’s not a real state. He’s sitting beside his uncle. Edward understands—the knowledge arising with a surprising casualness—the real reason he doesn’t sleep in his aunt and uncle’s house. He can’t bear to live with a mother figure, who’s not his mom, and a father figure, who’s not his dad. He had the real thing, and he lost it. Also, it’s too difficult to try to pretend to be John and Lacey’s kid, when their real kids never made it, and he’s not even a kid; he’s something else altogether.

Edward leans over and puts his forehead in his hands. He thinks, in the direction of his uncle: I’m sorry.

John clears his throat. “What they announce at the hearing today is public record. It will be published on the Internet and everywhere. I wanted to hear it first and take notes in case you had any questions about it. But now, if you want to leave, that’s fine.”

“You should go to the hearing,” Edward says. “I might have questions. Shay asked me to take notes, so you could do that. I can wait here. The guard is stationed at the door. I’ll be fine.”

John gazes at him with wide eyes. “Look,” he says, “your aunt thought I was wrong to bring you here, even though you said you wanted to come. I should have listened to her. I’m too stubborn.”

Edward doesn’t like how upset his uncle looks, how upset he seems at himself. He says, “The hearing is about to start. You should definitely go.”

“Would you feel better if I went to the hearing than if I didn’t?”

“Yes.”

When John leaves, Edward remains unmoving on the hard chair. He feels the plane seatbelt around his waist. His hands are cold, like they were when he pressed his palm against the wet plane window. He remembers pressing the window, then pulling his hand away. Edward feels the warmth of his brother’s body next to his. It doesn’t feel like a memory. He feels the tightness of the airplane seatbelt around his waist as he sits on the folding chair.

Edward can feel the heartbeats of the mothers, fathers, siblings, spouses, cousins, friends, and children upstairs. His body syncs up with their sadness. He’s glad he stayed in the basement. The others are beating the plane windows with their fists, and Edward is down here because he doesn’t belong with them. He belongs with the dead, the ones who didn’t show up, the ones who know everything, and nothing.

After an hour, he hears real footsteps and looks up to see his uncle striding toward him. “The hearing just ended.” John glances over his shoulder. “We should leave right away. We’re going to meet the guard by the side door. Hundreds of people showed up, too many to fit in the room.”

Edward nods, because this makes sense to him. He’d been listening to hundreds of heartbeats.

“Most of them came because they wanted to see you, which I think is outrageous.” John waves his hand, as if to sweep those people away. “Someone from the hearing has a car and driver out back. She’s going to take us to our car, so we can avoid the crowd.” He leads the way toward the doors. “I took a lot of notes,” he says, over his shoulder. “The commissioner spoke, and I took photos of the slides they presented. I’ll show them to you when we get to our car.”

Edward’s head is shaking before his uncle has finished speaking. “That’s okay. I don’t need to see them. I don’t want to hear about why the plane crashed.”

His uncle flashes him a look. But Edward feels pleased, because after not knowing anything for sure, he knows this answer is correct. He doesn’t want to learn any more details about the worst day of his life.

It occurs to him that maybe he came to Washington to figure out what he did want. Did he want to be part of the public drama surrounding the crash? Did he want to be swarmed on sidewalks? Did he want to be told that he’s special and chosen? Did he want the kind of answers the hearing offered? He gives something approaching a smile as he follows his uncle out the door. The answer is no, on every count, and the answer is a relief. He feels like he’s deliberately walking away from something—the plane, or the burning field where it broke apart.

They cross a sidewalk and step through the open door of a very long car. From the inside, Edward decides it’s some kind of mini-limousine. There’s a suited man in the driver’s seat. Seated across from Edward is a thin elderly woman with a white bun and a velvet dress. Her hands are folded in front of her, her chin lifted. Although it never would have occurred to Edward that a person could sit with dignity—this woman does.

“Greetings, Edward,” the woman says. “My name is Louisa Cox.”

“Hello,” Edward says.

“I’m glad we brought the Bentley, Beau,” the woman says to the driver. “Its size is an asset.”