We Are Not Like Them(24)

Finally, she meets my eyes. “I don’t know, maybe, Jen. Maybe.” It was like admitting that cost her something. “And, well, it’s not usually white kids being accidentally shot by police, is it?” This time there’s no stammering: the question glides out of her mouth and slices like a knife.

“Look, I don’t want to turn this into a conversation about what kind of lives matter. This isn’t even about race, Riley. It’s about Kevin.”

“How can you even think this isn’t about—”

I cut her off. I hate where this conversation is going. The anger that’s been simmering beneath the surface since I sat down is building into a furious blaze. It’s the only reason I say what I do next. “You never liked Kevin. That’s the real reason you won’t do the interview. Admit it.”

I don’t even know if I believe that. It’s more like an idea I’m trying out in the moment, and the accusation, being on the offensive, it feels good. Or maybe it is true. Maybe Riley tolerated Kevin all these years but never really liked him, and that’s why she won’t help us. I’ll always have to wonder, because I’m out the door before she can even open her mouth.



* * *




Ever since I was little, I’ve loved cramped, claustrophobic spaces. I would nestle into Lou’s closet, cocooned in the familiar scents of faux leather and stale cigarette smoke; it made me feel safe somehow. At the moment, this closet-size powder room in my mother-in-law’s house is the closest I can get to squirreling myself away. I know better than to hide in Cookie’s closet.

I sit on the lid of the toilet and replay the conversation at Monty’s, trying to make sense of it. It’s been five full days since Riley and I have spoken. It’s the longest we’ve gone without talking or texting or emailing that I can remember. I do some deep breathing. That’s all I do these days: deep-breathing exercises. There’s a basket of cinnamon-scented potpourri on top of the toilet tank, and I can almost taste it with each inhale. I stare at the peeling floral wallpaper in front of me, fight the urge to grab the loose corner and tear it all off. It would be so satisfying to do that, to destroy this one little thing.

Cookie’s voice travels down the hall. I can’t make out what she’s saying, only the shrill cadence, the soundtrack of my life since Kevin and I moved in with his parents last Friday, the night after the shooting. We’re hoping the reporters and protesters won’t follow us all the way out here to Bucks County. But every so often, I peek through the curtains in the living room and expect to spot a news van. It’s probably only a matter of time. They’re still camped out at our house, round the clock, waiting for someone to arrive or emerge so they can swarm like flies to a carcass. I know this because Mrs. Jackowski from next door texts me updates.

“Where did Jenny get off to? Is she okay? She’s got to keep it together.” Cookie’s voice fills the bathroom now, loud and clear, as if that’s her intention, which it damn well is.

Cookie’s had this song on repeat over the last week, that I’m checked out, that I’m not doing enough to help Kevin. It’s so obvious Cookie is projecting her own powerlessness onto me, but that doesn’t make it any easier not to scream at her, What the hell am I supposed to do exactly? Tell me and I’ll do it!

I keep swinging wildly back and forth between a manic adrenaline rush—How can we fix this, what do I do?—to shutting down, pretending this is all happening to someone else, until I can’t pretend any longer. Like now.

I splash cold water on my face and take yet another deep breath. “Come on, Little Bird, we got this,” I whisper to my stomach before forcing myself to open the door. I find Kevin and Frank exactly as they have been for the last hour, father and son sitting at the built-in banquette in the corner of the kitchen, which has essentially become a war room.

“There you are!” Cookie looks up from chopping celery as I slide in beside Kevin on the upholstered bench. I rest my head on his shoulder; he leans his own down to rest atop mine. We fit together like puzzle pieces. His thigh brushes my leg, and I shift to keep us close. We used to touch all the time, back when we were dating and first married, our various body parts finding each other like they were magnetized. But somewhere along the way—maybe when we started scheduling sex on a Google calendar—we stopped reaching for each other. Now I find myself seeking him out whenever I’m near him, a hand squeeze, a shoulder rub, anything to say, I’m here. Whatever Cookie might think, I am. I’m trying.

Fred spots me through the patio doors and offers a pathetic whine. She’s not happy either, being exiled here at Cookie and Frank’s house, especially since Cookie keeps her locked in the backyard.

“Julia Sanchez will be here any moment, you know.”

Cookie’s accusatory tone makes me clutch the table so hard my knuckles turn white. Of course I know the media consultant sent by the union will be here any moment. Cookie’s only reminded us like a hundred times, which is pretty hilarious because she didn’t even know what a media consultant was until two days ago, and now she thinks this woman can magically make the world stop hating her son.

“We know…,” I say.

“You keep telling us,” Kevin finishes my sentence, another habit we fell out of since we were first married.

My mother-in-law wipes her hands furiously on a tea towel. Cookie is somehow always wiping her hands on a tea towel. She has an absurdly large collection of them.