We Are Not Like Them(40)

Sadness casts a pall over the room.

“This is Riley Wilson from the news,” Tamara introduces me. “Riley, this is everyone. The entire neighborhood has been coming over and sitting with me. Less people today because of the march.”

“I was just watching some footage from the march. It’s a really strong turnout for Justin.”

“I wish I coulda kept it together to go. But no, it was too much—being the center of attention, having everyone looking at me… It woulda broke me.”

Wes rises from a giant lounger in the corner that reminds me of Gigi’s. He doesn’t hesitate before reaching out and hugging me as well. “Riley. Long time no see,” he jokes.

I allow his chiseled arms to engulf me, my cheek pressed firmly to his broad chest. Now, standing here in his embrace, our connection feels all the more intense, like he’s someone I’ve known forever.

“Do you need a drink?” Tamara offers. “Water? A Coke? We have plenty of food too; people have been dropping it off nonstop. So help yourself.”

I already feel like an intruder; I’m hardly going to grab a paper plate of green-bean casserole. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

Tamara goes over to the small galley kitchen, opens the fridge door, and closes it again without taking anything out. She runs her hands up and down her jeans, looks around as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with me now that I’m here. Wes, who shadows his sister closely, puts his hands on her shoulders. “Take it a minute at a time, sis. You don’t need to do this right now if you aren’t up for it.”

“No, no, I can do it.”

Wes turns to me. “Do you want to see Justin’s room? We can do the interview in there if you want.”

I nod and follow the two of them a few steps down the hall. Hanging on the closed door is one of those personalized little Pennsylvania license plates that reads JUSTIN. Tamara prepares herself with a deep breath and then opens the door. She walks a few feet into the room, plops down on the bed. It’s covered with a pilly plaid comforter. She grabs a pillow, holds it to her face. “I keep coming in here and smelling his pillow. How long do you think it’ll keep smelling like him?”

“We won’t ever wash it.” Wes leans in and takes a whiff.

I take in the room—half-finished models of dusty dinosaurs perch on the shelves; an iconic, and apparently timeless, poster of Tupac hangs above the bed; a trombone case leans against it; and a tattered paperback, Of Mice and Men, lies facedown on the desk next to a small tank with one lone goldfish swimming in lazy circles. Loose socks are scattered around the floor. It already feels like a shrine.

Tamara’s red-rimmed eyes are focused on watching the fish in the tank. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

“I couldn’t have made it through the last week without this man, without my brother. Wes was there in the hospital with me when we finally let Justin go… when I told them to go ahead and pull the plug.”

“I couldn’t stay in there when they did it, when they unhooked him,” Wes admits.

“I was alone in there when my baby died. And then I couldn’t figure out how to leave. I crawled up on that bed and held him tight until the breath went out of his body.” She trembles and grips her brother like he’s a lifeline.

Then she fixes her gaze on me as if she’s remembered I’m there, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Do you have kids?”

“No,” I respond, trying not to sound defensive. Whenever I get asked this, which is all the time, my answer always feels wrong. I hope it doesn’t make her think I can’t relate to her loss, even though it’s probably somewhat true that I can’t.

“I’ve only got one child.” She says it like Justin is still right here, like he isn’t gone, wishful thinking, the power of language to keep him alive. “He’s the best thing I’ll ever do.”

“I wish I could have known him.” Reaching for adequate words is like trying to grasp at air.

The doorbell rings, and Tamara jumps a little. “No one ever uses the doorbell. I better see who that is. I’ll be back.” Wes trails her closely like he can’t bear to be away from her side.

It’s too early for it to be my crew—probably another neighbor with a deli platter. I catch snatches of Tamara mumbling to herself as she walks down the hall. It has the gentle cadence and hushed tones of a prayer.

Alone in Justin’s room, I feel even more like an intruder. I remain in the doorway and mentally plan out the interview logistics. I can sit in the desk chair beneath the window and Tamara can sit on the edge of the bed, with Bart, my cameraman, positioned right where I’m standing now. We’ll need to hang some lights along the closet, but it’s a good setup, intimate and personal. I’m so relieved about how well the staging works that it takes me a second to feel queasy about the direction of my thoughts.

Tentatively, I make my way over to the desk chair for a sense of how it might be to sit there for the interview. My phone buzzes. When I pull it out and see the name splashed across the screen, I jerk my head over my shoulder, worried I might find Tamara right behind me, that she might see Jenny’s name. Tupac glares down at me like one of those Renaissance portraits, his eyes following my every move.

It’s a terrifying transgression to read this text, from this person, in this room. But curiosity gets the better of me. I take another look over my shoulder and open the message.