Whisper Me This(101)

“Sit down, Tony,” his mother says. “We need to talk to you.”

“I think I’ll stand.” He leans his back against a wall, surveying the forces arrayed against him. He loves them all, but knows full well that when they unite in a common mission, they are formidable. His mother. His oldest sister, Theresa, fourteen years older and in many ways more mother than sister. He’s a foot taller than she is now, and has about a hundred pounds of muscle on her, but inside he still quakes when she looks at him like she is looking now.

Vanessa and Jess, only one year apart and always attached at the hip. As little kids, they shared everything and even had a special language for a while that the rest of the family couldn’t interpret. They married brothers and live on the same street, sharing kids and household chores. Between them, they manage school fund-raisers, community blood drives, two husbands, and seven kids. There is no project they won’t tackle, and right now that project would appear to be Tony.

Barb, quiet and thoughtful. Generally she minds her own business, and he knows it’s a busy time of year for her. She’ll be working horses, keeping an eye on the cattle, helping to get the fields planted on the ranch. The fact that she is now sitting in his house, with her hair braided to stay out of her way and mud on her boots, is possibly the most ominous sign of all.

“I’m frightened,” Tony says, lightly. “You are all far too serious for my own good.”

And he is frightened, although he hates himself for this fear. The blood is loud in his ears. His breath keeps catching in his throat. His knees are even a little wobbly, and he wishes he’d opted to sit down.

“It’s time we had a little talk about your father,” his mother says. “Well past time, really.”

Tony’s throat constricts. “And if I politely decline?”

“Not an option.” Theresa leans forward in her chair and sets both of her capable hands on her knees, bracing herself. “This isn’t easy for any of us, Tonio. But there are things that need to be said.”

“Why now?” he asks. “We’ve managed not to talk about it for, what, twenty-seven years? Seems like there should be a statute of limitations on certain topics of conversation.”

“You’re having nightmares,” Mia says. “You think I don’t hear you talking in your sleep? That I don’t notice you getting up and checking doors?”

“My sleep problems are my own business,” he says. “Please. I know you all mean well, but this isn’t going to help me.”

“There’s also Maisey,” Mia says.

“What does she have to do with any of this?”

“Tony. Look at me.” His mother is so incredibly calm. She reminds him of the maple out back that holds his treehouse. Her roots run deep into the earth. She sways with the wind but never breaks.

And yet, it’s her voice he hears screaming in his flashbacks and his nightmares. Hers. Theresa’s. Vanessa. Jess. Barb. Mia. All of them were there that night. All of them know what he did. The thing they’ve never talked about. The thing they inexplicably want to talk about now.

“I was too broken to talk to you right after,” his mother says now. “I sent you to the counselor to do what I should have done myself. I am sorry for that.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. His voice is rough in his throat, sandpaper. The words hurt him. His breathing hurts him. All their eyes on him, the weight of their collective memory, hurts him.

Vanessa and Jess wrap their arms around each other. Mia’s face is wet with tears. Even Barb’s sun-weathered face is creased with grief.

But his mother continues, perfectly calm. “It never occurred to me to ask you what you remember about that night. What you believe. You were only a child, Tony. I’m not sure if you realize that.”

“I was twelve!” His voice sounds angry, the rage he feels at himself breaking through his reserves. “Old enough to know what I was about.”

“Same age as Elle is now,” Mia says, very softly. “Think on that, Tony.”

“Not even a big twelve,” Barb agrees. “I could still take you in a fight.”

“We were all bigger than you,” Vanessa says, “except for Mia.”

Tony closes his eyes. In his memory, in his dreams, he’s always the size he is now. Six foot two, two hundred pounds of highly capable muscle. With their words, he has a sudden flash of himself at twelve, a skinny kid. Bookish. Shy.

It’s too much of a shift for him. He shakes his head. “Old enough to think of something else.”

Theresa gets up and crosses the room to him, takes his hands. He lets her, surprised to discover that hers have age spots. She’s fifty-three and was twenty-six the night it happened.

Which is another trick his memory has played. He always sees her as a terrified child, huddled in the corner with the rest of his sisters. She was home for Thanksgiving, he remembers now. Had moved out the day after she graduated from high school.

“I’ve always felt guilty,” Theresa says. “I took off as soon as I was legal and left the rest of you in that house. I didn’t have the guts to do what you did. I wish to God I had been the one to pull the trigger.”

Her words carry him back to the cramped living room of the run-down house in Seattle. His sisters are all weeping silently, huddled in a little knot at the end of the sofa, as far away from his father as they can get.