You'd Be Home Now (79)

She leaves the office.

Slowly, Joey reaches out and places his hand over the baggie. Puts it into his pocket. Turns around and disappears into the back of the hoagie shop.

No. No. No.

“He went on a restroom break,” Hank says. “So I came back and covered the register.”

In the video, Hank is at the counter now, wiping it down, tidying up the napkin dispenser.

How many minutes are passing between the moment Joey stops being the Joey we know now and becomes the Joey we knew last year? I can’t tell.

I think of what he told me. Feeling wings spreading inside himself. Like he was loved, but also didn’t care if he was loved.

That he’s probably thinking since he already slipped once, why would it matter now?

I let you down.

Joey appears back on camera. Hank stays for a minute.

“I was asking if he was okay. He looked paler. He said he was all right. I’m sorry.” Hank is twisting his orange Hank’s Hoagies cap in his hands.

Hank leaves the register and Joey restocks napkins, takes orders, and slowly, I begin to see it.

    We can all see it.

The way his movements get slower. Each punch of the register keys takes longer than the one before. He starts weaving back and forth. He slumps forward, his head drifting to the counter. A customer waves his hands and Hank comes out, pats Joey on the back.

“He looked very sick, like I said. The flu. A stomach thing. I told him to go home.”

“I’m a doctor,” my dad says softly. “It’s probably heroin. He’s about to throw up. And after that, he’ll either be very, very high, or very, very dead. Oh, Joey.”

My dad’s voice cracks. He reaches for my hand, holds it hard.

“And then he left,” Hank says. “You can see from the alley view, right here, that he gets in his car and drives away.”

One of the policemen is taking notes. “We’ll track his cell, but he probably ditched it after texting his sister. And we can keep a lookout for the car, but in my experience, he’s probably going to sell it for parts for quick money. Chop shop or something. Whatever he can get.”

“How would he even know how to do that?” my father asks.

Ted the tall cop shrugs. “You’d be surprised. People and drugs…it’s like living a double life.”

Caroline shakes her head. “This is so very sad. So many people like this now. Here, in Mill Haven, of all places.”

“Did you check the register, Hank? Any money missing?”

“He’s not a thief,” my father says.

“It’s not him, sir,” says Ted. “It’s his addiction. People do what they have to.”

Hank says, “The money is fine. It’s already been counted. I do hope you find him soon, though. It’s his birthday in four days. See, I have the employee birthday calendar right here. We buy a cake, sing a song.”

    “It’s a real nice time,” Caroline adds.

He shows us a tiny desk calendar. Someone has drawn a birthday cake and written Joey on the date.

My dad sucks in his breath, hard.

“What?” I say. “What?”

“He turns eighteen,” my father says, his voice barely a whisper. “And then it’s no longer a priority to look for him. He’s an adult. He can do as he pleases. Isn’t that right?”

I squeeze my dad’s hand.

If we don’t find Joey soon, we’ll lose him forever.

The policemen look at each other and then my dad.

“That’s correct,” Ted says kindly. “He wouldn’t be a priority. He’s eighteen and he can go wherever he likes.”



* * *



—

My mother sits in silence in the backseat as we drive home. The not-talking is killing me. I want them to say something, do something, anything, so we don’t have to sit in the silence anymore.

“Dad,” I say suddenly. “Turn here.”

“Why?”

“It’s the bridge. Where the ghosties are. Let me check. Maybe he’s there.”

“Emory,” my mother says sharply. “That’s dangerous. I can’t have you going down there. That’s for the police.”

“Dad,” I say, ignoring her, my voice hard. “Turn, let me look.”

My dad puts the turn signal on.

“Neil!”

    “He’s our son, Abigail.”

He parks in the dirt lot that overlooks Frost Bridge and the river.

You can see them from there. Tarps and tents, shopping carts and sleeping bags. A few fires in metal trash cans, flickering in the light rain.

“We’ll be right back,” my dad tells my mom. “Text Nana. Let her know what’s happening.”

My father and I get out of the car and pick our way down the wet, worn path in the dark, stepping over crushed soda cups. Condoms. Needles.

“Be careful,” he says.

But I don’t care. I just want to get down to the site, to see if Joey is there.

“Emmy,” my father says. “Don’t just go barreling in there.”

I turn around. “Dad, I want to find Joey. Don’t you?”

“I do, Emory.” He takes a deep breath. “But this is their home. It’s not just something you barge into. You wouldn’t like it if someone just broke down our door, would you? You can show respect.”