Saint Anything(94)

“I’m realizing . . .” I began, then stopped, taking a breath. “Maybe I didn’t know exactly how he was feeling. I assumed a lot. I feel kind of bad about it.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said. “Relationships evolve, just like people do. Just because you know someone doesn’t mean you know everything about them. Even your brother.”

“It’s just weird. Like, I got used to talking with him, but he’s not speaking to my mom and not calling.” I looked down at my keys. “He got upset with her about being so involved in his life, even in prison. So now I’m her main project.”

“I did hear,” she said, “that you’ve been otherwise occupied.”

I glanced over at CrashBurger: there was no sign of Layla. According to the sign outside the bank, it was now 5:04. My mom was waiting. But I didn’t want to leave, not yet. “The thing is, I can admit I did something I shouldn’t have. Broke her trust. But it was the only time I ever did, the only time I’ve done anything wrong. By the way she’s punished me, you’d think I was the one who almost killed someone.”

A car drove by, the music loud and all bass, in that way that makes your teeth hurt. Mrs. Chatham waited until they passed us, then said, “She’s scared, Sydney. She doesn’t want to lose you, too.”

“It’s not fair, though. I’m paying for what Peyton did. Again. I’m sick of it.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “Remember how you told me how often you think about that boy? The one your brother hurt?”

“David Ibarra,” I said.

She nodded. “If you feel that way, that strongly, that guilty, can you even imagine how it is for her? You were just a bystander. But your brother, that’s her child. Her responsibility. Whatever he does is part of her. Always.”

I thought of Rosie. With her bust, she’d only really hurt herself. Or so I’d thought.

“What I’m saying is that she can’t take back what he did, or even begin to fix it,” she continued. “But she can try to make sure, with you, that it never happens again on her watch. It’s all about regret and how you deal with it. That’s something you two have in common. Maybe you should talk to her about it.”

“She doesn’t discuss David Ibarra, ever,” I told her. “As far as she’s concerned, it’s all about Peyton.”

“Just because a person isn’t talking about something doesn’t mean it’s not on their mind. Often, in fact, it’s why they won’t speak of it.”

I was quiet a moment, thinking about how Peyton had surprised me. Then I said, “Because it makes it real.”

“Exactly.”

A breeze blew up behind me, kicking some leaves into the air. I wished, in that moment, that I was at Commons Park with Mac, not thinking about any of this. It was easier to just be mad at my mom; sympathy and empathy are complicated things. But nothing had been simple, not for a long time. I looked at the clock. 5:10.

“I should go,” I said as Rosie came out of the pharmacy, a bag in her hand. Still no sign of Layla. “She freaks out if I’m unaccounted for.”

Mrs. Chatham nodded, then slid a hand out the window toward me, palm up, fingers spread. I gave her my own hand, and she squeezed it tight. “Just think about what I said, yes? About talking to her.”

“I will,” I replied. “And thanks.”

She winked at me, then released my hand, just as Rosie got in, climbing back behind the wheel. Once in my car, I looked over at them, sitting there together. They were talking, Rosie drinking a soda while her mom ate from a bag of potato chips. I watched her pop one in her mouth, then offer the bag over. Rosie took one, then handed her the soda to take a sip. All wordless, so natural, a sync long established. It was such a little thing, hardly important, but it stayed with me all the way home.

*

“Well, that’s just ridiculous. I’ve never even heard of such a thing.” I’d come home with Mrs. Chatham still on my mind. When I pulled up to the house and saw Ames’s Lexus in the driveway, however, any possibility of bridging the topic of David Ibarra with my mom was shot. Inside, I found him at the kitchen table, while she stood at the stove, stirring a risotto.

“I’ve only been late one month before this,” Ames was saying. “One! I think they just wanted me out so they could jack up the rent for some other sucker.”

“You need to look at your lease,” my mom told him, glancing at me as I put my backpack on the counter. “See if they’re actually allowed to do this. I could call Sawyer, if you like.”

“No, I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” Ames replied. Then he looked at me. “Sydney! I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Work ran late?” my mom asked. Of course she’d noticed.

“Just a little,” I said. “Can I help with anything?”

“You could set the table. Put a place for Ames; he’s staying.”

“Oh, Julie,” he said, as if he didn’t know being over at this hour meant an automatic invitation, “you don’t have to take pity on me. I’m a big boy.”

“You’re practically homeless,” she replied. “The least I can do is feed you.”

I walked over to the silverware drawer behind the kitchen table, making a concentrated point not to look at Ames. “My crooked landlord kicked me out today,” he explained anyway. “Add that to being laid off last week and I’m batting a thousand.”