The Perfect Plan Read online

  What if she escapes?

  That can’t happen. I taped her perfectly. Just like I researched. She won’t be able to get free. Plus, I secured the padlock. And the windows are boarded. There’s just no way.

  But what if?

  My head shakes.

  Nononono

  I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the luxury. I need to stick to the moves I’ve laid out. Thought out. It’s all too dangerous now to get distracted.

  Blinking, I look around. I’m about four blocks from where I left my truck. So I slam my foot down on the brake. The car stops. I see the guy’s eyes widen. I hear his brakes locking. His tires squealing, smoking. His bumper hits the Jetta, but not hard.

  Leaving the key in the ignition, the engine running, I put the car in park. Then I open the door and step out into the street. Horns blare. More tires skid and cry out. I look back at the line of cars behind me. And I see the guy lurching out of his truck. He is bearded and thick with a cheap white button-down and jeans. Rage burns in his eyes.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole!”

  He walks quickly toward me. Coming up on me. I just stare at him for a second. His rage is infectious. It triggers my already frayed nerves. Suddenly, like a light blinking out, the plan is gone. All I see is this guy rushing me. All I can think about is what I’m going to do to him.

  He doesn’t see it. He keeps coming, thinking that this is going to go his way. For my part, I just stand there, turning my body to the side, just a little bit. Just enough. I know what he’s going to do. He’ll come in hot. Get right in my face. And stop. Right there. If he was calling the shots, he would start off talking all big. Maybe give me a push. Size me up. Possibly make a move if I showed a hint of submission. But he’s not calling the shots. He never was.

  When he’s about three steps away, still moving at a pretty good clip, I take a step forward and to the side with my lead foot. At the same time, my right hand shoots out, past his head. I see his eyes widen when he realizes that there will be no strutting. No talking. I haven’t said a word, in fact.

  I hook him by the back of the neck and pull him toward me. I turn all the way to my side, pushing him past me, into the corner of the Jetta. He hits it, hard, right above his knee. He folds over the hood awkwardly. I turn, reaching for his head, wanting to slam it into the car, but hit his back instead. He sort of rolls and tries to bounce up. So I grab him by the throat with my left hand. I squeeze and lean down, putting my body right up to his, pinning him down.

  He makes a gurgling sound. I imagine it is groveling. Some pitiful attempt to pay the check his misplaced bravado had written a second before. But I don’t want to hear another word. All I want to do is squeeze. To hurt him. To show him who’s stupid.

  Stupid.

  The voice I hear in my head is not my own. It’s not this bearded asshole’s, though. It’s his. And when I hear it, my muscles freeze. My eyes open all the way. My breathing sets my chest thrusting in and out. I stare at this man, my fingers on his throat. I don’t know him. I never will. And he has nothing to do with any of this.

  My grip loosens. I let go of him and straighten. With a quick look around at what I’ve done, I turn and walk away, leaving Lauren Branch’s Jetta parked in the middle of rush-hour traffic.

  12

  I think I was twelve. Maybe younger. I don’t know. But I remember the sound perfectly. A wet crack. And then a dead thump. There was no scream. Not even a moan. Just crack . . . thump.

  It happened one day after school. As my bus turned onto our street, I had my forehead up against the window. That’s how I saw them. My mother and father standing at the end of the driveway. My eyes widened and a hand came up and slapped the glass. I pressed my face against the smooth, cold surface, trying to get a better look. I was sure it was some kind of mirage that I could blink away. When I couldn’t, a strange mix of panic and excitement made me shake.

  I was just a kid. To be honest, even as the dread of my father grew deeper and deeper, I still lived in my own world. I had friends. In fact, I had been spending more and more time with them, with less and less supervision from my mother. I didn’t truly understand why or what was wrong. But I guess I noticed. That was probably why I reacted the way I did. I hadn’t seen my mom leave the house in weeks.

  Like any twelve-year-old, though, I barely knew my parents. I certainly didn’t understand their relationship. They spoke, sometimes. We had dinner at the table as a family, though it happened less frequently every week. The reality was that I sensed something awful between them. Something that made me think of my dad’s face that day when he hugged my mom. And that sour smell that clung to her now. At the same time, it was all very adult. Very subtle. And I was very young. Very naïve.

  As the bus slowed at my stop, I noticed someone else was standing with them. It was the woman who lived across the street. She had kids older than Drew and me. When I saw her, I stood up before the bus came to a complete stop. The driver sort of yelled at me but I ran past him and out the door.

  For some reason, instead of heading into the house, I went to them. As I neared, I could see the woman’s hands moving as she talked to my mom and dad. Her motion, her liveliness, made my nerves even worse. It was like she was the fuse on some giant, cartoonish bomb, her hands the sparks and her words the droning hiss.

  I have no idea what she said. Instead, I stared at my mother. It wasn’t windy, but I swear her body swayed. The way she moved reminded me of the fishing hole down in the woods. There were these really long blades of grass, or reeds. I don’t know for sure, but even when the water was calm, they moved gently back and forth. Over and over again. I used to stare at them, too, but in a very different way. Those plants always made me feel calm. My mother’s unsteadiness had the exact opposite effect.

  “That’s so . . . really nice,” my mother blurted out, interrupting the neighbor.

  I started. As much at the suddenness of her announcement as at the sound of her voice. It was thick. Sort of like she was talking through water, which made me think of that pond again. Her face seemed to change. Like I suddenly had to look at her through that same greenish murk.

  Something even more frightening happened then. I saw my father smile, a full smile. It might have been the first time. I know I’d never seen anything like it. Because he did it while looking at my mother. It looked so foreign and sad, I guess. He even put a hand on her shoulder.

  “We should probably get you back inside,” he said gently.

  I looked at the neighbor then, expecting her to feel as shocked as I did. Instead, the woman’s head tilted a little and her eyes softened. When my mother turned and headed back into the house, muttering happily to herself, the woman touched my father’s arm.

  “Remember what I said the other day.” She looked at my dad with such earnestness. “Anything you need. From any of us. You can’t do this all alone. Promise you’ll ask us for help. Okay?”

  I swear a tear came to my father’s eye as he nodded and thanked her.

  “Come on, Liam,” he said.

  He put a hand on me that day, too. A fatherly touch on my shoulder. A gentle guidance back toward the house. I walked ahead of him, feeling so off-balance. When the door shut behind us, I turned to him.

  “Is Mom okay?” I asked.

  “She’s fine,” he muttered before grabbing his keys.

  My father left without telling anyone where he was going. I hovered, somehow sensing something changed that day. That the neighbor’s words had somehow become that first domino. That when they fell on my father’s ears, the woman’s compassion set off some awful chain reaction. Honestly, even after he returned home and I heard the bottles clanking in the heavy paper bag in his hands, it would take me years to fully understand what he was doing.

  * * *

  —

  THE SOUND HAPPENED a few hours after
my father came home from the liquor store. I was probably watching television when it happened, but maybe not. I can’t recall anything for sure until after the sound. I heard it and then I was at the doorway to our kitchen. At first, I didn’t notice her. For some reason, I didn’t look down. I saw the distressed white chairs around our small round table. I saw light reflecting off of Mom’s brand-new side-by-side refrigerator. I even saw the wineglass by the sink, empty but for a small ring of blood-red at the bottom. Three empty bottles standing sentry behind it.

  She didn’t make a sound. Nor did she move. My eyes lowered naturally. And I saw her sprawled on the tile floor. In her fall, her robe had bunched around her hips. And I don’t think she wore anything under it. I saw her, down there, and my head jerked away from the sight.

  “Mom!”

  I stood frozen in place, praying silently that she would answer me. That she would get up and fix how she looked. But there was nothing. So I had to look again. I had to see if she was okay. My head turned slowly and I tried to see her but at the same time look away from where her legs lay prostrated and exposed on the kitchen floor. I focused instead on her beautiful dark hair. It fanned around her head, completely covering her face, the black strands shining as brightly as the pristine porcelain.

  I took a step closer, lowering to a crouch. That’s when I noticed the blood. It was darker than I would have thought, maybe because it clung to her hair with a gory desperation, matting it, devouring its sheen. When I saw it, the air caught in my throat. My eyes widened and my nose burned. This strange feeling coursed through my entire body, at once setting my nerves afire and freezing my muscles in place. My mouth hung open.

  I forced a single word out. “Mom?”

  She didn’t move. I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing. Panic replaced my paralysis. I sprang back to my feet, fleeing the kitchen and screaming.

  “Dad! Dad!”

  I didn’t even know if he was home. But I didn’t hesitate, either. I raced around to the stairs leading down to the basement. I took them three or four at a time and crashed down onto the red cement floor so hard that I felt it in my jaw. I didn’t stop, though. I ran across the main room, to my father’s workshop.

  “Dad!”

  I rounded the doorway and found him on his stool, his work lamp pulled low over the table, and a pair of tweezers held between two thick fingers. I stopped dead in place. I was out of breath, stunned by how calmly he sat there while Mom lay bleeding and maybe dead in the kitchen.

  13

  The windows on Clayton Street are dark now. Lifeless. The utopic lives I dreamed behind them have moved on. Gone about their day. Driven to work. Walked to the gym or the small breakfast place at the end of the block. As I approach my truck, I feel the emptiness. It triggers the loneliness I have carried for so many years. Most of my life.

  But it’s good. Not the emotions. Those I bury down with the rest. The silence, the dark windows, those are good. There are no eyes watching me slip back behind the wheel and start up the engine. No one cares as I roll down Clayton and onto Delaware. At the next two-way street, I head south. From a block away, I can see the snarl of traffic. I can hear horns and even voices.

  When I’m thirty or so yards from the intersection with Pennsylvania Avenue, I glance in my rearview. No one is there, so I make a lazy three-point turn and park. Adjusting the mirror, I can see Lauren’s Jetta a block away. As well as all the other cars inching past it. I lean back and watch the show for a second, until someone walking down the sidewalk catches my eye. It is a mother with a young boy, maybe six. He is skipping and she is holding his hand and checking her phone.

  As they pass my car, my head turns. I stop looking at what I have done, and instead feel myself slipping backwards in time. What would that little kid do in my shoes? If he found his mom on the floor. If he thought she was dying. He would panic. He would cry like a goddamn baby. That’s what he would do.

  Without realizing it, I’m scratching again. And leaning forward in the seat. I want to chase these strangers down. Scream at them, like they’ve stolen something precious from me. But they haven’t. They have nothing to do with me. I know this. But the feelings are so real. The memories so raw.

  They turn the corner, slipping from my sight, and I can breathe again. This doesn’t usually happen. I know it is because of Lauren. What I have done to her. What I am going to do. That’s what’s pushing me over the edge.

  So I dig my phone out of the front pocket of my jeans and dial his number. His real number, not the other one. When he answers, I can hear the tightness in his voice right away.

  “Where are you?” my brother asks.

  “In the city,” I say.

  I glance back at the mirror. The first police cruiser has arrived. I see the officer stepping out of the car.

  “We were supposed to meet up for breakfast today,” he says carefully. “Why aren’t you here?”

  “Sorry. Things are crazy.”

  More police arrive. One stands beside the Jetta, directing the two sides of traffic around the still-running car. The first officer stands off to the side now. He speaks with a thick man in a white shirt, the one with the beard. I can’t take my eyes off him.

  “I’m busy, Liam. You know that. I can’t afford anything going wrong right now.”

  “It’s cool,” I say. “Everything’s cool. I promise.”

  “It better be,” he says. “I suggest you head home right now.”

  I keep staring at the car, the police, the guy with the beard.

  “I will,” I say, and hang up.

  14

  I stared at my father for a second as he sat on his high stool. My life crashed down around me. Fear gripped me by the chest, crushing the air out of my lungs. While he just sat there with his stupid tweezers, staring at me over those tiny glasses.

  “It’s Mom!” I finally said.

  My father, his eyes devoid of any emotion, stared back at me. Slowly, he put the tweezers down beside whatever model he was working on. Maybe that same battleship. Maybe something else. I can’t remember. But I can still see the way he turned on the seat and took his glasses off. He cleaned them carefully with the same black cloth he always used.

  “She fell. She needs help.”

  He said nothing. He just kept making a lazy circle around the lens, over and over again. Sparks crackled inside my skull. I wanted to rush him, shake him until he woke up. But I also wanted to turn and run away, back to Mom, before it was too late. Instead, my feet pattered on the cold cement, as if dancing to my frantic uncertainty.

  “She’s bleeding. She’s not moving. I don’t think she’s breathing.”

  He stopped cleaning his glasses but he didn’t get up.

  “I told you that she’s fine,” he said.

  Then my dad went back to working on his model. I stood there for a second, but all he did was move the lamp down even closer and lean over his work. At first, I thought he didn’t believe me. Then, as he continued to work on his model, I started to not believe myself. Maybe she was fine. Maybe I’d made the whole thing up. Maybe he was right about both of us, my mother and me.

  * * *

  —

  I BARRELED BACK into the kitchen, my heart threatening to burst through my ribs. I might have been crying, even. I saw my mother first. She was there, on the floor. Real. So was the blood. I hadn’t made it up. She wasn’t fine. But then I saw Drew. He was kneeling next to her, his fingers gently touching her head. While I was gone, the blood had escaped the netting of her hair and was pooling on the white tile. It looked so red, like it might suddenly catch fire. I stared at it while Drew watched me.

  “Get me the phone,” he said.

  It took me a second, but I broke out of the daze. I lurched over and grabbed Mom’s cordless off the wall mount. I rushed back, my arm outstretched. Drew shook his head.

 
“No, call 9-1-1. Tell them we need an ambulance.”

  “You should,” I blurted out.

  I saw his eyes dart toward the basement door before he said, “Do it, Liam. Do you want her to die?”

  Shaking, I dialed the number. When someone answered, the words ran out of my mouth like a flash flood.

  “My mom’s hurt. She fell and she’s bleeding.” I looked to Drew. He turned and walked out of the kitchen. “My dad won’t come. We need help. Please.”

  The woman on the line asked me questions. I tried to answer them, but I kept interrupting.

  “Are you sending an ambulance?”

  “Yes, son. Is there an adult there that I could speak to?”

  “No, my dad—”

  I never heard him coming. I didn’t see him until the phone tore from my hand. I flinched, grabbing for it, and saw my father’s eyes. They bore into me, cutting me from the inside outward. One of his large, dry hands struck me on the chest. I pinwheeled away from him, slamming into a chair. It fell to the floor and I followed, landing on my hip.

  I lay there, afraid to move. Afraid to breathe, as my father spoke calmly to the woman. He took control. Drew reappeared and my father motioned for him to go to the front door. Then he stood over Mom. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he kept staring directly at me. He spoke clearly but quietly.

  “I’m going to hang up,” he said. “I need to be sure she’s okay.”

  I could hear the woman still speaking as my father turned and walked over to the wall mount, replacing the receiver. Then he stepped up to me, standing over me but not coming any closer. I knew I should keep looking at him, keep eye contact, but I couldn’t. So I looked away, right at Mom, at her exposed legs, and . . . everything else. I flinched again and jerked my head. My father laughed, a sound at once shockingly wrong and horribly cutting.