Page 24 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Twenty-Three

Tristan

I fumble with the button to pick up the call and walk out into the kitchen. “Mom, I was just picking up the phone to call you.”

“Oh?” Her voice is strange, shaky, and full of emotion that I can’t place. “You must have sensed I need to talk.”

“Is something wrong?”

She doesn’t answer directly. “I have … news, Tristan.”

“Are you sick?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she hurries to assure me. I lean against the kitchen counter and wait. “I guess I just need to come out and say it. Your brother is dead.”

My mind goes completely blank. I say nothing.

“Honey, are you there?”

I struggle to remember how to speak and finally manage to string sounds into words and the words into a sentence. “What do you mean, Tate’s dead?”

“Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are.”

“I didn’t know you were in contact with Tate.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t,” she stammers. “I haven’t spoken to Tate since that bad haboob. When was that? Maybe twelve —?”

“Fourteen years ago,” I tell her with the certainty of a person who’s just relived that day.

She considers my answer for a moment, then says, “That’s right. It’s been fourteen years. I haven’t talked to him since … all of that.”

“Then how do you know he’s dead?”

“I got a phone call. Apparently, your brother was living in Ohio. His psychiatrist called because Tate had listed me as his next of kin.”

My stomach drops. “Tate was seeing a psychiatrist?”

“I couldn’t believe it either,” my mother says, misunderstanding the tone in my voice. “But Dr. Wilde said he’s been treating Tate for six years now.”

Dr. Wilde? My heart thumps so loudly I wonder if my mother can hear it through the phone.

I guess not, because she doesn’t miss a beat.

“The police called his office because his number was the only one saved in Tate’s phone.”

My mind spins, racing to make sense of what she’s saying. As far as Dr. Wilde knows, I’m Tate Weakes. And I am very much not dead.

How do I explain her estranged son isn’t dead but instead has engineered some sick, messed-up hoax?

“Who found him?”

“The doctor didn’t have any details. He didn’t even know who called. Just that it was the police. The person left a message with his service, but no name.”

“That’s odd,” I manage.

“Another odd thing is that Tate didn’t tell his psychotherapist we were estranged. The doctor seems to think we had a relationship.”

This is exactly what Dr. Wilde would think because he and I have talked at length about how my mother and I have never dealt with our shared ordeal and the impact that silence has had on our relationship.

I let her keep talking because I know she needs to, but I’m lost in my thoughts, only half-listening, until I hear the words, ‘crime lab.’

“I’m sorry, Mom. I missed that.”

“I said I wonder, since you work for the crime lab, if you could reach out to the authorities in Ohio to find out what happened. Maybe ask how he died and how we can get his body back? I don’t know what else to do. I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Her voice breaks.

“You start by going over to Mrs. Chavez’s house. Stay with her. Let her comfort you. I’ll make all the arrangements. I’ll take care of this.”

All these years later, Jessica Chavez is still my mother’s neighbor and best friend. She won’t hesitate. She’ll take one look at my mom and envelope her in a badly needed hug.

“That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll do that,” she says, too vaguely for my liking.

“Let’s do it this way. Stay on the phone and walk across the street to Jessica’s now. I’m not going to hang up until I know that you’re with her.”

“Honey, I’m going to be okay.”

“Humor me anyway.”

“Tristan,” she begins in a tentative voice.

I immediately know what she’s about to ask and my chest tightens. “Yeah, Mom?”

“You don’t think … what if Tate killed himself? Like your father did. What if he did something and couldn’t live with himself anymore?”

It’s an understandable question. Unless, of course, you know damn well, like I do, that Tate’s not dead. But I certainly can’t tell her that.

I exhale slowly. “Look, we don’t know anything about Tate’s life. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe he got hit by a train. Maybe he had cancer. Maybe he died rescuing a bunch of stray animals from a fire. Don’t let your mind immediately go to suicide—or any of the rest of it.”

“You’re right.” I hear rustling as she puts on her shoes, the jingle of her keys. Eventually, the door opens and closes, and the faint sound of street traffic filters through the phone as she crosses the street. “Okay, honey. I’m at Jessica’s.” The doorbell rings.

“I’ll take care of this,” I promise.

“I know you will.”

“Oh, Tara. This is a nice surprise.” Jessica’s voice, distant, comes through the phone. She must see something on my mother’s face because her voice falls. “Oh, sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“My son is dead,” Mom blurts.

“Tristan’s dead? Oh my God, what happened?”

“No, not Tristan.”

“I don’t … what?”

I realize my mother has never mentioned another son to Jessica. The apple doesn’t fall far, does it?

“Mom, hand the phone to Jessica, please,” I say.

A moment later, my mother’s friend’s voice is in my ear. “Tristan, what’s going on? Your mother said her son is dead. You have a brother?”

“It’s a really long story, and I’m sure my mom will share it when she’s ready,” I hedge. “Please tell me you’ll take care of her because I can’t get out there for a while.”

Confusion still clouds Jessica’s voice, but she reacts as I know she will.

“Of course. She’ll stay with me. I wouldn’t hear of anything else. I’ll take good care of her.”

“Thank you.”

“Tristan you know you don’t need to thank me. You and Tara are like family. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Right. My loss. I roll my eyes but murmur something appreciative.

She passes the phone back to my mother.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell her.

“What do I tell Jessica about Tate?” she whispers, although I’m sure the woman is standing right there and can hear her.

“You should tell her as much as you’re comfortable sharing.”

“Oh, that’s not?—”

“Mom, it’s time,” I say as gently as I can. “She’s your friend. She’ll understand and support you.”

“I don’t know,” she hedges.

I’m sure the idea terrifies her. I know it terrifies me. My mother and I have been keeping secrets for as long as I can remember. I equate secrets with safety. No doubt she does, too.

“You don’t have to decide right now, but promise you’ll think about it. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, baby. Thank you.”

“Of course, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you more,” she says, as she always does, and we end the call.

I drop my head into my hands and stare down at the table trying to work out my next move. And Tate’s.