I don’t know what to say. “When? How… how often?”

Michael shrugs. “It’d have to be weekends, given that Chelsea’s school’s about to start. I figured a couple of times a month? Say, every other weekend, an hour at a time, see how it goes.”

“And if it doesn’t go well? If Evan has a bad episode?”

Michael shrugs, as if to say, what’s he supposed to do?

“It would be unfair to string them along,” I say. “To reintroduce Chelsea and Evan, only to halt the relationship again.”

“I agree. Hopefully, having a professional such as Dr. Curtin involved will help manage the downside. Then again, given Evan’s volatility… We try it or we don’t try it, Victoria. Those are the options.”

I have to think about it. He’s right, of course. There are no guarantees with a child like Evan. We’re supposed to set him up for success, but some days I don’t know what that is.

“He misses his sister,” I say at last. “He asks for Chelsea nearly every day.” I look at him. “He misses you, too.”

Michael looks down now. He studies his leather shoes. “I’ll be there every other weekend, as well.”

“The History Channel is his favorite channel,” I hear myself say. “He knows almost everything there is to know about the Romans. Dates, famous leaders, major battles. He’s smart, Michael. He’s unbelievably smart. And he’s incredibly lonely.”

“I know.”

“How… how could you leave us? How could you give up on him like that?”

“Because Chelsea’s lonely, too. And troubled and traumatized and scared to death that, one day, she’s going to wake up as violent and angry as her brother. That’s a lot for a little girl to deal with, Victoria, and as long as she lived here, it wasn’t going to get dealt with. Every day would be about Evan. But Chelsea needs us, too.”

His words are matter-of-fact. Somehow, this makes them harder to take.

“What does Melinda think of this?” I ask pointedly.

At the mention of his fiancée, Michael stiffens, but doesn’t retreat. “My kids are her kids. She gets that.”

“So you’ll start over. A new little family. Is she young? Does she want children? Does that scare the crap out of you?”

He regards me evenly. “Yes, she wants kids. And yeah, it scares the crap out of me.”

“It’s not fair,” I whisper.

“No, Victoria, it’s not.” He hesitates. For a second, I think he might say more, he might touch my cheek. Then the moment passes.

I can’t look at him anymore. I stare down at the deck and will myself not to cry. This is not about me. This is about Evan. Getting to see his sister again. Getting to see his father again. Evan and his sister reclaiming part of their family.

“I’ll bring him to the doctor’s office,” I say. “I’ll work with Dr. Curtin. If this means Evan can see you and Chelsea, I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I say, on behalf of Evan. Then I don’t speak anymore because my throat is thick with tears and I don’t want to say something stupid, such as I’m lonely, too. Or even worse, I still love you.

Michael crosses to Evan. He starts to say his goodbye. Evan doesn’t take it well. Michael negotiates a compromise. One last round of Super Soaker warfare, then Evan can watch a show on the History Channel after Michael departs.

They return to their battle. I retreat inside the house to the upstairs master bath, where I splash water on my face and realize for the first time that my hair is snarled, my shirt is spattered with Evan’s blood, and I have dirt on both my knees. Doesn’t matter. Michael and Melinda, Melinda and Michael, two little lovebirds sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Downstairs, Michael and Evan are entering the family room, both pink-cheeked and water-soaked.

“What do you think?” Michael asks Evan. “Can I visit you again?”

Evan regards Michael thoughtfully. “You left me.”

“I was away longer than I thought I would be,” Michael says.

“You left.”

“I’m here now.”

“But you left.”

Michael finally concedes. “Yeah, buddy, I left. And I missed you every day, and I hurt every day, and I don’t want to hurt like that again. So here I am-”

“Leav-ing,” Evan singsongs.

“Returning,” Michael corrects. “I don’t live here anymore, Evan. I can’t stay, but I can come back.” He looks at me for support.

I add, “He can come back, Evan. You’ll see.”

Evan doesn’t look like he believes us, but he’s also tired from the morning’s events. He’s prepared to be mollified with TV, so I turn on cable, then escort my ex-husband to the door.

Michael doesn’t say goodbye, just turns and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

I stand there long after he’s departed, my fingers touching the spot on my skin as if that will keep him with me.

I always thought when the moment came it would be in the middle of the night. Evan would be screaming and shrieking. I would be bolting down a hallway or up a flight of stairs. Maybe I’d trip, or maybe I’d just be one step too slow. I’d go down, and my frothing son would be upon me.

Instead, I sit next to Evan on the sofa. He keeps his eyes on the TV, slightly slack-jawed, deep in TV coma. I relax, feeling sleepy from so much time outdoors. Maybe I’ll take us for ice cream after this. Maybe we can attempt a public outing.

I feel a prick. A pain in my side. I reach down to rub it away, and notice a knife handle sticking out from between my ribs. My son’s hand is holding it. And my son, my beautiful son, is glaring at me.

“Et tu, Brute?” he snarls.

At that moment, staring into the black pools of his eyes, I get it. Why my son appears so calm: because there’s no more turmoil inside him. Evan’s surrendered to the phantom. He’s let the phantom win.

I stare at the paring knife. I stare at my blood, dripping down the handle, across his pale thin fingers, into the tan sofa cushion. And I feel pain now, white-hot, dizzying. I feel other drippings, inside my body, from whatever vital organs have just been pierced.

I watch the day dim before my eyes, grow shadowy around the edges.

Such a pretty day, I think. Such a happy day to end like this.

I look at my son. And I do what any mom would do.

I wrap my fingers around his bloody hand, and I say, before the darkness takes me, “It’s okay, Evan. It’s all going to be okay. I love you. I will always love you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I was on paid administrative leave. No point to staying on the ward. I should return home, shower, eat, and sleep for the next forty-eight hours. Naturally, I lingered on the unit instead.

I hung out in the Admin area, tackling general paperwork, then, reluctantly, writing up the last few hours of Lucy’s life. I made a minute-by-minute account of everything that happened during my shift, from my medical evaluation downstairs to Jorge’s meltdown upstairs. The detectives’ arrival. The execution of the warrant, the handing over of files, my solo outing for the infamous glass of water, as well as my brief visit to Lucy’s room. I recorded Lucy’s state of mind, her feline waltz through the moonbeams. Finally, I mentioned refilling the stupid copier, answering the detectives’ questions, and then, after Greg’s announcement, launching our desperate hunt through various hospital corridors. I went over it, again and again and again.

The repetition didn’t make it any easier to take. I couldn’t find the state of numbness that’s supposed to follow such tragedies. We’d never lost a child before. We’d had some attempt suicide. We’d heard of others who met tragedy after leaving here. But we’d never had a kid die on our watch. I didn’t know what to do to ease the tightness in my chest. I hadn’t cried since that one week with my Aunt Helen, when I’d realized that tears were both too much and too little for mourning an entire family.