"She had a green light.
He hit her at eighty miles an hour.
"She was being a good girl, doing everything right.
He was barely scratched."
Harvey
locked on to Ian's eyes.
"He lucky to be in jail.
You know?"
Ian nodded.
He knew.
"Anger is a natural reaction to loss," Shauna said, head bobbing as if they had all made some kind of breakthrough.
"Even when we don't know what happened" - she gave the Bensons a condescending smile - "we get angry."
There was that
we
again.
Just like Justin.
Ian's back prickled.
"Who have you lost?" he asked.
It caught her off guard.
Surprise or annoyance flashed in her eyes.
"I lost my mother, when I was fifteen, to cancer."
"But I thought this was a group for parents."
The smile came back.
"It is."
"Do you have kids?"
She pursed her lips, trying to figure out how to handle him, as Alina hissed his name.
"No, Alina, it's okay.
As a matter of fact I do have two boys.
These sessions have made me appreciate them even more.
"But we aren't here to discuss me.
We're here because of the terrible loss each of you has suffered.
And I think a great way to begin exploring that loss is exactly the way you did, Ian - by remembering the positive things, the wonderful things, about your loved one.
"Alina, Ian said some beautiful things about your son Alex.
Would you like to add to that?"
She'd handled him deftly, he had to give her that.
"Sure," Alina said at once.
"Ian was right about Alex's personality; he was the friendliest person I have ever known.
And he was really well-behaved.
Well, most of the time.
Sometimes he could be a handful at bedtime."
Another lop-sided smile.
"He said he was scared of the dark, but I think he just wanted us to leave the door open for him so he could play with his toys in the light.
If we shut the door he would howl and scream... he sounded like he was..."
getting murdered
.
That had always been their joke.
"...like he was miserable.
But as soon as you went in, you know, he was fine."
There were tears standing in her eyes.
Ian felt something give way when he saw them.
They had been fighting so long now, she had been pushing him to
move on
for so long, that he wasn't sure he'd even still believed she hurt.
He put his arm around her.
He didn't weigh it or think about whether he should do it; he just did it.
But she reached down for some tissues from her purse, and he had to pull it back.
"He was a good boy," she said after wiping her face.
"I miss him."
They went around the circle.
The Bensons and the Nguyens talked about their kids.
Evan Benson sounded like a little hellion, as far as Ian could tell, and Lana had been too old.
Ian couldn't comprehend sixteen.
He had barely been able to comprehend the fact that Alex was going to be starting kindergarten.
"She sounds beautiful," Mary Ellen said when Rachel Nguyen finished talking about her daughter.
"You must have loved her so much."
"At least you know," George put in.
"The not knowing... it ain't easy.
I don't want my son to be dead.
You know?
But I want to
know.
"
"Yeah," Ian said.
A block of ice had formed in his chest.
He looked at George.
"At least we know.
Everyone says that, but I'd give anything to be in your shoes.
To still have hope.
You might think you want to hear that your son's dead, but trust me, you don't."
George recoiled.
Shauna said, "I think everyone handles that question differently.
For you, Ian -"
"No," Ian said.
"No one wants to hear that their child is dead, and if you think they do, you're deluding yourself.
These guys are hurting.
Don't...
trick
them.
Until they see the body, they still have hope.
It's completely different."
He didn't get a kiss good night.
She would barely look at him.
In the parking lot, he said to her back, "Next week?"
"Sure."
She got in her car and slammed the door.
It was 10:30 when he got home.
He flipped the switch in Alex's room, and the light sizzled on, then popped.
He caught a single, incandescent view of the room, like he'd just used a flashbulb.
It was empty.
He didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed.
He went to the bathroom with the door open.
While he was washing his hands, his son screamed,
"Daddy!"
He jerked as if electrocuted.
The soap shot onto the tile.
Alex was standing in his room, vivid and real despite the darkness.
Ian shouldn't have been able to see him.
"Donnie went off the
road,
" he complained.
"Yeah," Ian said, carefully.
The evening's session or his sense of
déjà vu
served to ground him.
"I see that."
He knelt and tried to look into his son's eyes, but the boy's gaze was unfocused - or focused on something beyond his father.
"Alex, is that really you?
Are you there?"
Alex grinned.
His lips didn't move.
"I not
dere
!
I Ay-es!"
I'm not "there!"
I'm Alex!
It was his voice as a toddler.
He'd said that when he was two.
The hairs on Ian's arm stood up.
"Please, Alex.
Listen to me.
Why are you here?"
"Donnie went off the
road,
" he repeated, pointing at the red car.
"Alex, Jesus..." Ian's voice trailed off.
"Please.
Talk to me."
In a blink, Alex's clothes disappeared; he was again naked and dripping with bathwater, his drying hair curling on his scalp.
"I'll just call for you and Mommy!"
"Alex, oh..."
Ian put a hand to the wall as the hallway swam.
This can't be happening.
You told him to call.
This isn't real.
He must have called a hundred times for you.
You are losing your mind.
He called, and you never came.
"Right, Dad?"
"Alex, honey.
I tried.
I swear.
I tried.
I went to Rita's house.
I went over every inch of her house.
I looked up and down all the streets for you, for any sign of what happened to -"
Shorts and a t-shirt again.
"Donnie went off the
road,
Dad!"
When he was really tired, these pretend disasters truly alarmed him.
He looked like that now.
"I know.
I know, honey, but I can't help."
Alex didn't repeat his complaint.
He didn't throw a tantrum.
His face just fell, disbelieving and hurt, the way it would when he'd ask his father to play with him and Ian said he was too busy.
It was a look of absolute dejection, and it wrung Ian's heart.
"Alex... god, I would help if I could.
But Donnie..."
He pointed at the red car, impossibly visible in the room's blackness, lying on its side on the carpet.
Off the road.
"Donnie isn't real, Alex.
He's not real."
Alex looked up, and he was wearing pajamas - the plaid, flannel two-piece Alina's mom had bought him just before he'd gotten strep throat last year.
His cheeks were flushed; fever glittered in his eyes.
Ian knew what he was going to say before his mouth opened.
He remembered it distinctly.
"I need a hug," Alex moaned.
Ian couldn't resist that request.
He would have died to honor it.
He lurched forward, arms open, but his son was gone.
He went through the charade of bedtime: took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, climbed into bed and lay there for an hour.
Finally he threw off the blankets and stalked, naked, into the hall.
Peered into Alex's dark room and found it empty, except for the boxes standing silent vigil.
In the living room, he turned on the TV, then slunk into the kitchen to make some coffee.
He appeared numb.
But his thoughts were churning.
Do I believe in ghosts?
He had, once, when he was young.
When he had still believed in God and UFOs and Santa Claus.
Before he had gained a healthy respect for rational thought.
Rationality would indicate he was going mad.
Unless...
Can other people see him?
Does Alina ever see him?
If he had truly come back to haunt his dad, wouldn't he haunt her, too?
No.
She wasn't the one who had told him to call.
She had even been upset with Ian for having the talk about strangers.
She had thought it was too early; she didn't want to scare him.
An old, reflexive fury kicked in his chest at the thought.
He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.
That left other people.
And no, no one else had ever seen him - but Ian had also only seen him when he was alone.
At home, and at the hotel.
His knowledge of schizophrenia was just this side of complete ignorance, limited to horror movies and
A Beautiful Mind.
But he remembered a scene where Russell Crowe had thought he was getting better, and then he found a shack where all his imaginary friends had set up shop.
He'd been alone.
Fuck.
If he was going crazy, he had to tell someone.
But didn't they say that if you
know
you're going crazy, you aren't?
Was that true?
He went to the basement door and put his hand on the knob, ready to go downstairs and do some amateur online research.
Then he wheeled back toward the living room.
Fuck it
.
He didn't want to know.
Jack McCoy delivered his closing arguments.
He swayed the jury.
The bad guy went to jail.
As the credits streaked past in a tiny corner, the next episode began.
Ian flipped the channel; he didn't want to watch another murder.
But the next station was worse.
Instead of a fictional tragedy, he was confronted with a real one.
"- missing since April first,"
the voiceover was saying.
A grainy image of Silvia Kalen's face filled his screen.
"We are offering a one hundred thousand dollar reward for any information leading to her whereabouts or status."