When I'm Gone: A Novel (6 page)

“Hello?” Luke answered.

A woman’s voice responded.

“Hello. I’m looking for Mr. Richardson. This is Ms. Mason from Shepard High School. I’m Will’s guidance counselor.”

The school was calling Natalie’s number? Maybe they tried the home phone first. Luke turned the ringer off a long time ago and never switched it back on. The silence was refreshing.

“This is Luke,” he responded. “Can you hold on one second?”

“Of course.”

Luke covered the mouthpiece and whispered to May, “Go pop in some waffles from the freezer. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“But Mommy always made pink pancakes on Valentine’s Day,” May pouted. There was no way he’d have enough time to make Nat’s pancakes and get everyone out the door.

“Maybe we can have them for dinner if you can get your little brother his breakfast.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” May perked up and nodded her head fast. “Come on, Clayton; time for breakfast.” She grabbed the hand that wasn’t lodged in his mouth and guided him out of the room.

Luke put the phone back up to his ear. “Sorry about that.”

“Totally fine.” She paused briefly. “I’m calling to see if you can come in later today for a meeting about Will.”

“Is there a problem?” Luke pulled himself off the floor and on the bed, lightheaded.

“I want to touch base with you on how he’s doing after losing his mother. He’s had a few issues at school in the past few weeks that seem a little out of character for him. I’d love the opportunity to talk to you, maybe get your input. Could you come by around four?”

It sounded like something he definitely didn’t want to do, today or ever, but what could he say—no?

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Richardson. Have a nice day. Oh, and happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Bye,” he mumbled and hung up the phone. Yeah, sounded like it was shaping up to be a great Valentine’s Day.

CHAPTER 6

He’d been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair for the past forty-five minutes. After the first ten minutes, Luke brought out a few of the latest letters. He’d stopped carrying the whole pile. Now every morning, he selected a few of his favorites from the shoebox by the side of his bed. Then, he would carefully place the newest one on top. He usually avoided reading them in public—too many questions—but in this case he’d rather read Natalie’s thoughts than another college brochure for Michigan State.

DAY 44

Dear Luke,

I’m writing this as I’m getting my third treatment. I remembered to bring a sweater today. Too bad they can’t warm the infusion before putting it in your port. Room temperature is definitely not 98.6 degrees. Brr.

I thought I’d write to you now since I’ll probably be sick later. This is what I get for wanting to lose ten pounds, isn’t it? I’d definitely take fifty extra pounds over this. Turns out skinny isn’t my best look. Maybe it’s the baldness, but I think I look like one of those aliens from your sci-fi movies—gray skin, no hair, and bulging eyes. Thank heavens for wigs, fake eyelashes, and drawn-on eyebrows. I think I do a good impression of human on most days.

I hate this. I want to feel better. Will I ever feel better? If you’re reading this, I guess the answer is no. I’ve been thinking about my prognosis lately. Why did I have to get some crazy rare type of soft tissue sarcoma? Why couldn’t I have found that lump on my shoulder blade before the cancer got into my lymph nodes? Stage III. Beatable? For sure. Scary? For sure.

Even if we get through the next two rounds of chemo, we still have surgery and radiation and then even more rounds of chemo. This time last year I was floating blissfully along, teaching double-digit subtraction, getting ready for spring break in a couple weeks. And next year or the year after, I could be dead. Gone. Forever, according to you.

I don’t know what I believe about death anymore. For a long time, I could see the logic of your beliefs even though I clung to the idea of God like a child with a teddy bear. But I don’t know how to face death like that.

So I have a plan. If I die and if there
is
life after death, I’m so coming back to haunt you. I mean, full-on “our house was built on an Indian burial ground” type of haunting. I’ll whisper things in your ear like, “I was riiiight. You were wroooong,” in an awesome ghost voice.

He laughed out loud as the office door in front of him swung open and people spilled out. Luke folded up the letter and quickly hid it in his pocket, hating that he didn’t get the chance to finish.

He recognized Will’s guidance counselor immediately. She was at least a head shorter than everyone in the group, even with her six-inch zebra-print heels on. She had long unruly curly hair, with the ends a light copper in contrast to the deep-brown roots.

Ms. Mason had come to the wake and the funeral. When Luke was in high school, all his counselors ever did was make sure he got all the credits he needed for graduation and nagged him about applying for colleges. He’d always thought that was the norm, but maybe they tried harder when you weren’t a foster kid who could move to a different school at any time.

The other two adults in the group exiting Ms. Mason’s office were clearly a married couple. Their two rings flashed in the light announcing “man and wife.” They quickly shook hands with Ms. Mason and made their nose-pierced, hair-dyed son do the same. Ken and Barbie got married and had an Emo child. Once they conducted another insufferable round of good-byes, Ms. Mason turned to face Luke.

“Mr. Richardson, thank you for coming. Sorry for the late notice. Please, come into my office.” Her voice was professional, but with her sparkly shirt, dangly earrings, and short stature, she could easily be mistaken for a student.

“Thanks again for coming in.” She picked up a silver pen and clutched it in her hand, long manicured nails catching his eye from across the table. “How are . . .” she paused awkwardly. His stomach was churning, already knowing what she was going to ask. “How are you all doing?”

Everyone asked this question. It must’ve been on a brochure at the funeral with the title “Things to Say after Someone Dies.” He was fairly certain no one wanted to know the real answer to that question. Luke always said the same thing.

“Oh, you know, there are good days and bad days.”

Ms. Mason’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true. Hard times. Hard times.” She continued with some extended eye contact that made Luke uncomfortable. When he didn’t respond, she took a deep breath and continued, “How about Will? Have you noticed any drastic changes in his behavior lately?”

“He’s been fairly withdrawn since losing his mom.” There. He’d said “losing his mom” without flinching. It got easier every time. “He doesn’t talk to me much, but he has a pretty good relationship with a family friend. She seems to think he’s managing as well as can be expected.”

Ms. Mason tapped her pen on the table before clutching it under her chin.

“I’m afraid he’s not doing well at school,” she said, pushing the words out.

“What do you mean? Like his grades?” Luke leaned forward. “He has a tutor.”

“I know he does. His grades are going to be fine.”

“Going to be? What do you mean?”

“Well, he hasn’t been turning in his assignments, but yesterday we went through his locker together and they were all there.” She shuffled through a stack of papers on her desk, her reddish brown eyebrows crunching together. “I’m more worried about what he said when we sat down yesterday to talk.”

Luke felt like he’d swallowed a stone. “What did he say now?”

“Uh, it’s a bit difficult to explain, and I’m hoping you have more information for me . . . I brought Will in for a chat after finding all his missing assignments, and we got to talking.” She put her elbows on the table and crossed her arms, picking at the loose knit of her shimmering sweater nervously. “He told me he’d recently discovered he’s adopted.”

“He said what?” Luke couldn’t hold back a loud snort, sitting up straighter in his seat. That was the last thing he’d expected her to say.

“But . . .” she said, clearly relieved, “I’m guessing from your reaction, he made it up.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely not adopted.” Luke ran a hand through his unruly hair. There had to be more to this story. “What exactly did he say?”

“He said he was looking through a box of his mother’s things and found some adoption papers. It didn’t sound right; that’s why I called you.” She cleared her throat and reset her facial expression to serious. “Have you considered taking Will to talk to a professional?”

A box of his mother’s things. The phrase jumped out at him as her words ran through his mind one more time. He’d seen a box peeking out from under Will’s bed when he went in to wake him up for school a week ago, but didn’t think much of it. Why didn’t he look closer? Why was he always in a foggy tunnel of thought that only seemed to clear out when he was sitting and reading one of Natalie’s letters?

“Mr. Richardson? Did you hear me?” She waved her hand, dropping her silver pen on the desk with a loud thump. Luke shook his head to clear it.
Focus. Focus on what Will’s counselor is saying.

“We went to a group for families when Natalie was first diagnosed,” he said, staring at one spot on her desk where some kind of graffiti had been buffed out and repainted. “But no, not since.”

Ms. Mason selected a single sheet of paper off the top of the pile she’d been fiddling with and held it out to Luke. “Here you go. This is a list of therapists I compiled, ones who specialize in grief counseling. Of course, it’s up to you whether you decide to send Will, but I don’t have to tell you how worrying this change in Will’s behavior is to us.”

“No. Of course not.” Luke shook his head, wondering who “us” was exactly. His kid was making up stories about being adopted. Even half-blind with grief, he couldn’t miss the gravity of the situation. He took the sheet of paper, folded it in half twice, and slid it in his shirt pocket.

After a few more minutes of small talk, Ms. Mason walked him to the door, and they shook hands. To meet his eyes, she had to tilt her head so far back it looked uncomfortable.

“Thank you for your concern for Will. He needs every bit of encouragement he can get,” he said.

“Please”—she squeezed his hand for a moment before letting go—“keep me in the loop. I really want to be there for Will. He’s a good kid.” She sounded like she sincerely cared for Will’s well-being.

As soon as Ms. Mason turned her attentions to the teenage girl who was silently pecking at a smartphone, Luke hurried out of the school and into the safety of his car. Flipping out the paper filled with names of therapists, he looked through them, closed his eyes, and pointed.

Perfect—the therapist was five minutes from home. Luke didn’t have much confidence in therapy; he’d gone to court-ordered therapy for the year after he was put in foster care. The man’s name was Mr. Tragenall, and he did
not
love his job or working with foster kids, and especially foster kids with attitude.

At that point in Luke’s life, Mr. Tragenall and all the rest of the adults who cared about him within the confines of their profession only served to highlight that he’d lost the only people in the world who actually cared for him. That’s why he hadn’t made the kids see someone sooner. Now that the school was involved, maybe he didn’t have a choice. Being stubborn and not sending him could lead to far more trouble than just employing some well-placed bribery to get Will into the therapist’s office.

Navigating his way home by mere muscle memory, Luke’s thoughts turned from therapy to the box. What could Will have found that would make him tell such a ridiculous story? This is one time he wasn’t going to look the other way. He had to admit he’d been doing that about Will’s sudden outbursts or the hours of time spent alone in his room.

Reaching home in record time, Luke sped past Jessie’s burgundy Kia parked in the driveway. When he rushed through the entry, Luke could hear Jessie’s voice echoing out to welcome him, and he noticed the air smelled of vanilla and cinnamon again. It was nice coming home to activity. The house felt warm and alive. But today he couldn’t enjoy that feeling. He needed to talk to Will.

“Is Will in there with you?” he shouted into the kitchen.

Jessie walked out as Luke was slipping his shoes off.

“Hey, Mr. Richardson, Welcome home.” She was wearing one of Natalie’s old aprons, the one with the teal and black paisleys and ruffles. A trail of flour streaked through her bangs. “Will finished his homework already, so he’s in his room doing . . . who knows what.”

“I need to talk to him. I know it’s almost five.” Luke checked his watch. Okay, it was after five. “Do you mind staying a bit late?” He hung up his wool winter coat in the front closet and turned around.

Jessie had her hands on her hips, biting her lip like she was worried.

“Everything okay?” she asked, and he was sure she really wanted to know.

There was something about this girl that made Luke sad. She had an eagerness to please that reminded him of May when she wanted a new app on her tablet. No doubt she was one of those students who sat in the front row in every class and cried over a B. How could he tell someone so weighted down with her own insecurities about his very real concerns that Will was failing to thrive after Natalie’s death, like an infant refusing to nurse? How he worried her death might be the pivotal moment in Will’s childhood that would permanently change the course of his life? Or how Luke was sure he was a complete failure as a parent and the only reason the kids were decent human beings was because Natalie had always been there to pick up his slack?

“Yeah.” He hung his keys on the small white hook drilled into the wall. They bounced against Natalie’s keys with their big jangly key chain. “Just some school stuff. His counselor called me today. Will hasn’t been turning in his assignments. She found them all stuffed in his locker. I need to find out what’s going on.”

“You’re kidding me!” Jessie almost squealed, crossing her arms. “He’s been working so hard on his homework every day. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t turn them in. He’s such a smart kid. I’m sorry. I should’ve double-checked. I should’ve . . .”

“No,” Luke cut in, trying to calm her before a full-on panic attack, “this isn’t your fault.” He placed his shoes on the drying mat next to the shoe baskets. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m going to find out.”

“Jessie, I think it’s done!” May called from the kitchen, interrupting Jessie before she could speak. “Should I take it out of the oven?”

Her eyes went wide. “No! I’m coming!” She gave a little smile to Luke. “I’d better go check on her. Take as long as you need.” She jogged toward the kitchen and shouted, “Good luck!” over her shoulder.

“Thanks,” he muttered under his breath before heading for the stairs.

Outside Will’s room Luke considered knocking, but that might give him time to hide something. He tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open wide with one big shove, which was made extra difficult by the large clump of clothes piled behind it.

The room was a disaster. Clothes everywhere. Dirty plates and forks and bowls and spoons sat in piles on various surfaces. So this was why they were always searching for utensils. Luke had bought a bulk box of plastic ones the week before, giving up on the idea of ever finding the whole set again. Apparently the right place to look was Will’s room.

Will lay on his bed with his headphones on, phone in hand texting. Luke was a little disappointed his son didn’t even notice the dramatic entrance, but he wasn’t about to be ignored. With a quick tug he pulled out Will’s earbuds, letting a deep bass pump out.

“What the . . . ?” Will sat up on his twin bed, folding his legs into a pretzel.
When did he get so big?
He had his mom’s dark hair and Luke’s crystal-blue eyes, blotchy brown freckles on the top of his cheeks, but he had Luke’s body type. A cross-country runner, his body was lean and muscled, and all his clothes hung off him like hand-me-downs. “Dad, what are you doing?”