Jonathan Kellerman: Billy Straight

Cora Adamson’s head rose. “Perhaps it’s all for the best. Too much privilege can create its own difficulties.”

Petra wanted to say, I wouldn’t know. Instead, she nodded.

“I love children, Detective Connor. Before I was married, I taught school. I always wanted lots of children, but Billy’s birth was difficult and the doctors forbade it. Other than the loss of Billy and Bill and my parents, learning I couldn’t have more children was the saddest moment of my life.”

A thin white hand clutched her sleeve. “What I’m saying is I sincerely believe I have something to offer. I make no excuses for the lack of- Detective Connor, can you see it within yourself to help me?”

The woman’s eyes locked onto Petra. Hungry, desperate.

Delaware was flying into town tonight. Why couldn’t he be here now?

“Please,” said Cora Adamson.

Petra said, “Let’s talk about it.”

Yesterday, Dr. Delaware told me about Mom. My stomach caught fire and I wanted to rip the IV line out and punch him in the face.

He sat there looking sad. What right did he have to be sad?

I rolled over and ignored him. No way would I let him see me cry, but the minute he left, I started crying and I went on crying all day and all night. Except when someone came into the room, and then I pretended to sleep.

Sometimes when they thought I was sleeping, they’d discuss me-nurses, interns.

Poor kid.

He’s been through so much.

Tough little bugger.

I am not tough. I’m here because what’s my choice?

Thinking about Mom made me want to be dead, too, but then I thought, What good would that do? There probably is no God, so I wouldn’t get to see her anyway.

That first night I dug my nails into my hands, made them bleed. A little extra pain felt right.

It’s the next day and I still can’t believe it, I keep thinking she’s going to walk through the door. I’ll say I’m sorry for running away, she’ll apologize, too, we’ll hug-then it hits me. She’s gone. That’s it. Never again. Never! This hurts so much!

I cry a lot, fall asleep, wake up, cry some more.

Haven’t cried for an hour. Maybe I’m all dried up, no more tears.

Hey, Doc, put some tears in the IV.

I spit on the floor. If I could empty my mind the way the orderlies empty my trash can. Out with all the garbage.

When I’m alone I think of her. Even though it hurts. I want to hurt.

Being alone is what I’m used to; I don’t get enough of it. With all the doctors and interns and the nurses, sometimes I can’t stand all the noise and the sympathy; want to punch all of them.

Not Sam. He comes every morning, brings me candy and magazines, pats my hand and talks about how we’re two peas in a pod, tough, survivors. How he won’t let anyone “mess” with me-don’t worry, he’s got connections. He repeats things, and sometimes his voice puts me to sleep. I fight to stay awake, don’t want to make him feel bad. He was my friend when no one else was. One time he came with Mrs. Kleinman, but she annoyed me, touching my cheek, bringing food I didn’t want to eat, trying to feed it to me. I was polite to her, but maybe Sam could tell, because he never brought her again.

Petra brings me books. She’s very pretty, not married, not a mom, and I think maybe she likes me because it gives her mom practice. Or it’s a vacation from being a detective.

She killed him. She’s a serious person, doesn’t tell jokes, doesn’t try to cheer me up when I don’t want it. Even when she smiles, she’s serious.

Even if I’m totally exhausted, I can’t be anything but nice to her.

She’s about Mom’s age-why’d Mom have to take that idiot Moron in, let him run her life, let him put a split in our family?

Why couldn’t Mom learn to be alone?

Dr. Delaware said it was probably an accident, he pushed her and she fell, but that doesn’t make her any more alive.

I keep thinking: If I’d been there, I could’ve saved her.

Dr. Delaware talked to me about guilt, how it was normal but it would pass. How it was the parents’ job to take care of children, not the other way around. He said Mom did love me, she meant well, but she’d hit some bad luck. He also said that what happened to her was terrible-no way would he try to tell me everything was okay, because it wasn’t.

He was certain, though, that Mom would be proud of how well I’d done on my own.

Maybe.

He considers me very “impressive.”

At first I thought he was full of it, the way he’d just sit, not saying much. At first I thought he didn’t care. Now I think he probably does. He shows up every day at 6:00 P.M., stays with me for two hours, sometimes more, doesn’t mind if we don’t do anything.

Before he left, he noticed the chessboard that Sam left and asked if I wanted to play. He’s about as good as Sam, and I beat him two out of three. He said, “Okay, next time,” and I said, “Prepare to lose.” He laughed and I asked him who’s paying him to play games and he said the police, don’t worry, he’d collect, he always does.

Sometimes he tells jokes. Some of them are funny. The nurses seem to like him. I heard one nurse ask another if he was married and the other one said she wasn’t sure, she didn’t think so.

He and Petra would make a good couple.

I can imagine the two of them in a nice house, a good car, some kids, a dog. Or even one kid, so he could get all their attention.

Nice happy family, taking trips, going to restaurants.

Maybe it happens. I don’t know. I’ll never stop thinking about Mom-the door’s opening and for a moment I think it’s her.

It’s Petra and she’s wearing a red suit.

That’s different, she always wears black. She’s carrying a bag, and she gives it to me.

Inside is a book.

The presidents book. Not the one from the library. A brand-new one-clean cover, crisp white pages. It has that new-book smell. The colors in the illustrations are very bright. This is very cool.

“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”

She shrugs. “Enjoy. Who knows, Billy, someday you might be in there.”

“Yeah, right.” It’s a crazy idea. But an interesting one.