David Bell - Never Come Back

“I know,” I said. “Why don’t we all go to Paul’s house?”

Paul opened the door to our ragtag group. A long, awkward moment stretched out as he and Beth stood face-to-face on his front porch. They seemed to be taking each other in, examining and measuring. Ronnie and I stood to the side, watching. My body ached. I was sure Ronnie’s did too. But I didn’t move. On TV these reunions were always tearful and full of hugs. Seeing all this up close—living it—I could attest there was more awkwardness and uncertainty than anything else.

Paul blinked his eyes a few times and finally said, “Well, I can’t really believe what I’m seeing after all this time.”

“It’s me,” Beth said. “It’s really me.”

Paul finally got ahold of himself and stepped back. He motioned us inside.

“Please come in,” he said, his voice turning more somber. “I know you’ve all had a hell of a night.”

We all went in, then settled into Paul’s neatly kept living room. Beth sat closest to Paul on the couch, while Ronnie and I were across the room in chairs. I watched Paul watch Beth. His eyes were misted with emotion. His cheeks were flushed. He sat with his hands on his knees, his posture stiff and uncomfortable.

“I just can’t get over the way you look,” he said. “Just like Leslie. Just like her.”

“I know,” Beth said. She swallowed and raised her hand to her eye, brushing at it.

I felt it too. The whole thing. I didn’t know what happened to us when we were gone, if some part of us was still able to look back on this world and watch over our loved ones. But I wanted to think Mom was somewhere where she knew we were all together. The four of us at long last.

And I couldn’t help but think of her absence. She should have been there alongside of us. Her three children. Her only sibling.

Her family.

I couldn’t help it. I felt the emotion coming over me as well. I took a deep breath and held it in. But I couldn’t hide it all.

Ronnie reached over and rubbed his hand on my back. “You okay, sis?”

“I am,” I said. “I’m just thinking about Mom.”

“Me too,” Ronnie said.

We were all nodding. We were all thinking of her.

“She’s here,” Beth said. “I can feel her.”

“Indeed,” Paul said. He seemed to have loosened up just a little. Relaxed. He didn’t look at Beth, but he said, “I’m just so sorry for all the time you lost.”

Everyone was silent. His words hung in the room like an invisible weight. We all felt the same way. None of us could change it. That was the price Beth had paid for the events of her past: time. She’d lost years of precious time.

Yet she was back. We could all look ahead.

“Sis?” Ronnie said.

I turned to him. He was looking down.

“Your hand,” he said.

I looked down as well. A bandage had come undone on one of my fingers. A bright drop of red blood flowed from beneath it, forming a nearly perfectly round bead.

“Shit,” I said. And ran to the bathroom.

I peeled the bandage off the ring finger of my right hand. The butterfly strips the paramedic had placed on the cut had worked themselves loose, and the cut had reopened. A smear of blood ran up my finger. I turned the tap on and let the warm water run over my wound. I used a dab of soap to clean the blood.

Paul kept everything so neat. I made sure to drip into the sink and not onto the tile or the carpet. I used a tissue to stem the flow. I applied enough pressure and held tight against the cut until it seemed the blood flow had stopped.

I used my left hand to open the medicine cabinet.

“Band-Aids, Band-Aids,” I said to myself.

I didn’t see them right away, and I felt anxious to get back to the moment we were sharing in the other room.

I moved some things around and finally found the Band-Aids. I took one out, peeled it open, and managed to wrap it around my finger. It felt tight and secure. I tossed my trash away and tried to put the contents of Paul’s medicine cabinet back in order. I righted some bottles, adjusted some creams and pastes.

Then I saw the prescription bottle with Paul’s name on it.

My hand shook as I reached out and picked it up.

The cut on my finger became the least of my worries. Whatever blood was in my body turned to rock-solid ice.

As I walked down the hallway, the prescription bottle in my hand, I heard faint laughter from the living room. It was Ronnie and Paul laughing. Together.

I came to the end of the hallway and stood in the doorway.

Paul saw the look on my face. So did Beth.

Ronnie noticed something was wrong with me as well. For the second time that night he said, “Sis, are you okay?”

“I stopped the bleeding,” I said.

No one said anything else. They were all looking at me, waiting.

Paul’s eyes were wide. He looked stiff and nervous again. He cleared his throat and said, “Maybe Ronnie needs to head to bed—”

“No,” I said. “He can hear this. He should hear this.” I held up the pill bottle and shook it. The pills rattled against the plastic bottle. “Digoxin, Paul? Do you take digoxin for your heart?”

Paul’s face remained frozen, a mask showing uncertainty and nervousness. His eyes ticked back and forth. If he tried to lie, if he tried to create some excuse—

But he didn’t. The mask crumpled. He lowered his head. His entire body was shriveling into the couch. He raised one hand to his forehead, as if he wanted to shade his eyes from a bright light.

“They’re my pills,” he said, his voice shaky. “But I didn’t give them to Ronnie that day. That was Gordon. He took the pills. He went to the hospital and did it. He made a flood upstairs. He had some plan—”

“But you gave Gordon the pills?” I asked. “Why?”

He lowered his hand to cover his eyes. I looked at Beth. She had scooted against the armrest of the couch. Then she stood up. She backed away from the couch. From Paul.

“Why would you cooperate with Gordon on something like that?” I asked, moving toward him. “What did he know about you that would make you do that?”

Paul was sobbing now, his shoulders shaking. He couldn’t have spoken even if he wanted to.

I said it for him.

“It wasn’t Gordon. It was you. You killed Mom, didn’t you?”

He didn’t show his face. He kept it hidden from us. He said something, something I couldn’t make out. It was muffled by his hand.

“What?” I asked.

He moved his hand aside and said, “She knew.”

She knew? What did she know?

“What did she know, Paul? What could Mom have possibly known?”

He said nothing more.

“Paul?” I said. “What? Did Mom know something… something about Gordon or you?”

“I was there,” he said. “Beth… that night…”

“Where were you?” I asked.

Beth supplied the answer. “Oh, Jesus. It was you. You drove the car that night. You were with Gordon, and you were the one who drove me to the bus station.”

I came farther into the room. I sat in the chair I had been sitting in before. I looked at Ronnie. He stared at Paul, his mouth open. He looked confused, angry.

“You drove Beth away that night. And Mom found out. And you killed her because… she was going to report you? Is that it?”

He didn’t respond.

“That’s why she changed the will before she died. That’s why she removed you as Ronnie’s guardian. She knew you drove Beth away. Who told her? Gordon?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice feeble.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she wouldn’t give him any more money,” he said. “And he was a fucking bastard, and he wanted to make your mom feel rotten about me and everything else in her life. That’s why.”