Kimberly McCreight - The Scattering

And here I thought he’d been trying to protect me from grief. Was this—this thing that makes no sense whatsoever—what he was trying to avoid me knowing? My mom had the occasional glass of wine and that was it.

“Wylie, I know—”

“That is not true,” I snap. But I sound like a ridiculous little kid, refusing to accept that the tooth fairy isn’t real.

“Dr. Lang, it’s nice to see you,” Detective Oshiro says before my dad can respond, but he is wounded. I can feel that much. And I am glad. My dad and Detective Oshiro shake hands and then the detective turns to shake mine. “If you want to come back through here, I’ve got you guys set up in a conference room in the back. That way you can take as much time as you need.”

Detective Oshiro has made peace with this. He didn’t want us coming down and going through the file in the first place, but now that we are here, he’s not going to be anything but professional.

I expect the other detectives in the room to stare at my dad and me as Detective Oshiro leads us toward the conference room, for some kind of hush to descend. They’re here. They’re about to find out everything. But they don’t even look up from their desks. Because they do not care. Because there is no great secret about to be revealed. At least not one that is going to turn back time and bring my mom back, not something that will make all this Outliers nonsense go away. Is that why I’m actually here? Am I putting my dad through this trauma for that , a distraction?

“I can go in myself,” I say to my dad as Detective Oshiro stops about halfway down a row of doors. I am still pissed at him for dropping this whole “drinking” bomb on me, but now I feel ashamed, too. “I feel bad I even made you come down here.”

My dad turns and smiles at me, sad but also grateful. “I’m not sure I can handle looking through anything myself, but I’ll stay in the room with you.” He reaches down and squeezes my hand. “I know that none of this has been easy on you, Wylie.” And he means all of it—the Outliers, the camp, Quentin, my mom’s accident. “I want you to know that the way you’re handling all of it—I am so proud of you.”

THE ROOM IS plain and windowless, but clean, with floor-to-ceiling glass between it and the main room where all of the detectives are seated. It is surprisingly quiet inside, like maybe it’s soundproofed. There is a small table against the wall, two chairs on one side, a single chair on the other. A rectangular cardboard box—long, about the size of three regular book boxes—sits in the center of the table. Looking at it, I feel my heart catch.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Detective Oshiro points to a desk that is only a couple steps away. “Please don’t remove anything from the evidence bags, and nothing can be taken from the room. If you see anything of value in your mother’s personal effects, let me know. I’ll make sure you leave here with it today.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say, checking my watch: 9:15 a.m. “I’ll be fast.”

Detective Oshiro nods and then closes the door after he leaves. I take a deep breath as I stare down at the box. Suddenly, this feels like a mistake. And I may not know exactly where that feeling is coming from, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

“You should take your time, Wylie,” my dad says. “We’re here now, and I don’t think you’re going to get another chance.”

He’s right. As much as I want to get this over with, I need to be thorough. It’s now or never.

I keep my eyes on the box itself for a minute. It looks brand-new, the top crisp, the label clean and clear. Name: Hope Lang. Date: February 8. Description of Matter: Automobile Accident. The ordinariness is both a relief and a disappointment. A tiny part of me did hope it might say Murder somewhere. Another part of me was dreading that, too.

As I lift the long lid from the box, I turn my head away, allowing a moment for the most awful of the ghosts to escape. I rub my palms against my jeans then to dry them and suck in some air as I turn back to the open box, bracing myself to see something truly horrifying, like my mom’s charred bones. But it’s just an ordinary box divided into two sections, one with hanging file folders, the second with a stack of evidence bags.

The bag on top holds something small and black and silver, like a hardened lump of mixed clay. It isn’t until I look closer that I realize it is a car key. Or what was once a car key, melted now beyond recognition. My stomach inches up into my throat. My dad was right—this is more awful than I thought it would be. Because now all I can think about is my mom liquefied. And Cassie, too. Everything and everyone I have ever loved reduced to a puddle—and then hardened into a shapeless rock.

I turn away from the evidence bags and toward the files, glancing over at my dad to see if he is watching me. I have a faint hope that something in his face will give me a real reason to stop. But his eyes are on his phone, reading something, an email or a text. His brow is furrowed as he begins to type. He is not going to rescue me from my own terrible idea.

I turn back to the box. I wanted to come here. I need to trust that I had a good reason. And I need to get it over with, fast. The first file contains an accident investigator’s report, notes from the interviews that Detective Oshiro conducted with my dad, Gideon, and me. I pull out the notes from my dad’s. They go on for several pages that I have no stomach to read but for this: “Husband reports Lang departed the home in a state of agitation, though husband has no reason to suspect self-harm.”

Gideon’s interview is much shorter. I can remember him sitting there on the steps that night. No tears, only stunned and silent. But in its few lines the report contains: “Son states his mother left the house at approximately nine p.m. He does not have a specific recollection of her mental state.”

I can remember they asked me something like that, too. They were so focused on my mom’s mood. Because they thought there was a chance she’d killed herself, I realize now. One car, a fatal accident. Ruling out suicide is probably standard. I don’t recall how I answered, but when I scan the notes from my interview, I discover that apparently I decided to lie: “Daughter reports that mother went out for milk. Mother was in a good mood.”

I wonder who I’d been trying to protect: My dad? My mom? Myself?

The next thing I pull out is the autopsy report. It’s a single page that shakes in my hand as I try to keep my eyes toward the top of the page, likely home of the most innocuous details. Name, height, weight. But even that is not entirely safe. There is the word “estimated” behind both my mom’s height and weight. After all, a fractured and scorched skeleton hardly reveals such details. I squint down the page until I get to the notes at the bottom, to the cause of death: Blunt-force trauma. Manner of death: Accidental. I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. At least she was already dead when her car caught on fire. It is such a pathetic relief.

The next folder looks empty until I tilt it and an envelope slides out. I peer inside with my head pulled back and catch a glimpse of photos of the blackened and mangled front of my mom’s car. I close my eyes and swallow hard, hoping that will keep me from throwing up as I jam the envelope back in the file.

“Are you okay?” my dad asks. When I look up, he is watching me.

“Are you?” I ask, deflecting. “You’ve been tapping on your phone nonstop.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He always falls for distraction mixed with guilt. “The assistant from Senator Russo’s office emailed a minute ago. Apparently if I go right now to DC, I can meet him and someone from the NIH this afternoon.” His tone is dismissive as he shakes his head. “And this meeting is now a prerequisite before they’ll even consider my funding. And if I don’t go to this meeting I will now have to wait until September for anything to happen because the senator is off for summer recess. Feels like they’re trying to create a situation where I’m the one who can’t make it. I’m not even sure a senator is allowed to get involved in NIH funding.”