Nicholas Sparks - A Bend in the Road

The investigation had unearthed nothing. The file he’d painstakingly assembled over two years had meant nothing. Sims and Earl and Otis meant nothing. Nothing had provided the answer, but suddenly and without warning, it had arrived at his doorstep, dressed in a windbreaker and ready to cry.

This was what he wanted to know:

Did it matter?

He’d spent two years of his life thinking that it did. He’d cried at night, he’d stayed up late, he’d taken up smoking, and he’d struggled, certain that the answer would change all of that. It had become the mirage on the horizon that was always just out of reach. And now, at this moment, he held it in his hand. With a single call, he could be avenged.

He could do that. But what if, on closer inspection, the answer wasn’t what he had imagined it would be? What if the killer wasn’t a drunk, wasn’t an enemy; what if it wasn’t an act of reckless behavior? What if it was a boy with pimples and baggy pants and dark brown hair, and he was afraid and sorry for what happened and swore it was an accident that couldn’t have been avoided? Did it matter then?

How should a person answer that? Was he supposed to take the memory of his wife and the misery of the last two years, then simply add his responsibility as a husband and a father and his duty to the law to come up with a quantifiable answer? Or did he take that total and subtract a boy’s age and fear and obvious sorrow along with his love for Sarah, thus bringing the number back to zero? He didn’t know. What he did know was that whispering Brian’s name aloud left a bitter taste in his mouth. Yes, he thought, it mattered. He knew with certainty that it would always matter, and he had to do something about it. In his mind, he didn’t have a choice.

Mrs. Knowlson had left the lights on and they cast a yellow glow over the walk as Miles approached the door. He could smell the faint odor of chimney smoke in the air as he knocked before inserting his key and gently pushing the door open. Dozing beneath a quilt in her rocking chair, all white hair and wrinkles, she looked like a gnome. The television was on, but the volume was low, and Miles crept inside. Her head tilted to the side and she opened her eyes, merry eyes that never seemed to dim.

“Sorry I’m so late,” he said, and Mrs. Knowlson nodded.

“He’s sleeping in the back room,” she said. “He tried to wait up for you.” “I’m glad he didn’t,” Miles said. “Before I get him, can I help you to your room?”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be silly. I’m old, but I can still move good.”

“I know. Thanks for watching him today.”

“Did you get everything worked out?” she asked.

Though Miles hadn’t told her what was going on, she’d seen how troubled he’d been when he’d asked if she would watch Jonah after school. “Not really.”

She smiled. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know. How was he today?”

“Tired. A little quiet, too. He didn’t want to go outside, so we baked cookies.” She didn’t say he was upset, but then, she didn’t have to. Miles knew what she meant.

After thanking her again, he retreated to the bedroom and scooped Jonah into his arms, adjusting him so that the boy’s head was on his shoulder. He didn’t stir, and Miles knew he was exhausted.

Like his father.

Miles wondered if he would have nightmares again.

He carried him back to the house, then to bed. He pulled the covers up, turned on a night-light, and sat on the bed beside him. In the pale glow, he looked so vulnerable. Miles turned toward the window.

He could see the moon through the blinds, and he reached up to close them. He could feel the cold radiating through the glass. He pulled the covers higher and ran his hand through Jonah’s hair.

“I know who did it,” he whispered, “but I don’t know if I should tell you.”

Jonah was breathing steadily, his eyelids still.

“Do you want to know?”

In the darkness of the room, Jonah didn’t answer.

After a while, Miles left the room and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator. He hung his jacket in the closet. On the floor was the box where he kept the home videos, and after a moment, he reached for it. He brought the box to the living room, set it on the coffee table, and opened it.

He selected one at random and popped it into the VCR, then settled back into the couch.

The screen was black at first, then out of focus, then everything came clear. Kids were seated around the table in the kitchen, wiggling furiously, little arms and legs waving like flags on a windy day. Other parents either stood close by or wandered in and out of the picture. He recognized the voice on the tape as his own.

It was Jonah’s birthday party, and the camera zoomed in on him. He was two years old. Sitting in a booster seat, he was holding a spoon and thumping the table, grinning with every bang.

Missy came into the picture then, carrying a tray of cupcakes. One of them had two lit candles, and she set it in front of Jonah. She was singing “Happy Birthday,” and the parents joined in. Within moments, hands and faces were smeared with chocolate.

The camera zoomed in on Missy, and Miles heard himself call her name on the tape. She turned and smiled; her eyes were playful, full of life. She was a wife and mother, in love with the life she lived. The camera faded to black and a new scene emerged in its place, one where Jonah was opening his gifts. After that, the tape jumped a month forward, to Valentine’s Day. A romantic table had been set, and Miles remembered it well. He’d set out the fine china, and the flickering glow of candlelight made the wineglasses sparkle. He’d cooked dinner for her: sole stuffed with crab and shrimp and topped with a lemon cream sauce, wild rice on the side, spinach salad. Missy was in the back room getting dressed; he’d asked her to stay there until everything was ready. He’d caught her on tape as she entered the dining room and saw the table. That night, unlike at the birthday party, she looked nothing like a mother and wife; that evening, she looked as if she were in Paris or New York and were ready for opening night at the theater. She was wearing a black cocktail dress and small hooped earrings; she wore her hair in a bun, and a few curled strands framed her face.

“It’s beautiful,” she’d breathed. “Thank you, honey.”

“So are you,” Miles had answered.

Miles remembered that she’d asked him to turn off the camera so they could sit at the table; he also remembered that after dinner, they had gone to the bedroom and made love, lost in the blankets for hours. Thinking back to that night, he barely heard the small voice behind him.

“Is that Mommy?”

Miles used the remote to stop the tape just as he turned and saw Jonah at the end of the hallway. He felt guilty and knew he looked it, but he tried to hide it with a smile.

“What’s up, champ?” he asked. “Having trouble sleeping?”

Jonah nodded. “I heard some noises. They woke me up.”

“I’m sorry. That was probably just me.”

“Was that Mommy?” he asked again. He was gazing at Miles, his eyes fixed and steady. “On the television?”

Miles heard the sadness in his voice, as though he’d accidentally broken a favorite toy. Miles tapped the couch, not knowing exactly what to say. “C’mere,” he said. “Sit with me.”

After hesitating briefly, Jonah shuffled to the couch. Miles slipped his arm around him. Jonah looked up at him, waiting, and scratched the side of his face. “Yeah, that was your mom,” Miles finally said.

“Why’s she on television?”

“It’s a tape. You know the kind we used to make with the videocamera sometimes?