I have a restless night, but I should be used to that by now. I don’t want to keep thinking about what happened the past couple days, but hey, my control over my own thoughts is basically nil. I’d try to meditate again, but that makes me think of Truman, and nothing’s good right now. It’s solitaire and hot cocoa with the last of the marshmallows at 3 a.m., and a long hot shower to try to wake myself up and dressing a little better than usual like it’s going to fool anyone.
When I get to the desk, there’s something in my mailbox.
Alyssa—
I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake in the middle of the night or what so I didn’t even try. I’m conflating your family and mine, and that’s not any sort of excuse. Yeah, your dad kind of freaked me out, but that’s not an excuse either. I should’ve put my own shit aside and been there for you, but I didn’t. That’s something I need to work on.
If you’re at work when you see this, I’m out. My therapy session is always 9-10:30 on Mondays, and then I usually go home for a few hours to try to deal with it. I know Camille’s good because she makes me think, and she makes me work, and she gives me homework I don’t want to do.
There’s cell service at my place. I should be there by 11. If you need me before I show up again, call.
Love, Tru
He’s got two numbers underneath it, because maybe his little house has a landline, too. It’s only just after 8, so maybe he’s driving—I have no idea how local Camille is—but I’m not going to call now. Not when I’m feeling whiplash between I-don’t-even-know-what-that-was last night and then this: I’m sorry. Love.
I can’t deal with that before breakfast. Right now, it’s time for a microwave burrito and a latte with an extra shot, because I’m at work, and we’re keeping on keeping on, even though we’re down to two residents. Three are missing, one fled in disgrace, and one went home. What the hell. I guess this is usually where Jonathan would call up the hopefuls on the waiting list, but who’s going to want to come after all this? Nobody who belongs here, that’s for certain. More Henrys. And I don’t even know if we’ve got the Shelley and Dickinson cabins back, or if they’re still strung with yellow police tape.
If I get a call from someone inquiring about the rest of the month, or basically anyone doing anything but calling for Jane or Edgar with the right pass phrases, I ask them to hold and put it through to the Meyers’ cabin. If Jonathan’s not there, he’ll check the messages when he gets back. He doesn’t want me, Truman, or Lydia dealing with anything. “It all goes through me, and then it doesn’t get confused.” It sounds to me like an excuse we might all listen to so we don’t try to protect him from it or handle something on our own.
If things get too complicated, Jonathan’s showed me how to roll things over so that all calls go to an initial message that he recorded, informing callers that regrettably Loon Lake has begun screening calls, so please leave all relevant information in the message. People trying to call Jane or Edgar should already know that all relevant information means the resident’s name, the pass phrase, and a number to be called back.
At least the phones are working. Percy made Jonathan cut a cord, but he replaced it himself, because that’s the kind of guy Jonathan is. He can replace electrical cords, and he can give us a very professional reason to avoid difficult phone conversations. I don’t see myself ever being Jonathan. Lydia, to an extent, but Truman can take Jonathan’s—
I forcibly stop that line of thought and get out my deck of cards.
Edgar comes in to grab some breakfast and today he looks at the latte art and grins. Jonathan comes in while he’s still here, and Edgar asks him if he’s seen the forecast. He wants to know if it’s going to rain this morning. Jonathan shakes his head as he hands Edgar a couple of envelopes and tells him it’s maybe a ten percent chance over the next couple of hours. Edgar accepts the envelopes and says he’ll take a kayak out, then.
Edgar leaves. Jonathan goes into the kitchen. I deal out another round of solitaire.
I’ve got my knitting, and I guess I don’t even need to keep it in the drawer anymore because Henry’s gone. He’s not going to see it and try to start a conversation that’s really a competition, and did his mom really teach him how to knit, or was that one of his lies? That’s what he told Emily, but he also thought Emily was Annabeth, so the M word could’ve been him trying to push a button.
Annabeth is dead. Henry didn’t get that scoop.
The kitchen door opens, and Jonathan comes out, smiling but sort of subdued. “Lydia’s making pumpkin pie today. I got her the stuff.”
“Yeah?” I can’t help my own smile. “Does anyone else here eat pumpkin pie?”
“I have full faith you can manage the whole thing by yourself.” But he pauses and shifts awkwardly. “Tru …”
Ah, right. Here we go. Defense of the non-biological son.
Jonathan does the sort of nod that means he’s rewinding and starting over. “He doesn’t need me to make excuses for him. If there’s anything you need …”
“The pumpkin pie sounds great.” Honestly, it does. I love Lydia’s pumpkin pie.
“Well.” He tilts his head. “Anything else.”
I can’t think of a reply, but the phone rings before I draw enough breath to say so, and Jonathan straightens up and reaches over to answer, like it’s something he can do for me. “Loon Lake Retreat. This is Jonathan.”
I start to scoot back a little to at least give him the impression of space, but then he frowns. “Tru, slow down.”
My eyes dart around like I’ve forgotten where the clock is. 10:42. He should be somewhere between therapy and his house by now.
I can’t hear his words, but I catch his cadence, and if this is Truman speaking more slowly, how fast was he talking before? Fast, and long, with Jonathan only making an occasional “Uh-huh” as his eyes drift away. Can you go mad from hearing half a conversation that’s only listening noises?
The lodge door opens, and two police officers walk in. One of them hooks his thumbs over his belt and just plants his feet in the slightly too wide stance that’s supposed to mean business, and the other gestures for Jonathan to end his call.
“Tru—yeah, they’re here right now, so …” Jonathan listens a moment. “You don’t have to rush back. Drive safe, okay?” He hangs up without saying goodbye, but he doesn’t even get a chance to look at me before the second policeman starts talking.
“Well, they’ve been found,” he announces, chewing something loudly and tucking his thumbs in his belt, too. “And they’re all dead. So. We’ve got a few more questions for everyone.”
Cold Comfort: Monday, July 15, 2024 – Henry (2), coming September 6
Rebecca Frost 