“Pax,” she shouts. “Oh my god. Thank god. What are you thinking? It’s cold out here. You’re going to get pneumonia.”
I stare up at her. It’s the weirdest feeling, but I simply don’t care about anything. I don’t care if I catch pneumonia. It wouldn’t bother me at all.
She leans down and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet.
“Come on,” she tells me. “We’re going back to the house. You don’t even have a coat on.”
And I don’t care. But I don’t tell Mila that. I just let her lead me to the house, up the stairs and into the kitchen.
“You’re frozen,” she says, turning to me. Her face is stricken as she strips off her coat and tosses it onto a chair. “I’m going to run you a hot bath. You have to warm up.”
She disappears down the hall and I remain standing limply in place.
Nothing matters.
Not anymore.
I know now what the void was that was always in me. It was this. This horrible knowledge. Even though my mind was concealing it, deep down in a hidden place, I knew. It’s why I’ve always felt empty, why I always welcomed oblivion.
Only now, the void isn’t empty. It’s filled with overwhelming pain and guilt. And I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like I’m being pulled under.
Mila comes back and seems surprised that I haven’t moved. She looks at me uncertainly, her green eyes liquid. She doesn’t say anything though. She just grabs my hand and tugs me to the bathroom. She pulls off my clothes and kicks them into a pile on the floor.
“Get in,” she instructs me firmly. “Your skin is bright red.”
I obediently step into the tub, even though I haven’t taken a bath since I was small. The hot water sends a thousand needles prickling through my limbs, but I don’t care. I settle into the tub and close my eyes, blocking out everything.
“Pax,” Mila begins. But then she changes her mind. “Never mind. I’ll check on you soon. I have your prescription, but since you drank so much whiskey, I don’t think you should take it.”
I don’t say anything.
When I open my eyes a moment later, she is gone. I close them again.
The problem is, when my eyes are closed, I see her face. My mother’s.
Her eyes are wide open and staring at me. Dead. I did that to her. It was me. The guy wasn’t going to kill her—I bumped his finger on the trigger.
It was all my fault.
Pain rips through me and I lurch to my feet, punching the tiled wall. I don’t even feel that pain- the pain in my chest far overshadows it. I grab a towel and dry off, pulling my underwear on.
I’ve got to do something.
I can’t live like this.
********
Mila
As Pax soaks, I put some water on for tea. As I do, his cell phone rings on the counter. I glance at it and see Paul Tate’s name. I reach for it hesitantly. Should I answer it? My gut says yes.
“Hello?” I am still uncertain.
“Hello,” a surprised Paul Tate answers. “Is Pax available? This is his father.”
“Just a moment,” I tell him. I want to say so much more, but I don’t. I just climb the stairs to the bathroom and open the door, only to find the room empty. The tub is still full of water, but Pax isn’t here.
Hell.
“He’s not where I thought he was,” I tell his dad. “I’ll have to find him.”
I start walking down the hall, but Paul interrupts me.
“Wait,” he says. “How is he? I received a voicemail from him. He said he’s remembered what happened to his mother.”
Anger rips through me. This man concealed this stuff from Pax for years. He had to know that it was going to come bubbling to the surface at some point. Didn’t he care about that? Didn’t he care what it was doing to Pax all along?
“How do you think he’s doing?” I ask coolly. “Not well. Nobody would handle it well.”
There is a loud sigh on the other end.
“I’ve always been afraid of this day,” Paul admits and he sounds distant and sad. “I’ve never known what to do, how to prevent it.”
“You can’t prevent it,” I tell him incredulously. “Pax saw something tragic and devastating. He should have dealt with it years ago with the help of a therapist. To allow him to suppress it was unforgivable. I’m sorry. I don’t know you and I’m sorry to judge, but I know him. And he didn’t deserve this. Any of this.”
There is a long silence. Finally Paul speaks again.
“You don’t understand. After Susanna died, Pax refused to speak of it. I did hire a therapist and Pax refused to speak to him. He had nightmares, but he would never describe them or tell me what they were about. I couldn’t help him because he wouldn’t let me.”
“He wouldn’t talk about it because the man who killed your wife threatened Pax. He told him that he would hunt him down and kill him, that if he spoke of it to anyone, that Pax would go to jail for killing his own mother. As you can imagine, he’s not dealing with it well. At all.”
“Do you think I should come?” Paul sounds hesitant. I am appalled and shocked. If it was me and Pax was my child, I would be here immediately. I wouldn’t ask, I wouldn’t take no for an answer. But Paul Tate is hesitating. I can’t believe it.
“You do whatever you feel you need to,” I tell him angrily before I hang up on him. I know I didn’t make the best first impression with Pax’s father, but I don’t care. How can he be so selfish?
As I gather my wits, I hear a thumping sound, loud and frequent.
Whump.
Whump.
Whump.
I crane my ears and follow the noise. It’s coming from downstairs in the basement. Curious, I pad lightly down the wooden stairs and find Pax in his underwear, punching a punching bag that is hanging from a ceiling beam. I didn’t even know it was down here. But then, I’ve never had a reason to be down here before.
He’s sweaty and his muscles bulge and flex as he repeatedly punches at the bag. Over and over, with all of his strength. He doesn’t even notice that I’m standing here watching him. He’s focused solely in front of him.