If only I hadn’t been so selfish. So self-centered. They might still be alive.
It was a warm June day. School had let out the day before. I wanted to hang out with my buddies, and that’s all I could think about. But my mother had other plans. She insisted that JD and I had to attend the cotillion practice later that afternoon. We’d been going to classes all year, and today was a dress rehearsal for the formal.
I couldn’t understand why we needed to go to a stupid rehearsal when I could be playing video games in the playroom. JD complained too, but I nagged relentlessly. She wouldn’t budge, and by the time we were ready to leave, I was a pissy little brat.
Olson, my father’s henchman, stopped me on the way to the car, where the others were already waiting. “Bring your mother this sandwich. She hasn’t eaten all day and your father’s worried about her.” I looked at the tuna sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Tuna salad was her favorite. She ate it for lunch several times a week.
“Don’t tell her it’s from your father. They had a little spat, and she might not eat it if she knows it’s from him. But he wants to make sure she puts something in her stomach.” What I didn’t know at the time was that the little spat was about my mother catching a young girl with my father in his office. “Tell her Lally sent it if she asks. Okay?”
“Yep,” I answered, taking the sandwich from him, and jogging out the back door like a little asshole, thrilled to pull one over on her. To punish her for making me waste the afternoon doing dumb things, when I could be hanging out with my cool friends.
“Lally made this for you,” I said, handing her the wrapped sandwich, while holding the glee inside. She didn’t even ask where it came from, but I lied to her anyway.
The last thing I said before slamming the car door was don’t forget to eat your tuna fish.
It was the very last thing I ever said to her.
The mayonnaise in the tuna sandwich was mixed with sodium soltrite, a compound mixed at Sayle Pharmaceuticals. Our family company. My mother’s family company. It incapacitated her, causing her to drive off the road into a ravine with my siblings in the car.
She died on impact. My siblings weren’t as lucky. Chase was in the car for six hours, unable to move, surrounded by death, and Zack screaming in pain. Each time I visit, I hear those screams for days.
“Hey,” Delilah says softly from the doorway.
“You can’t be in here without washing your hands.”
“I know,” she replies, walking into the room. “I’ve hung out here before with Gabby and Zack.”
She goes directly to the bed and pats Zack’s hand gently. “Hey Zackie, it’s Delilah. Remember me? Gabby’s friend. I’m Gray’s friend too. How are you?”
I draw a breath as she has a one-sided conversation with my brother—the one I can’t bear to look at. “He can’t hear you.”
“Sure he can. What’s Gray reading you? Something good, I hope. He likes soulless writers, like Hemingway. I hope he’s not making you listen to that crap.”
“Hemingway’s not soulless,” I mutter.
“The man didn’t believe in using adjectives. That’s what gives language color.”
“He believed they complicated sentences. He used verbs to tell his stories.”
“Spare me the literature class, frat boy. The night’s slipping away. I’m starving and we don’t get to eat until you read, so get a move on. Zack and I are waiting.”
She sits on the floor and peers at me until I begrudgingly open the book to the page with a stamped leather bookmark. I focus on the words, on the smell of Delilah’s perfume, and on her calming presence, which I feel from several feet away. But none of it dulls the memory of Zack running around the backyard chasing the dog, dragging Chase, the quieter and smaller twin, along for the fun. He was so full of life.
As if she senses my anguish, Delilah crawls over, and sits at my feet with her head resting against my leg. There is something so visceral, so pure in her actions. They’re a quiet reminder that I’m in control, born of strength—not of weakness. I slide my hand into her hair and let the silky strands comfort me as I read to my little brother.
There’s nothing I can do to bring my mother or my sister back, or to make it right for Zack. Or even for JD and Chase, whose lives would have been dramatically different if my mother had lived. I can’t change any of it for them, but there’s one mistake from the past that I can correct.
I didn’t intervene when Kyle bragged about his abusive behavior. I called him out, told him he was a fucking dirtbag, but I took no action. I didn’t contact Delilah and tell her to get the hell away from him. And I didn’t kill the sonofabitch on the spot, which is exactly what he deserved—and what he eventually got—although not at my hands.
It might be too late for the others. But it’s not too late for the woman at my feet.
When I’m through reading, we say good night to Zack. Actually, Delilah says good night, and I grunt when she urges me to say something.
With that behind us, supper is lighthearted and fun. We laugh more than usual with Gabby and Delilah here.
No one raises an eyebrow at our relationship. They’ve always believed we were destined to be together. Except JD. He’s as much as said that I’d rather be alone and miserable, hanging out in a sex club, where everything is fantasy.
Maybe he’s right.
29
Delilah
We had our last team meeting on American soil this morning. Gray, Trippi, Baz, me—and Foxy. For the life of me, I still can’t figure out why she’s sitting in on team meetings, and Gray hasn’t given me a satisfactory answer. It’s not that we discuss anything classified in front of her, but it’s unusual.
I always liked Foxy, although I never bought into the idea that she’s some sweet mamaw. She might have grandchildren, but she can’t be much more than fifty and she’s in great shape. The granny act is a carefully crafted persona so she can catch you off guard and go for the jugular if you mess with Gray. She didn’t get the name Foxy for nothing.
But in the team meetings, there’s something about her, the way she takes notes and winces quietly when she disapproves of things she knows nothing about, and that are, frankly, none of her business. It rubs me the wrong way.
“You almost ready?” Gray asks from the bedroom doorway. He looks young and carefree in a pair of jeans and a casual T-shirt, much like the day we left for the beach. It seems like an eternity has passed since then.
“I think so,” I say with some hesitation, peeking into the sack with the small compacts I brought along for gifts. “I’m just double-checking my carry-on to make sure I have everything I need on board.”
“This isn’t a commercial flight. All our luggage is carry-on.”
“Right,” I mutter, only half-listening. My focus is elsewhere. Checking and rechecking every tiny detail before a mission is my thing. It centers me, and gives me the opportunity to walk through the entire plan sequentially, scene by scene, reel by reel, one last time. If there’s a snag, I often catch it at this stage. It’s why I’ve been valuable to Smith’s team.