The Second Stage

The Way Home

Meredith waited. Everything—watching television, reading, eating, sleeping—they were mere distractions. Being able to see Kyle again, in any form, ate away her dreams and spewed them back into her daytime musings. Was he happy? What was he doing there? He was so skinny; was he malnourished or still sick?

She settled into her one-bedroom apartment, set on a good corner of a bad neighborhood, and slept on her sofa with her taser and telescopic baton as company.

Her sister, Carol, visited once during that long month. They had a meaningless conversation on meaningful topics as was the case with her visits. She poignantly identified the lack of ingredients in the refrigerator, fastidiously corrected the unmade bed, and had a near meltdown at the number of tablets remaining in the prescription bottle from the hospital. She would only take those when she needed them, Meredith explained, which was how patients use that medication, anyway.

Kiara and several other coworkers punched in for lunch or dinner or brunch, anything with food. They wished her well and told her to feel better; she was feeling fine. Most consistently, they reminded her they couldn't wait to see her at work again, although they worked in different departments and never saw each other.

Observing the rain cascade over her windows became a hobby for Meredith. For hours she would alternate between that and the photograph on her wall of the sailboat at the boardwalk as she twirled her anchor pendant over and over. As a break from this, she balked at every romantic comedy that passed through the television screen. She rolled her eyes at the portions she presumed to be funny and laughed at moments she was certain weren't humorous.

She visited the hospital under the cover of night, during morning rounds, hours she wouldn't be recognized. Whenever the emptiness and boredom of her household placidity hit a tipping point, it was all she could find to relax. She might have considered taking her time-off in stride. But a funny thing occurred two days after discharge.

Despite a smile to whisk away even the darkest shadows, Kyle never seemed able to do so on command. In fact, he smiled infrequently for a child his age.

Meredith had spent yet another day bunkered from the sounds and sights and novelties of the coastal bustle. To fade from the present situation, and the present entirely, she excavated a photo album from Kyle's younger years. She never perused memories of the early days as often as she did the later ones. Perhaps she preferred examining the slow decline—the end—wondering what could have changed, and what paths that might have led to.

She opened the book. Kyle's usual perplexed eyes stared back from atop a stone dinosaur sculpture. He was eight in this picture; Meredith may not have organized these as well as she remembered. On the next page, a shot from the same year showed Kyle swinging with lips pursed into a pout.

It was as Meredith turned the page that a cloud passed overhead and sunlight seemed to suck into the vacuum of the outside world. Rather than move to flip on the lights, she adjusted to the darkness for she dared not allow her gaze to wander from what lay in front of her. Kyle—five years old and seconds away from colliding with a second bumper car—was smiling.

The adjacent picture from the following year showed him sitting at the table with a wide grin spread across his face. On the next page, two more of him beaming from the same year. Another one, this time of Meredith's common gesture of affection—lightly flicking Kyle on the nose. She tore through the album, every image of him delighted at her astonishment, every image a mockery of all she remembered. His expressions bore into her heart and their unfamiliarity shredded it.

She reached the last picture and stared at it for nearly an hour. She never recalled taking this one. He wore the sweater she bought for him on his sixth birthday. The blank off-white background seemed foreign, but the subject froze her in place. A close up of Kyle's face gazed back—pupils black and focused as a gun barrel—with a pleased smirk smeared dead-center on the page.