In Things Unseen Read online

  “He said the boy’s name. Adrian something.”

  “Edwards.” Janet nodded. “Adrian Edwards.”

  “That was it. And his mother’s name was Diane, he said.”

  “Diane Edwards, yes. And the father’s name was Michael. Why?”

  Alan got his smartphone out, tapped a number with one hand while waving his wife off with the other. Into the phone, he said, “Seattle, Washington.” Then, “Diane Edwards.”

  SEVENTEEN

  MICHAEL WENT HOME SOON after they put Adrian to bed. Diane wanted him to stay the night—she would have been open to any sleeping arrangement satisfactory to him—but she knew better than to ask. Her husband had been given enough to absorb over the last twenty-four hours as it was. Trying to force reconciliation on him, too, even for only one night, would have been folly.

  Despite the bravado she’d put on for Michael, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do, how God did or did not want her to function from here on. It felt as if her every step held the potential for ruin. When your world was this close to perfect, the fear of doing anything to lose it was almost paralyzing.

  She had been praying all day that she had dealt with Laura Carrillo properly. Telling the young woman the truth had seemed fraught with risk. Intellectually Diane understood Carrillo posed no threat; there was nothing Carrillo could do to prove Adrian had passed away eight months earlier, and that both his parents were fully aware of the fact. Still, Diane wondered just how complicated Carrillo could make their lives, now that Diane had given the teacher reason to go on speaking the truth in defense of her own sanity.

  For all her uncertainty, there was still no question in Diane’s mind that the miracle of Adrian’s return was not meant to be widely known. God’s scrubbing of the past to remove any reference to his death made that obvious. And yet, the evidence was equally clear that God had chosen to leave the eyes of some open to the truth. She and Michael for obvious reasons, and Laura Carrillo for no reason Diane could imagine.

  Were they the only ones?

  The question made Diane uneasy. It didn’t seem possible that God had brought Adrian back to life just to receive glory and praise—or, in Laura’s case, scorn—from three people. Surely there were others. But who and how many? And why had they been chosen?

  Diane only had to wait until the phone rang, minutes after her reunited family’s first dinner together, to learn the answer.

  * * *

  “Hello, is this Diane Edwards?” Alan asked. He and Janet had agreed he should be the one to make the call, but now he wasn’t so sure he could do this.

  “Yes?”

  “Adrian’s mother?”

  They had discussed exactly how this question should be phrased. If her child had indeed been killed, asking in the present tense if she had a son named Adrian might upset her, but so would using the past tense if her son was alive. This was the compromise they’d come up with.

  The woman on the other end of the phone line hesitated before answering. “Yes, this is Adrian’s mother. Who is this?”

  There had been no trace of heartache in her voice. A good sign. “My name is Alan Berger, Ms. Edwards. I know this is going to sound ridiculous and I apologize beforehand, but my father-in-law seems to think. . . .” Alan had to stop, gather all his nerve to say the rest: “He seems to think Adrian was involved in an accident he witnessed some time ago and I’m just calling to make sure. . .well, I guess I’m calling to make sure your son’s all right.”

  Again, Diane Edwards, whose number Alan had gotten from directory assistance, did not respond right away. “What kind of accident?”

  “A car accident. Last March. That isn’t possible, is it?”

  “No. It isn’t. What’s your father-in-law’s name, Mr. . .Berger, is it?”

  “Yes. Alan Berger. My father-in-law’s name is Milton Weisman. His daughter Janet is my wife. I understand you live in Lakeridge. Milton lives here in Skyway. Perhaps you or your son know him from somewhere?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Diane Edwards said, almost before Alan had finished the question.

  “Lakeridge Park, maybe? Milton says that’s where the accident occurred.”

  “We never go to Lakeridge Park. It’s always too crowded there.”

  “I see. Then Adrian—”

  “Has never been in a car accident. No, thank God, never.”

  “Good. Good. I’m so glad to hear that. Milton had my wife and I quite alarmed.”

  Diane Edwards didn’t say anything.

  “Though I must say we can’t imagine where he would get such a story about a little boy he doesn’t know. Are you sure the name’s not familiar? Milton Weisman?”

  “I’m quite sure.”

  “Is there any chance Adrian knows him from somewhere that you don’t?”

  The thought occurred to Alan this was a terrible thing to ask—it made Janet’s father sound like a pedophile. But all Diane Edwards said was, “No, Mr. Berger, there isn’t. His father and I make it a point to know all of Adrian’s friends, especially the adults. Now, I’m sorry, but—”

  “Of course. I’ve bothered you enough. Thank you for your patience and have a good night.”

  “Wait! Mr. Berger?”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe I should talk to him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your father-in-law. Mr. Weisman. I’d like to talk to him. Would you mind?”

  Alan couldn’t hide his surprise. “I’m afraid he’s gone to bed. Why—”

  “Well, I’m curious now, just as you are. I’d like to know how he knows my son’s name, and I’m sure my husband would, too. Maybe if I spoke to him, Mr. Weisman and I could figure it out together. And I could reassure him that Adrian is fine. Could you have him call me tomorrow sometime?”

  This wasn’t at all a turn Alan had thought their conversation would take. “I suppose so. I can ask him, anyway. But—”

  “Please. I’d very much appreciate it. Good night.”

  She hung up before Alan could say anything more.

  Standing right behind her husband in Milton’s living room, close enough to be Alan’s second skin, Janet said, “Well? What did she say?”

  Alan told her.

  “She wants to talk to him?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Do you think she was lying?”

  “About wanting to talk to him?”

  “No! About the boy being alive.”

  “No. Of course not. Why would she lie about something like that?”

  “I don’t know. I just. . . .” She started crying again. “Oh, my God, poor Daddy! What’s happening to him?”

  Alan put his arms around his wife, let her weep into his shoulder. He didn’t know what to say. She had every right to be worried about her father. Sane people didn’t imagine they’d run over the children of perfect strangers in the park. Especially children who were still alive. Some of Diane Edwards’s responses to Alan’s questions had seemed peculiar, if not dishonest, but there was one thing about her Alan could say with certainty.

  She was not the mother of a dead little boy.

  * * *

  Milton Weisman. Of course.

  Diane chided herself for not thinking of the old man before now. Who else would God have wanted to bless with the knowledge of her son’s resurrection more than the man who had killed him?

  It had taken Diane a long time to care about Milton Weisman’s pain. Her own suffering had come first. She understood Weisman was sorry, and that his only crime was being old and slow and clumsy. She could see his shame and guilt were heartfelt, that his grief ran nearly as deep and wide as her own, but it was hard for her to give a damn. There had been nothing Milton Weisman could do to bring her son back, and that was the only form of recompense Diane had any interest in accepti
ng from him.

  Time, however, had dulled the blade of her anger. Eventually her lack of compassion for Weisman withered and waned, as had Michael’s, the two of them unable to deny the old man their pity forever. They realized Weisman was also living with the loss of their son, only without any of the sympathy and support they had been showered with. It became impossible for Diane to go on hating someone upon whom others were heaping so much abuse in her name.

  Once, before her change of heart, Weisman had shown up at the house unannounced. Only weeks had passed since the accident and Diane couldn’t find it in herself to answer the door. Michael was at work, so the awkward business of talking to the old man couldn’t be relegated to her husband. Peering out at Weisman through the narrow space between curtain and living room window, Diane let him ring the bell until he grew weary and walked away, never to return. Until this moment, the memory had given Diane no cause for regret. She knew what Weisman wanted to say and had spared him the trouble.

  Now she wished she had heard him out.

  If Milton Weisman called her tomorrow, it would be a day of second chances for them both.

  * * *

  Milton couldn’t sleep.

  He had tried for only several minutes before giving up. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Halfway down the hall, he stopped. Janet and Alan were talking about him in hushed tones. Milton stood there in the dark, stock still, and listened to them worry over the scope of his madness. Then he heard Alan call Adrian Edwards’s mother on the phone.

  Milton was privy to only half of their conversation, but he didn’t need to overhear Alan tell Janet the other half afterward to know what Diane Edwards had said: Milton’s name meant nothing to her. There had been no accident in the park.

  Adrian was alive.

  Milton returned to his room before they could catch him spying on them, climbed back into his bed as if he’d never left. He lay there in the dark and fought the urge to cry for what felt like the fifteenth time that day. He was tired of crying. But he was more tired of being afraid. What the hell was going on? How could a man, regardless of age, be perfectly sane one day and completely mad the next?

  He had killed Adrian Edwards. He could see the view from his windshield as the Honda vaulted the parking-lot curb, engine screaming, and careened toward the play structure in the park, as if it were all only moments removed from the present. He could feel the steering wheel in his hands, its metal core threatening to bend beneath the death grip of his fingers. The little boy on the ladder of the slide vanishing below the car’s hood, his mother’s scream splitting the park’s quiet, the Honda plunging into a tree. Every detail was as fresh in Milton’s mind as his last thought, and each held the fine, intricate filigree that nothing dreamed or imagined could ever claim.

  He had killed Adrian Edwards.

  He had come to grips with this fact long ago. Milton didn’t care what the boy’s mother said. She was either a liar or insane herself. The loss of a child was a heartbreaking thing. If Adrian’s death had driven his mother mad, she would hardly be the first mother to suffer such a fate. As for why Milton’s daughters and his son-in-law seemed similarly deluded, or why all the goddamn computers in the world had chosen this moment to also forget the accident, Milton had no answers. His certainty went no further than this: he was not insane. He was not growing senile. Something was happening he couldn’t explain, but it had nothing to do with a loss of his faculties.

  He had heard Alan tell Janet that Diane Edwards wanted to talk to him. Alan didn’t know why, but Milton thought he did. She wanted to tell Milton the truth about what was happening and why.

  Tomorrow, against her better wishes, Janet would tell him what Adrian’s mother had told Alan tonight, and much to his daughter’s horror, Milton would call Diane Edwards right away. He would ask her for a meeting. He would send Janet off to work and go alone.

  Driving the very same silver Honda Accord that had killed Diane Edwards’s son.

  EIGHTEEN

  FLO DIDN’T COME HOME for dinner. This time her excuse was a lunch meeting that at the last minute had turned into one over dinner. It was becoming a habit with her, finding some reason not to come home until late, but beyond Flo’s ever-growing indifference to Allison, she had done nothing yet to suggest her late nights were anything but business related.

  Still, Allison wondered.

  She was desperate to tell her partner about the day’s events. They’d had a brief conversation over the phone late that afternoon, but that was all. Allison imagined Flo’s reaction would be muted, slow as she always was to get excited about things that could not be easily explained. But all Allison needed Flo to do tonight was listen, to serve as a sounding board for all the thoughts and questions about Laura Carrillo that Allison had bottled up inside her.

  Yet here she was alone, waiting.

  She still needed a last name for Adrian, the little “dead” boy who had allegedly driven Carrillo over the edge. At the coffee shop this afternoon, Allison had revisited the Yesler Elementary website to search for Adrian’s full name or photo. Neither was there. As Uber assignments had kept her busy the rest of the day and well into the evening, this was the first chance Allison had been given since leaving the coffee shop to try again.

  Once in bed, she plugged Adrian, car accident, and Lakeridge Park into several different search engines and was mildly disappointed, if not at all surprised, to see no useful results. Mixing and matching other search terms with the original three proved equally unproductive, but combining Yesler with Howard Alberts finally brought one meaningful photograph to the fore.

  It had run in the local Lakeridge newspaper more than a year earlier as part of a story on a field trip some Yesler staff and kids had taken to the Boeing Aircraft factory in Everett. It depicted Alberts—a tall, gawky man with a long forehead and authoritarian smile—squeezing himself into the simulated cockpit of a Boeing 787, where a pair of his young charges, a boy and a girl, were seated in the pilot’s and copilot’s chairs, respectively. The caption identified the school’s principal, the first-grade girl (Angela Liggens), and her smaller classmate: Adrian Edwards. Alberts and Liggens were beaming for the camera, but not the boy. His smile was a quiet one, understated and serene.

  The smile told Allison this was the Adrian she was looking for.

  She sent a copy of the photo to the printer in the office and ran a search on Adrian Edwards. Nothing even remotely related to a seven-year-old boy from Seattle, Washington, turned up. She hadn’t required any further convincing, but this was all the proof she needed to know that the accident Laura Carrillo claimed had taken the boy’s life never happened.

  Allison turned now to Carrillo.

  Unlike Adrian Edwards, the teacher had an online presence, threadbare though it was. She had profiles on the more common social media sites—Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, etc.—and a handful of photographs, including a couple taken at Yesler. The starry-eyed countenance of a drug addict or overwrought professional on the verge of emotional collapse was nowhere to be seen. If anything, Carrillo consistently appeared happy and vibrant in the way young adults, especially women, were when their lives seemed to be going exactly as planned. Allison understood normalcy was often just a façade for some people, but she found herself doubting that Carrillo’s blowup could be easily written off as stress or the side effects of prescription meds.

  She spent most of the next hour perusing the online records of Carrillo’s life, gathering a likely address and phone number for her in the process. Allison took a tour of Carrillo’s social network pages and learned little of interest, besides what her boyfriend, Elliott Jeffries, looked like and how hopelessly devoted Carrillo was to him. Allison remained drawn to Adrian Edwards as a

  subject, even more so now that she’d seen his photograph, but could no longer deny the story she was preparing to write belonged not to him, but to Carrillo. This
wasn’t the true-life tale of a child who’d risen from the dead, but of a seemingly sane young woman who’d become convinced the child had done precisely that. Carrillo was the star of this drama, not Adrian, and Allison knew she’d be unwise to approach it any other way.

  She decided to call Laura Carrillo first thing in the morning.

  There might be no Pulitzer prize in the teacher’s story, but Allison was confident she could get it published somewhere. Any published story with her byline on it held the potential of re-lending her some semblance of professional relevance, and right now, out of the game as she was, that was prize enough. All she had to do was work the piece from every angle and write it with some flair. She’d watched other writers spin gold from material far less intriguing than this, some even making a name for themselves in the process, and if writing Carrillo’s story garnered her nothing more than a three-figure check and some online “shares,” it wasn’t going to be because she misplayed the opportunity.

  She turned off her computer and watched television until right before midnight, when she finally understood waiting up for Flo was a fool’s errand. She killed the lights and TV and curled up into a ball, drawing the covers up all around her.

  Don’t quit on me, yet, baby, she thought. Hold on just a little while longer.

  * * *

  Michael was peeved, but not greatly surprised, when Laura Carrillo and a man she introduced as her fiancé showed up at his door late Wednesday night.

  Diane had told him over dinner how Carrillo had ambushed her that afternoon, and they both agreed Adrian’s teacher was likely to seek Michael out next. Nothing Diane told her had seemed to comfort Carrillo, and Diane was sure she had left their meeting as determined as ever to find an explanation for Adrian’s return that did not involve the benevolence of a supreme being. She had to be dissuaded from this undertaking, Diane said, for her own sake if no one else’s, and the odds were it would be left to Michael to do it.

  It struck him as a thankless and cruel task. He understood Carrillo’s position perfectly, and felt more sympathy for the woman than Diane cared to invest. Only hours ago, all of Carrillo’s confusion and fear had been his own. But Diane was right. Nothing good could come from Carrillo’s continued refusal to accept the truth and let it be. Even if she couldn’t derail the miracle that had brought Adrian back to life, as Diane feared, trying to convince the world that its history of events was just an elaborate falsehood of Michael and Diane’s making would bring Carrillo nothing but ridicule and scorn. She would risk losing everything, personally and professionally.