Page 81 of Holding On

Chapter Nineteen

Travis Russo

I feel like I’m interrupting when I find Maya and George out on the balcony.

“Where’s the orange juice?” I ask and they both laugh. There’s a lightness here that makes me feel good. But the moment is fleeting. My phone vibrates.

It’s Nic. Would we like to be present for the arrest? Could Maya play a part?

I’m not happy with the idea of Maya playing “a part,” but later, after I speak with Jackson, it makes sense. I try to put up an argument after she tells Nic yes, and then cuts me off.

It’s time to go.

Maya rises and Geo stands and tries to take her arm.

“I’m fine,” she says, but instead of shaking him off, she puts her arm around his waist and gives him a kiss on the cheek. My man is visibly pleased. So am I. His wide smile flashes, and Maya’s laugh is genuine.

Everyone handles pain differently, and I’ve often felt that George never had time to grieve. He got all of us, all at once, and we were like a bunch of feral dogs, all with different needs.

“Where are you two going? Aren’t you both tired?” He’s a smart man. Don’t tell, just suggest.

Maya opens her mouth to speak, but she catches my glance and stops herself.

“Maya and I have to go someplace right now, and we can’t really talk about it. But if you stay put, we’ll be back, and then we’ll have time to explain everything.”

Maya is already halfway down the hall, climbing into clothes, when the horn from the Lexus blares. Nic and Jackson are waiting.

***

Nic drives, with Jackson riding gunshot. This leaves the back seat for the two of us. Maya fits neatly up against my shoulder. For whatever reason, everyone is preoccupied with their own thoughts. When Nic’s phone rings, it’s as if he’s been primed, and he immediately engages the Bluetooth and puts the caller on speakerphone.

Finn’s voice is clear, and his message short. “Is everyone with you?”

“Yes.”

“I just got the call from Carlson. It’s a match. It’s hers . . . the hair.”

Jackson glances back at me, and Maya squeezes my leg. I had no doubt.

He leaves it there. They don’t mention my mother’s name. They don’t have to. I’m unaware that I’m breathing. I knew it would be hers. It had to be her hair. I used to twirl it around my index finger as a baby.

My father was the one who carried us, dug clams, showed us how to stroke the stomach of a baby squirrel to help it digest formula, and taught me to respect my sisters and never lie.

My mother held me, gave me baths when I was sick, pulled a splinter as long as a nail from my calf, and cried for me so I didn’t have to when I told her the baby squirrel died.

Nic hangs up and grips the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. It’s when we’re at the intersection of Route 131 and Route 1 that the only conversation in the car begins and ends.

I expected a righthand turn, but the Lexus swings left. “We’re not going to the courthouse?”

Jackson answers. “Barr’s at home.”

I hold Maya’s hand. Or maybe she’s holding mine. Hard to tell.

We all remain mute on the drive to Boothbay, and I don’t think I start breathing again until we turn onto Main Street.

We enter Boothbay, a quintessential Maine village that wafts of fudge and spices from the pristine center of town, to fish and beer at the edgy piers. Nearly all the downtown buildings are white clapboard. The car zigzags to the left and hugs the water along the north side of town, and then we turn off and start up a driveway. At the top is a palatial mansion with four Greek columns, a pergola on the side, outbuildings, a tremendous rose garden, and a fruit orchard along the south side of the property.

Carlson’s ancient faded green Volvo is there, parked in front of the house, and two cop cars are lined up on either side of his, their lights blazing. Maya squeezes my hand. The trunk to the Mercedes is open, and Barr stands to the left of the vehicle, facing Carlson, while four other officers, all men, look ragged in formation around him.