No Fault of Mine

Chapter Twenty

I left for home on Saturday.

I kissed my sister, hugged my brother-in-law, and thanked them for their help. Brant pouted and held Luke tightly. Luke looked in my direction and pressed his lips into a frown, and I mouthed, "Thank you."

"When can we visit Uncle Luke again?" Brant asked as we merged onto the freeway. I'd been expecting this question. He missed his dad, and I was thankful that Luke engaged Brant in activities he'll cherish.

"You had a good time?" I asked

"Yes. I think the sub was my fav."

"What about the computer games?"

"Meh, they're cool," Brant said with his uncle's smirk, "but everybody's a gamer."

"I suppose," I said. "Is everybody as good as you?"

"Nah."

"How about Uncle Luke?"

"He's the best," Brant said. "I think he let me win some of the time."

An hour later, we entered the Columbia Gorge Scenic Area. The deep blue of the river in the morning sun and the many waterfalls along the cliffs stirred memories of my childhood: three siblings in the backseat, a picnic packed in the trunk, and Dad looking for a picnic table on a busy Sunday afternoon. Thad was always buried in a book, which I never understood. I preferred activity. I would run along the trails surrounding the picnic areas, exploring with my sister. Inevitably, Mom had the table ready for a picnic by the time my sister and I returned. Thad was quick to show his disapproval, but Dad was more easygoing. As I remember, Thad disapproved and criticized us sometimes unmercifully. But that was his way, and sometimes we deserved it. That's my memory, and I realize that memories are selective.

As we neared Spokane, I grew increasingly uneasy about my last conversation with Stan. Had I been too hasty? What if he wasn't the informer? Had he been honest with me as he claimed? Had I burned what could have been a perfectly good relationship?

The apartment complex was clearly visible from the freeway. A spike of regret knifed into my chest, and my eyes moistened as I drove past. I wiped the moisture away with my fingers and forced my eyes to focus on the traffic ahead of me. I felt disgusted with my tirade at the restaurant and the guilt of having verbally attacked this man. I was hot with anger and fear at the time, and he was the one I took it out on. Had I misjudged him? Was he as confused about what was going on as I was?

I reached for my burner phone and held it in one hand. I thumbed in his number and hesitated. I felt I was at an intersection of life and either decision—to call or not call—would determine my path forward. Hadn't he been there when I needed help, but the evidence seemed convincing, and questions churned in my mind.

"Mom, I'm hungry," Brant said.

Of course, he was. We hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it was close to supper time.

"How about burger and fries?" I asked.

"Maybe. Or chicken strips and a milkshake."

I saw a fast food pull-through at an upcoming exit. I held onto the phone until we approached the put the phone down. Fate had made the decision.

Brant had his burger, fries, and a milkshake, and I had chicken strips and a cola. We chatted about his experience on the submarine as we ate. I learned Uncle Luke had complained about how cramped the quarters were and suggested it was just the place for a crew of nine-year-olds.

"I think it'd be great!" Brant said.

"Do you think you and your crew could run the ship?"

"Mom, it's not a ship; it's a submarine. You know, something that goes under the water? That's why they call it a sub."

"Oh," I said.

"And Mom, I'm good at computer games, remember?" For some reason, that made sense to my son. I chuckled. "And all we have to do is push buttons and pull levers. I looked it up on my tablet."

"I'm sure the Navy has some training as well," I said.

"Yeah, but not for my age," he said. "Uncle Luke was in the Navy. Did you know that?"

"That's before he met Pia," I said.

"He knew everything on the sub, Mom," he said in wonderment. "Even better than our guide."

At Coeur d'Alene, I turned north on Highway 95, the road that leads me home. Brant was on his tablet in the backseat, contented with a full belly. But my mind was occupied with the mystery I was in, and again, Stan crept in. I still had an hour to drive, and my mind again flirted with calling him. I reached for the phone.

"Can you turn on some music?" Brant asked. "How about our favorite station?"

"Please?"

"Yeah, sure. Please, Mom." His response was rote, but I was okay with that. It assured me that the courtesy was embedded somewhere in his brain.

I withdrew my hand from the phone and tuned in a streaming channel that I tolerated and Brant loved. I sighed, thinking about Brant's timely interruption of what may have been a very bad idea on my part, and I said, "Thank you, Son."

"Thank you, Mom," he said. I smiled inside, sure that his automatic response was triggered by my prompt.

Just outside of Compton Falls, I discussed with Brant what we may find when we open the door of our house. Of course, he knew about the break-in—it's hard to keep secrets from the ears of a child—but I wanted to prepare him for the worst. He seemed most concerned about his computer and collection of Nerf guns. I assured him that they weren't looking for kid stuff.

"What are they looking for," he asked.

"I wish I knew. Maybe if they found what they're looking for, they'd leave us alone."

"That'd be nice," he said. "Then maybe you wouldn't be so nervous." The mind of a child, I thought. He was so right.

The house looked undisturbed as we pulled into my driveway. Brant jumped out of the car and ran to the front door. When he found it locked, he jumped off the stoop and peered through the living room window.

"Mom, it's a mess," he said. "Do we have to clean it up before bed?"

I unlocked the door, and we walked into a ransacked living room. Brant ran into his bedroom as I surveyed the damage in the living room. Cushions had been pulled off the couch and loveseat, and the furniture had been flipped. The material on the undersurface side of the couch had been torn open. The kitchen cabinets were open, and pots and pans in the lower cabinets lay on the floor.

"Mom, Mom," Brant screeched from his bedroom. "They took my computer."

I entered my study to discover more chaos. Files from our four-drawer filing cabinet were strewn about the floor, and my desk drawers had been yanked out and lay broken on the floor. And something else was missing.

"Mom," he shouted, "they took your computer, too."