Brighton
7:53 p.m. ---17 hours, 7 minutes left
The grandfather clock is chiming 7:53 p.m. when I finally give in to my urge to climb the stairs.
The monitor is telling the truth: Sophia’s fast asleep, lying on her back with her arms and legs spread out in starfish formation. Her pacifier has fallen out of her mouth but her lips still twitch in a sucking motion.
Her nursery is decorated in pink and white—matching polka-dot crib sheet, dust ruffle, rug, curtains, and over- stuffed glider. Board books fill a carved white bookshelf, and I’m sure the dresser is full of sweet, ruffled outfits.
In this room, the pictures are of her parents. They’re everywhere—it’s like the Sheas are afraid their daughter will forget what they look like overnight. Jonah’s in one. A small frame decorated with pink grosgrain ribbon on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. It’s a candid shot of him holding Sophia. He’s half-turned from the camera, but in profile it looks like he might be smiling down at the baby gripping his finger.
I flip on a lamp to see it better, and Sophia stirs. She lets out one quick whimper and her face creases for an instant before I click off the lamp and back out of the room with hasty steps.
Next to Sophia’s nursery is a bathroom. I don’t realize I’ve made up my mind to peek into Jonah’s room until I’ve shut the door again and am reaching for the next knob. This room is a home gym: yoga mats, treadmill, and free weights set up facing a flat-screen TV and a bookshelf full of fitness DVDs.
I don’t hesitate to try a third door; at this point there’s no pretending I’m doing anything but snooping.
Guest room. Decorated with stiff, expensive-looking fabric in green-and-navy stripes.
Fourth knob—master suite. I shut that door fast; it’s weird to see where Mrs. and Mr. Shea sleep. If there is underwear or anything on the floor, I don’t want to see it or I’ll never be able to face them when they come home from dinner.
Door five—linen closet.
Door six—home office.
The seventh door opens to reveal another guest room with furniture identical to the first. This one is decorated in the same striped fabric, but the green stripes are burgundy instead. I start to shut it until I realize I’m out of doors. There are no more rooms to inspect.
A second glance over this room and I notice a history textbook on the nightstand. One dresser drawer is open a crack, and I can see the green T-shirt Jonah wore to school today.
This isn’t right. I don’t know what I expected his room to look like—some sort of mash-up of the teen-boy clichés from TV: car, band, or bikini-model posters; big stereo; video games; dirty dishes; clothing all over the floor. In fact, it’s probably statistically more likely that I’d see underwear on this floor than in the Sheas’ master bedroom. My eyes shoot to the ceiling and then creep back to the hardwood that doesn’t contain so much as a stray sock.
This is how Jonah lives? How am I supposed to learn anything about him in a bedroom that’s as generic as a hotel room? I take another step through the door and do a slow 360-degree rotation. There’s a backpack leaning against the closet door. TV cables and power cords snake from the wall up through the back of an armoire in the corner. There’s a similar set up with laptop cords on the desk, but the actual surface doesn’t hold so much as a pen. Except for the history book, the bedside table is empty. The bureau looks blank too—except, no, it isn’t. There’s a frame on its back corner.
With a glance back at the silent hallway, I cross the room and pick it up. It’s heavy, made of some dark wood, and holds two pictures.
In the top photo Jonah’s dressed for baseball, though it’s not a copy of the middle school one from downstairs; this is a Hamilton High uniform. There’s a man next to him with his arm around Jonah’s shoulders. I pull the picture closer. It’s hard to really study it in the dark room, but the man’s got to be his father. The resemblance is uncanny, from their sandy hair to their tans to the smiles they’re both aiming at the camera.
The second picture is from a prom. Jonah looks good in a tuxedo—that’s my first thought. But then again, who doesn’t look good in a tuxedo? I look beyond him to the rest of the photo. It must be Hamilton’s, because ours didn’t take place in a gym, and the country club wasn’t decorated with Mylar balloons and paper streamers.
Jonah looks alive, animated. And the girl beside him must be why. His girlfriend? She’s wearing a short pink dress, tight enough to showcase her gorgeous curves. She’s looking up at him with laughter written all over her face. His arm is tight around her, pulling her up against his side, and she’s got a hand on his chest.
So playing baseball and this girl, that’s what makes Jonah happy.
It’s hopeless.
What a waste of the night. I want to go home.