The Last Time She Saw Him Read Online Free Page A
Author: Jane Haseldine
silhouette the Ambassador Bridge. I put the car in drive and hit the gas hard. I want to get out of the city as fast as I can.
CHAPTER 2
D onny Boyner wasn’t the tipping point that drove me out of Detroit. Or Ben. Or what the psychiatrist said. It was all of it, but especially Logan and Will. I felt the boys would be safer at the lake house, far removed from the dangers of the city. When I was still on the beat and driving home to the suburbs after a day of writing about murderers, thieves, drug dealers, and pimps, I never felt secure as I watched Detroit disappearing in my rearview mirror. I knew the drill. The bogeyman doesn’t just lie in wait behind Dumpsters in alleyways or in shadowy corners of graffiti-infested tenements of the city. He’s also lurking with a crowbar in the bushes of your middle-class cul-de-sac next to a N EIGHBORHOOD W ATCH sign, just waiting to make his move to your back door after you and your family fall asleep. No place is immune from danger, but I was confident the lake house would provide us a safe haven.
Decremer is a tiny, “don’t blink or sneeze or change the radio dial or you’ll miss it” kind of town along Lake St. Clair. David and I bought the house in Decremer as our weekend vacation retreat two years ago, right before Will was born.
I pulled the U-Haul into the gravel driveway of the lake house in late May. Three days in, I didn’t think I could take it anymore. I missed the buzz of the newsroom and the juice I got from the beat. But after a while, we fell into routines of subdued normalcy and the comfort of simple daily routines. The boys and I spent every day down by the lake. I never took my eyes off them as Logan perfected his rock-skipping technique, and Will stuck to his big brother and mimicked his every move until I thought Logan was going to lose it.
At some point, the constant longing for the newsroom eased as the muggy Michigan afternoons passed without notice and I learned to slow down. And then Labor Day quietly arrived without warning, heralding along with it unwanted responsibilities: my upcoming return to the paper and Logan’s first day of third grade.
Six-thirty a.m. The alarm wails like a hateful siren. I slam the off button and roll toward the edge of the bed, instinctively expecting David to pull me back. But those were happier times. I get out of the empty bed and hurry to the bathroom, slide on my jeans, and put on a white button-down, fitted shirt. I use my fingers as a makeshift hairbrush through my thick, dark hair until it is somewhat tamed and curtail any other maintenance besides a dab of lip balm out of the sheer necessity of time. I do a quick inspection of my face for any wrinkles, which I’ve been able to ward off so far. But at thirty-seven, I know it’s just a matter of time.
I leave my vanity behind in the mirror and fixate instead on my morning journey with the boys. I head to the kitchen and begin to load up breakfast on the run, DVD players, and other necessities to survive the ride to Target, where I’ll join other last-minute parents as we paw through the slim available pickings in the dreaded back-to-school aisle.
I fight off a kamikaze deer fly on the front porch, snag the newspaper, and give the front page a thorough look, starting with the dateline: Monday, September 3, 2007. The color piece above the fold is the mandatory Labor Day story. This year it’s a parade with workers from the Big Three, Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler, waving flags and offering pointed predictions that the automotive industry could be headed for a major downfall. I give the paper a final, quick scan until I am satisfied it doesn’t include the byline of the freshly minted and hungry college grad from Syracuse University who temporarily replaced me on my cop beat.
I pause in the hallway and listen for movement or groans or other little boys’ just-waking-up sounds. But Logan and Will are still fast asleep, which is just what I was hoping
CHAPTER 2
D onny Boyner wasn’t the tipping point that drove me out of Detroit. Or Ben. Or what the psychiatrist said. It was all of it, but especially Logan and Will. I felt the boys would be safer at the lake house, far removed from the dangers of the city. When I was still on the beat and driving home to the suburbs after a day of writing about murderers, thieves, drug dealers, and pimps, I never felt secure as I watched Detroit disappearing in my rearview mirror. I knew the drill. The bogeyman doesn’t just lie in wait behind Dumpsters in alleyways or in shadowy corners of graffiti-infested tenements of the city. He’s also lurking with a crowbar in the bushes of your middle-class cul-de-sac next to a N EIGHBORHOOD W ATCH sign, just waiting to make his move to your back door after you and your family fall asleep. No place is immune from danger, but I was confident the lake house would provide us a safe haven.
Decremer is a tiny, “don’t blink or sneeze or change the radio dial or you’ll miss it” kind of town along Lake St. Clair. David and I bought the house in Decremer as our weekend vacation retreat two years ago, right before Will was born.
I pulled the U-Haul into the gravel driveway of the lake house in late May. Three days in, I didn’t think I could take it anymore. I missed the buzz of the newsroom and the juice I got from the beat. But after a while, we fell into routines of subdued normalcy and the comfort of simple daily routines. The boys and I spent every day down by the lake. I never took my eyes off them as Logan perfected his rock-skipping technique, and Will stuck to his big brother and mimicked his every move until I thought Logan was going to lose it.
At some point, the constant longing for the newsroom eased as the muggy Michigan afternoons passed without notice and I learned to slow down. And then Labor Day quietly arrived without warning, heralding along with it unwanted responsibilities: my upcoming return to the paper and Logan’s first day of third grade.
Six-thirty a.m. The alarm wails like a hateful siren. I slam the off button and roll toward the edge of the bed, instinctively expecting David to pull me back. But those were happier times. I get out of the empty bed and hurry to the bathroom, slide on my jeans, and put on a white button-down, fitted shirt. I use my fingers as a makeshift hairbrush through my thick, dark hair until it is somewhat tamed and curtail any other maintenance besides a dab of lip balm out of the sheer necessity of time. I do a quick inspection of my face for any wrinkles, which I’ve been able to ward off so far. But at thirty-seven, I know it’s just a matter of time.
I leave my vanity behind in the mirror and fixate instead on my morning journey with the boys. I head to the kitchen and begin to load up breakfast on the run, DVD players, and other necessities to survive the ride to Target, where I’ll join other last-minute parents as we paw through the slim available pickings in the dreaded back-to-school aisle.
I fight off a kamikaze deer fly on the front porch, snag the newspaper, and give the front page a thorough look, starting with the dateline: Monday, September 3, 2007. The color piece above the fold is the mandatory Labor Day story. This year it’s a parade with workers from the Big Three, Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler, waving flags and offering pointed predictions that the automotive industry could be headed for a major downfall. I give the paper a final, quick scan until I am satisfied it doesn’t include the byline of the freshly minted and hungry college grad from Syracuse University who temporarily replaced me on my cop beat.
I pause in the hallway and listen for movement or groans or other little boys’ just-waking-up sounds. But Logan and Will are still fast asleep, which is just what I was hoping
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