At seven eighteen, Christine finally called.
I answered before the first ring ended.
“Where are you?”
Her breathing was shaky. “Is Jake awake?”
“Where are you, Christine?”
“At Dad’s.”
“Why?”
“I can’t leave yet.”
I looked at my son’s bruised face.
“You can’t leave the house where three men attacked our child?”
“Michael, please lower your voice.”
“I am standing beside his hospital bed.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You haven’t seen him.”
A faint sound came through the phone, like a door closing in the distance.
“I’m trying to understand what happened,” she said.
“Jake told us what happened.”
“He was frightened and injured.”
The sentence was cautious, but I heard what lay beneath it.
“You think he’s confused?”
“I think my father is saying one thing and Jake is saying another.”
“Our son says your brothers held him down.”
“I know what he says.”
