Robert hasn’t said a word since they left the house; just a little huff here and there, an occasional shaking of the head as the gears in his mind turn. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter, lips pressed into a firm line, then shakes his head again. “God damn kid…” He finally mutters, though Grace knows him well enough to see past the annoyance, right to the worry.
Austin Hartley, their beloved nephew — Brightwood Daily News sensation — arrested under suspicion of arson. He’s thirty years old and too skittish to kill a spider on the wall, Grace can’t even imagine him committing something as serious as arson.
“I just hope he’s alright…” She whispers back. The last she’d talked to him, he was incoherent, speaking as if he’d only witnessed it — as if he didn’t understand he, himself, committed it; stumbling on his words, infuriatingly long pauses between sentences — sentences haphazardly strung together in a fashion she’d always endearingly labeled ‘Austin speak’ but it was a little less endearing when he was speaking to her from a detention center phone that could cut out at any moment.
He’d been missing for two days when she received the call. Hospitalized, then apprehended. They’d found him unconscious in his car near a flaming barn at the edge of town, the one that belonged to her in-laws. To his parents. Truth be told, she doesn’t care much about the barn. She thinks it should have been destroyed ages ago. That’s not where her own worry lies.
They’d told her Austin was lucky to be alive — that no one else had been hurt — but she isn’t so sure it matters after hearing his voice. He's lucky to be alive, but how much of his life has he just surrendered? Now, as they pull through the parking lot, she wonders how he might look when they come face-to-face; she wonders if he’ll look as scared as he’d sounded on the phone, or if he’ll even be able to talk to them.
The receptionist is cold, practiced; she’s seen people like them before, people worse than them clearly. Grace doesn’t waste any time with pleasantries, but Robert can’t hold back a few questions — when he’ll be out, why they bothered bringing him in when he’s clearly not well. The receptionist keeps her rhythm as if he isn’t talking, sliding form after form their way.
They have to sign at least five before they can see him, then they’re asked to wait in a small lobby with other visitors. “Once we get him checked out, he’s free to leave pending trial, but y’all can see ‘im while we’re gettin’ all the paperwork together,” a guard explains as he leads them through the hall. According to the guard, in any other circumstance, they’d keep custody of him. She tries to keep herself from thinking of what she’d do if that were the case. “He’s got a concussion. Knocked ‘imself pretty good on the head, so be aware’a that when you talk to ‘im.”
The other visitors look about the same level of distressed, some of them in tears while others look furious, complaining or huffing, arguing with staff over this and that. Some of them look eerily used to it and Grace can only find herself thankful she doesn’t fall into that category. She plops down in a chair in the corner, glancing at Robert who’s in the furious category. She places a hand on his arm and they sit there in silence until their name is finally called.
They have Austin waiting alone in another seating area, stationed at a white fold-out table ( detention halls are neither stylish nor comforting in any way ); he’s got his arms folded, head down. They’ve still got him in a shapeless gray jumpsuit that almost makes him look like a different person. At first, he doesn’t seem to notice them sitting across from him; then when he does, he doesn’t seem to recognize them. No flicker of relief or even familiarity. There’s nothing. He’s got a mask of bruises around his eyes, across his nose. She can see his swollen knuckles even beneath bandages. She’s not sure whether to blame the medication or his injuries for the indifference, but either option makes her equally sick to her stomach.
A thick slab of glass separates them on either side of the table, like they’re afraid one party might pounce the other at any given moment. “Hey, Aussie,” she finally whispers, almost like she’s handling a frightened animal, like he could jump up and run away, though she can’t fathom he could make it very far with how exhausted he looks.
“The hell were you thinking, boy?!” Robert barges in, a fist slammed down on the table. “You crazy?!”
“Robby, quit yellin’ at ‘im.” Grace grabs his arm so he’ll settle down, replacing the question with a more subdued, “Are you okay?” but Austin doesn’t respond at first. Still won’t look at them. He’s looking down at the table, unblinking — looks like a mannequin other than an occasional twitch of his hand.
He’s not a kid anymore, and this isn’t a case of teenage delinquency. This blankness in him, this complete lack of familiarity with them, it terrifies her. She’s searched his face a hundred times over, but she can’t find anything. No remorse, no fear, not even amusement or smugness. Just a blank stare as if he’s hoping they’ll give up and go away.
“Austin,” she prods. She wants to reach out for him, but she can’t. There’s barriers between them far stronger than any sheet of glass. It’s not until she’s given up that he finally opens his mouth — not until she retracts her hand and slinks back into her seat that he actually looks at her, eyes glassy and bloodshot.
“M’ sorry, Uncle Robby…” He glances to Robert, then to her. “M’ sorry…”
He’s completely tapped out, too tired to speak beyond a whisper, but he finally looks a little like himself. He looks human again. Like her nephew again. “I’m not crazy.”