Some Laneys Died: A Skipping Sideways Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  “I’m sorry, Laney. We probably should’ve stayed in town—then you wouldn’t have seen that.”

  “Whether we saw or not, it still happened.” At least in our particular universe. In another, the truck decided not to pass or Steven slowed instead of accelerated.

  “But it wouldn’t have affected you. It’s hard enough dealing with our own tragedies. We don’t need to know everyone else’s.”

  If I hadn’t asked about the squares of paper in the plane or offered to help Evie with her luggage, I’d never known about the choice she didn’t want to make. I’d have seen the wreck, commented how dangerous Alaska is, and driven on. Another version of Evie and Steven and their pets will sleep peacefully at La Quinta tonight, and their lives will probably have no effect upon mine. But I think that other Evie will always be haunted for reasons she won’t understand.

  If I hadn’t called Dad, I’d never have known about Gibbs and her lost pregnancies or the similarities in our appearance, but I’m sure these facts have affected me in some mysterious way. Somehow Gibbs and her problems are entangled with my life. I need to figure out how.

  I turn away from the window and look at Dad. “No, we don’t need everyone else’s tragedies, but the choices we make sometimes have greater consequences than we could’ve imagined.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I sip more coffee then tell him about everything Mom explained to me. And about the chair and Garrett’s truck and the video Marissa showed me. And Caden—both times. I tell him about the bones and the twin girls, strangled. About listening to him and Gibbs making love inside the tent, but they were never in a tent. And the hunting blind where I was choked and slapped. And seeing myself hanging in the playground.

  During my monologue, he says nothing. When I’m finished, we’ve passed through Nenana, and the snow becomes heavy again. The wipers can barely keep the windshield clear, and there are several places I cannot see a road—no reflectors, no signs, nothing but a blanket of white. Yet somehow Dad keeps us moving through this wilderness.

  I watch his face flinch and his jaw tighten as I speak. I can’t tell if he’s reacting to what he sees or what I’ve told him. I wait a full minute after I finish. “Do you want to send me back to Texas?”

  “No. Never. You went through all this by yourself? Have you told Hannah?”

  “No. I thought she’d send me to a psych ward and refuse to let me see you.”

  “Tell me again about Gibbs seeing our daughter.”

  “In another universe you chose Gibbs who had your baby. When your daughter was thirteen, you two took her to the lake on the fourth of July, camping in the same spot I found you. Bailee rode her bike around the campground. Some time before I found you two at the campsite, Gibbs says she thought she saw a girl ride past who looked like a younger version of herself. I think she saw a glimpse of that other world.”

  “Bailee?”

  “Gibbs wanted to name her baby after her grandmother.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I think I saw the girl, or heard her, too. I can’t remember the details yet, but I know she’s connected to what happened that day. And I think I saw her in Cabela’s Wednesday afternoon.”

  Dad suddenly pumps his brakes until we stop just before hitting a moose standing in the middle of the highway. The truck swerves to the left, so the moose’s head is right outside my window.

  “Whoa! That was close,” says Dad.

  “How did you see him?”

  “Her.” He points to a calf in front of his left headlight. “Born this past May.”

  The spindly calf walks quickly past its mother and trots into the darkness. The cow leans her long head back, pointing her left eye directly at me, then slowly turns and strides away.

  “Think I’ll drive even slower,” says Dad. “Text Gibbs and tell her we’re about twenty minutes out.”

  I pull out my phone and send the message. It’s now 4:45. From the moose tracks, it appears three inches of snow cover the road.

  Dad straightens his truck and makes the first tire tracks through this bed of snow. I look to my right for one last glimpse of the moose, but they’ve disappeared into the trees, leaving no sign they ever existed.

  I listen to the defroster blasting hot air against the windshield. If Dad switches the heat into the vents and onto us, the glass fogs in less than a minute. “I need you to tell me how long you and Gibbs were . . . making out before I caught you.”

  “That’s an awkward question. Why?”

  “Because, in my memory, I watched you two for quite a while. I don’t understand why.”

  “Probably twenty minutes or so.”

  “You were both naked before you climbed into her truck?”

  He clears his throat. “Yes, but there were trees between us and the road.”

  “And what was my reaction when I finally said something to you?”

  He tightens his lips against his teeth. Blinks rapidly, then stretches his neck. “You were very, very angry. Crying. Screaming. Almost insane. I never understood why you went so crazy. I mean, I know any daughter would be mad, but I thought at the time that . . .”

  “Something else had caused it?”

  “Yeah.” He slows to make a right turn off the highway. “What happened before you found us?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve seen glimpses.”

  “Of what?”

  “Suffering. Weeping. Gagging.”

  He looks over at me, his face contorted into a grimace. “From what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We travel in silence for a few minutes until he slows to make another right turn. “Just a few more miles. What are you going to say to Gibbs?”

  “About?”

  “Being pregnant.”

  “For now we’ll talk in private about it. I’ll be excited. Try to keep her away from pills. She shouldn’t be taking Xanax.”

  “You tell her.”

  “What about your liquor?”

  “What makes you think . . .”

  “Mom said you were drunk when you called her a year ago.”

  “I probably was, but I rarely drink now, especially when Gibbs is around.”

  “Where’s your liquor?”

  “Hidden. And I do check on it to make sure she hasn’t found it. But you know she worked in a bar. She drank every night.”

  I’m starting to sweat. Maybe the heater is too high, or my anger is rising. “Why did you let her work there?”

  “I didn’t want her to, but no one else would hire her. She’s worked at the school, for the city, on the base. And then the restaurant.”

  I shake my head. “Why can’t you move to another place, so she can start over?”

  “Laney, I didn’t bring her here. She found me. Always does.”

  My words come out too loud. “And you leave her until she finds you again?”

  “That’s happened a few times. She’s an addict. She can’t stop. If I don’t leave, I end up using with her, and then we both crash. The only time I was free from that insanity was with Hannah.”

  “Mom said you cheated with Gibbs before.”

  He sighs. “I’m ashamed to say that’s true. A few times. But Hannah, bless her heart, always took me back, and I could escape into a normal life again with a wife and kid and some self-respect.”

  “Until I screwed that up.”

  “Which is not your fault. There was something else affecting you. Another universe or something. Besides, the problem is me not being able to leave Gibbs for good.” His hands squeeze the wheel. “Every time I try, I feel horrible because she depends on me, needs me so bad that leaving would kill her. Yet even when I’m with her, it’s not enough for her.” His chin juts out, and I can see the vein pulsing in his neck. “She gets drunk or high. We fight. We hurt, and then we get back together so we can go through it all again. It’s just a circle of insanity.”

  We cross train tracks then see a sign to reduce
speed. At the stop sign, he turns right. “I know tonight’s been a shitty introduction to Alaska for you. Tomorrow and the next day will be better. We’ll go snowmachining, walk through the trees, and see some rabbits.”

  “During the one-hour of daylight?”

  He tries to smile. “We get close to four. It’s just not very bright. But the days will get longer next week.” He stops and points left. “My house is down there a ways. Gibbs will be very happy to see you.”

  I know he’s worried how I’ll react to her after all he’s said. “And I’m happy to see her. Like I said. We’re connected. I need to find out how.”

  He turns into the driveway, which is like a tunnel through little trees bending under their snow load. The truck bounces through dips and bumps until he turns left and parks in a square flat area surrounded on three sides by hills of snow. “Where’d these come from?”

  “Our backs and a shovel. I need to get a plow for this rig.”

  I open my door and see a light burst out of the house. Gibbs comes bounding out in white flannel pajama pants and top.

  “Laney!”

  She spreads her arms wide and comes toward me with a huge smile. But all I see are her very long arms.

  Just like mine.

  22

  She crushes me against her chest and leans back, lifting me briefly onto my toes. I squeal, and she puts me down. Both hands hold my cheeks as her eyes rove around my face. “I’m so happy you’re here, Laney. Come. Inside, where it’s warm.”

  She pulls my hand and runs toward the door. I look back at Dad, my mouth and eyes wide open. He laughs. “Told yah,” he yells.

  Once inside, she pulls off my coat. “Let me look at you.”

  Her eyes drink in every part of me.

  She spins her finger. “Turn.”

  I do.

  “You are one gorgeous young lady. How many boys are you stringing along?”

  I shake my head and smile. “None.”

  “None? How can that be possible?”

  I could tell her about Garrett who tried to rape me. Or meeting Jag. But what’s the point? When will I see him again? “The one boy I liked just wanted to have sex, so I’m disinterested at the moment. Besides, I’m here to be with you and Dad.”

  She puts her hand on her hip. “When I was your age, the one boy I liked wanted to have sex too, so we did. His name was Sean. Still is, matter of fact.”

  She pulls me into the next room toward the wood stove. The glass on the door reveals yellow flames dancing slowly inside, such a contrast to the blast of heat pushing toward us. “Umm. Feels good,” I say as I reach my hands out.

  Gibbs takes my right hand and puts it on her lower abdomen. Barely above a whisper, she says, “There’s your sister. Did you tell him?”

  “No.” The warmth of her body spreads through my skin.

  “Good. I thought I felt a flutter this morning.” She covers my hand with both of hers. “I so want to see her sweet little face.”

  I glance left and see her head tilted up, eyes closed. Her skin is flawless, glowing, and radiant. Lloyd had prepared me to protect myself, to be tough with her. But how? Her feelings leap out to envelop anyone nearby. I want to believe in her, that she’s pregnant, that she wants to love and be loved more than anything in the world. To say or do anything to deflate the happiness she so obviously covets would be cruel. I can’t believe this is manipulation.

  Gibbs’ heart is not worn on her sleeve; it beats through every pore of her skin. I reach my arm around her back and pull her closer, leaning my cheek against her shoulder, drinking in her scent—warm, sweet vanilla with a hint of sandalwood and wood smoke.

  “All your stuff is here in the kitchen,” says Dad behind us.

  Gibbs squeezes my hand once more then I pull it away.

  “What do you think of the house?” asks Dad.

  I look around the room, which seems larger than what I’d imagined from the photos. Everything is wood—walls, floor, ceiling—of varying colors from yellow pine to walnut. Shelves with scrolled braces appear randomly along the walls. The stove is large with decorative porcelain fixtures, sitting on dark tile. The furniture is old and worn but probably comfortable. “I like it. Very homey. And very warm.”

  “Are you hungry?” asks Gibbs. “I made brownies, and we have decaf. I love the taste of coffee, even late at night.”

  “Yes, and lots of cream,” I say.

  Gibbs pushes past Dad into the kitchen.

  “Your room’s down the hall.” He turns and walks through the kitchen, me close behind.

  My bags are on the bed, and posters of northern lights and mountains hang on the walls. Two planks of wood stretch across three plastic drawer units with a mirror hanging from a nail in the wall. A wooden rod with empty clothes hangers is attached to the opposite wall on either side of one corner.

  “Sorry,” says Dad, pointing to the dresser, “This is all I could find yesterday. I know you’re used to better.”

  “I love it. Seriously.” I reach for a hug, and he wraps his arms around me. “I’m very happy I’m here.”

  “So are we, Baby Girl. You need to get to sleep soon. I have to be at the base in less than three hours.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “Construction of new dorms. Got them weathered in by October. Now we’re finishing the inside. You can sleep in tomorrow. I’m sure Gibbs won’t be up until after noon.”

  Gibbs yells. “Coffee’s ready.”

  After a few minutes, we’re all sitting at the table eating warm brownies and coffee.

  “These are good.” I take another bite. “Did you make them?”

  “Yes, I did,” says Gibbs. “From scratch just like I do everything else.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  Her face lights up. “I’d love to. I’ll show you how to make a Dutch Baby pancake tomorrow. We’ll have it for lunch.”

  “Dutch Baby?”

  “It’s a puffy pancake you cook in a cast iron skillet in the oven.”

  Is she serious? “Why baby?”

  “Because it puffs up. Like a baby.” She stands and places her hands over her womb. “Haven’t you heard the expression ‘she’s got a baby in the oven’ or ‘bun in the oven’? Tomorrow, we’ll have two of them. One for you and one for me.” She winks then takes her coffee to the counter.

  Dad glances at me and shakes his head while her back is turned.

  “Sounds fun,” I say as I stand. “Anyone need the bathroom? I want to wash my face and get in bed.”

  “Let me pee real quick,” says Dad, “then it’s all yours.”

  Dad hurries to the bathroom. I take the other dishes to the sink where Gibbs washes her cup.

  “Dutch Baby?” I bump my hip against hers. “Are you kidding me?” I wash my plate and cup.

  She chuckles. “I swear that’s what they’re called.”

  “Yeah, but you couldn’t think of anything else to make for lunch than that?”

  “I make them all the time. Ask Sean. He loves them.” She dries her cup and returns it to the cabinet.

  “Do you want him to guess you’re . . . you know?” I give her my cup and plate to dry.

  “I haven’t decided yet. Now that you’re here, I feel better about him knowing.”

  “Me knowing what?” says Dad as he walks into the kitchen.

  Gibbs and I lock eyes. She shakes her head slightly. “That she and I are weirdly connected,” I say as I take Gibbs’ hand and bring her closer to Dad. “Hold out your arm, Gibbs.”

  “OK.” She holds it level with her shoulder.

  I press my shoulder to hers and reach my arm out. Hers beats mine by a fingertip. Dad’s mouth drops open. Gibbs turns her face to mine, brows furrowed, shocked.

  “My arms are fives inches longer than they should be,” I tell her. “Yours are too.”

  “Kids always teased me about my arms,” says Gibbs. “I loved swinging on the monkey bars. I could beat anyone from one end to the
other, even your dad. Our fourth grade teacher assigned us animal reports. She gave me gibbons, monkeys known for their long arms. For my report, I demonstrated brachiation at the playground. Everyone called me Gibbs after that.”

  “You didn’t mind?” I ask.

  “No. Your dad beat up the kids who laughed. It was my one claim to fame. I sucked at everything else.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  She scoffs. “Brighton. My nickname was Bright, which I wasn’t. I got teased more for that name. ‘Why’d your parents name you Bright when you’re dumb as a rock?’ Or, ‘Hey, Bright. Not!’ I sucked at school. If it wasn’t for your Dad, I wouldn’t have graduated.”

  “Yeah, well I wasn’t much better, Gibbs,” says Dad. “How are your grades, Laney? Still making 100s in everything?”

  Gibbs’ eyes bulge. “100s?”

  Whatever similarities in appearance I share with Gibbs, I’ve never had issues with my learning abilities, which Mom certainly gifted me. School has always been easy.

  “Mostly,” I answer, feeling awkward and somewhat ashamed. The little girl who wanted to be bright, couldn’t be, while the girl who is bright never considered the alternative.

  If I were in a lineup with Dad, Gibbs, and Mom, everyone would choose Gibbs as my mother. Our arms, figure, facial features, hair color are almost the same, even closer than most other daughters and mothers I know. How is this possible?

  Dad yawns. “I need to get to bed.” He walks toward me, arms open. “Good night, Laney.” He hugs me. “Just one more day of work then I’m off for a week. We’re so glad you’re here.”

  “Good night, Dad. What are you going to do about your phone?”

  “I’ve got an old one.”

  “I’ll be here for a little bit,” says Gibbs.

  Dad nods and walks toward his room.

  Gibbs winks at me. “Go wash your face. I’ll be here when you’re through.”

  I grab my toiletry bag from my suitcase then head to the bathroom. I strip off my shirt and bra, wash my face with Phisoderm, then soap up my microfiber cloth to wash my neck, boobs, and pits. As I rinse my cloth and wipe myself again, I stare at my chest and realize that no one I love has seen or touched my breasts. Just a drunken Garrett and whoever else got to gawk at my video at Marissa’s.