by Pamela Crane
The trunk was full of this week’s groceries, meals planned like each week before. I was supposed to be gone by now, unreachable, untouchable. But instead I was going through the motions as if nothing had changed, as if the plan had simply been a dream. It was no one’s fault but my own. I had my chance and blew it.
My cul-de-sac was one right turn up ahead, but I slowed down to a crawl. I hadn’t felt like facing Owen since Sunday night; he knew my tells by heart, and I wasn’t ready to, well, tell.
I’d spent the last hour balancing out the pros and cons of explaining to Owen what I saw Ryan doing to our little girl. As much as I wanted to protect this secret from getting out and spreading like wildfire, it wasn’t my secret to protect. It wasn’t even Aria’s secret, because she had no idea it happened. The truth was locked and sealed. Hidden in fog, all she seemed to remember was watching some stupid science fiction movie with Ryan, both of them drinking on the sly and getting silly and ‘a little’ flirtatious, and waking up hungover. She couldn’t recall how she got home, then woke up vowing never to drink again. Well, that was one good thing at least. It only made her angry whenever I mentioned Sunday night. I was lucky I had gotten the information out of her that I did.
But was she being honest with me? Kids were notorious liars when they thought they’d get in trouble. Part of me wished I knew the truth, but the other part preferred the ignorance. I banished this pointless line of reasoning before it unspooled. To tell or not tell Owen – this should be my focus.
One thing about that fateful night nagged at me. Some pain … and bleeding. It had to have been her first time. Ryan had taken her virginity. How could she ever trust a boy again after what her friend of fifteen years did to her? How could she ever overcome this? It wasn’t my cross to bear, but it sure felt heavy on my shoulders.
Telling Owen was a last resort. With Owen came vengeance. With vengeance came publicity. And right now, Aria seemed blissfully unaware of how close her life was to being shattered. If she never found out what really happened, I hoped she could move on to be healthy, happy, whole. But if I told her … what would be left of her? No mother should ever be faced with this heartbreaking choice. And yet it was all I could think about.
Up ahead, my two-story brick house came into view, the windows glowing against the evening’s gray descent. I rolled up to the driveway, first noticing the unfamiliar mud-brown Honda heap parked at the edge of my lawn. Eaten away by rust along one side, the door on the driver’s side was painted a garish green in contrast with the rest of the hooptie’s hen-turd brown, like my mamma used to say. Next I saw who it belonged to – the woman dashing across my lawn toward it. I jumped out of my car.
‘Excuse me, do you need something?’ I called out.
She only ran faster as I jogged over to her. I couldn’t get a good look at her face, but she was a scrawny little thing with mousy brown hair.
A moment later her tires screeched across the pavement as she nearly ran me over.
‘You’ve got a helluva nerve, almost hitting me!’ I screamed at her car as it was rounding the corner and then out of sight.
I hauled the groceries inside, finding Owen in the kitchen. After grabbing bags out of my arms, he began putting things away while I stood with my hand propped on my outthrust hip, the don’t-bullshit-me stance I always used to demand his attention.
‘Who was that?’
‘Who was who?’ He continued casually opening and closing cupboards and refrigerator drawers as the bags of food disappeared into their usual organized compartments.
Oh, he wanted to play games, did he?
‘The woman I just spotted running from our house. She seemed awfully scared to meet me. You better damn well have an explanation, Owen.’
It didn’t escape me, the accusatory tone with which I reprimanded him, when what I was doing in secret was so much worse.
‘Wrong house. She was looking for someone else. Sorry to disappoint you that it’s not something more scandalous.’ He said it so matter-of-factly I almost believed him.
‘Who was she looking for?’
‘I don’t remember. I just know it wasn’t a name I recognized. Might have been the previous homeowners. Oh, wait. I almost forgot.’ He reached behind the drying rack and pulled out a shiny metallic cone of wrapped flowers. ‘Got you these.’
His eyes sparkled as he waited for my reaction. When his smile faded, I realized I hadn’t reacted at all.
‘Oh, honey, thank you. What are these for?’ I sniffed the flowers as any grateful wife would do, then began unwrapping them from the crinkly paper.
‘Just because I love you. Do you like them?’ Did he even care if I liked them? Or did he care more that he liked feeling like a doting husband? I guess control freaks needed affirmation too.
‘I love them. You’re so thoughtful. Thank you.’ I tenderly placed them in a vase, admiring the bright splash of color they gave the room. I always was a sucker for flowers. The vibrancy, the sweet scent, the warmth they promised. Even weeds, with their twisted, choking nature, could be beautiful. You just had to look for their beauty. I knew the feeling.
‘Anyway, babe, I’m going to watch some TV until dinner. I’m beat.’ His kiss stung my forehead as he passed me on his way to the living room.
Flowers could make up for a squabble. Their bright heads peeking out from the edge of a vase could even hide the darkness that lived in our home. But they couldn’t make up for the emotional sinkhole that grew bigger every day and would eventually swallow us whole. If I let it.
Owen, Aria, and I ate a silent dinner that night. A brooding presence hung in the air, and we all felt it. Later, in the living room, Owen fell asleep on the sofa watching a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball game. Aria retreated to her room, where she’d been spending an inordinate amount of time lately. I sat on my bed, neatly made with burnt orange decorative pillows that added a splash of color against my boring white walls that Owen insisted was a tinted shade of Chantilly lace. White was white was white, in my opinion, but it didn’t matter. Tinted or not, he vetoed my request for turquoise. Said it was too ‘beachy for a house in Western Pennsylvania.’ As a little girl I adored a beautiful turquoise bracelet Mamma had given me, a family heirloom supposedly crafted by an honest-to-goodness Navajo Indian. I lost the bracelet and caught hell from Mamma for my carelessness. I wish I still had that bracelet. Well, like Mamma always said: ‘If wishes was horses, honey, we’d all take a ride.’
My cool palms sucked the heat out of a mug of coffee that was now lukewarm. It was probably too late to be drinking caffeine at almost nine o’clock at night, but I wouldn’t be sleeping tonight anyway. The pros and cons of having the conversation with Owen looped endlessly in my head.
Pros:
Ryan learns lesson
Justice
Prevent another girl from getting hurt
No more secrets
Aria should know the truth
Cons:
Truth destroys Aria
Aria feels unfixable shame
Owen kills Ryan
Owen goes to jail … or should this be in the Pros list?
The list of reasons to tell him was long. There was only one significant downside, but it created the biggest aftershock. Should Aria know? What if she had mentally blocked it for a reason? What if telling her utterly destroyed her? Telling her could strip her of all confidence, all innocence, all joy … and there was no way to return her to her former well-adjusted self.
I had seen what depression did to Robin. It was an ugly, unrelenting beast that would feed and feed and feed until there was nothing left to devour.
I sipped the cold coffee as Owen shuffled in, shutting the bedroom door behind him. He settled on the bed next to me.
‘Have a good nap?’ I asked as pleasantly as I could manage.
‘Yeah. The Pirates lost. Again. What are you doing in here?’
‘I’ve just been … thinking.’ I stopped, wanting to say more, afraid to say more.
Owen’s eyes narrowed with concern. ‘Thinking about what?’
Now was the time. I had to do it – the list couldn’t be wrong.
‘I need to tell you something, but I don’t know how.’
Worry all over his face, worry in the awkward way he scooted away from me, worry in the way his hand adhered to my knee. I imagined what he was thinking – that I was about to confess to an affair, or financial troubles, or cancer. I wondered if he’d be relieved to discover the truth, or if it would be as devastating to him as it felt to me.
‘Mackenzie, whatever happened, we’ll get through it together.’
‘You don’t even know what it is. So how can you promise that?’
‘Are … are you leaving me for someone else?’
It had been a constant question of his, even after eighteen years of marriage. As if I had the time or the means to find another man. I was literally home all day every day, with Owen always watching me. When he was at work, our security cameras captured my every move, any comings and goings. A waste of money when you live in a gated community, but ‘you can’t put a price tag on safety,’ he’d say. When I headed out, he clocked my mileage like he was my auditor. He checked my phone records, browsing history, everything … everything that he knew about.
It was the things he didn’t know about that I could hide. Something so much worse than an affair.
It was ludicrous that his thoughts always turned to infidelity, because I would need to already have a life in order to chase a new one.
‘Seriously, Owen, that’s what you think I need to talk about – that I’m cheating on you?’
‘I don’t know. You sound anxious about whatever it is. I’m grasping at straws.’
‘No, it’s not an affair.’
‘Then spit it out already.’ He was losing patience, and so was I.
‘First promise me that you won’t fly off the handle.’ The promise was laughable, but it was worth a shot. Owen was anything but calculating. Overreaction was his middle name. Never thinking anything through.
‘Okay, okay, I promise, but this is getting exhausting. Just tell me what’s going on.’
‘On Sunday night at Robin’s dinner party, I walked in on Aria and Ryan in the basement. Ryan was … I can’t say it, Owen.’ I choked on the word, like it was sharp glass stuck in my throat. Rape. I couldn’t say it. It was too revolting a word to speak aloud.
‘Can’t say what? Did Ryan do something to Aria?’
I nodded. That was the best I could do. I needed him to follow the trail on his own.
‘Did they have sex, Mackenzie?’
I nodded again, then shook my head. I set the coffee cup down on my nightstand, unable to steady it in my trembling hands. ‘I don’t think it was consensual.’
And cue the grief all over again. My face fell into my palms as I sobbed, waiting for Owen to wrap his arms around me in comfort. But all I felt was the cool empty air around me. I looked up, the room wavy through my tears.
Owen stormed toward his dresser where he kept his gun, and suddenly I was more afraid for Ryan than angry with him.
‘Owen, stop! You can’t do this!’
‘Just watch me.’
He tossed his folded boxers aside as he unearthed his gun safe. His fingers frantically tapped the password in, then he opened it, brandishing the weapon, a Glock 19. I only knew that because Owen had drilled gun safety into my head, even dragging me to the shooting range a handful of times. I knew nothing about guns otherwise, nor did I care to learn.
‘Please, stop. Somebody’s gonna get killed.’
‘That’s the point, Mackenzie! That little punk deserves to die. I’m going to make sure that happens.’
‘Do you seriously want to go to jail for murder? You’ll never see the light of day again.’
‘They’ll never find his body once I’m done with him. No body, no crime, no jail.’ It struck me that Owen knew exactly what he was talking about. That thought sent an icy chill through me.
‘Owen, be logical. For once in your life think about your family. Aria doesn’t even know what happened. She’s already lost so much. Losing her father too … please stop!’
I was becoming hysterical now. Begging, pleading, trying to reason with him. ‘You will go to jail for life, Owen! They’ll find out. Ryan’s a kid. You’re angry, yes, but we need to figure out what to do first. Not just freak out. Okay? This isn’t like last time.’ Owen shot me a knowing glance. ‘Please, honey, give me the gun …’
I reached for the weapon, scared it might go off in the exchange. I knew what this gun was capable of; I’d seen Owen use it in anger before, seen what a man gripped by jealousy and rage could do. It was the one secret I’d hoped would eventually slink back into the depths of my memory, forever forgotten. And yet it still lived.
I had hoped to bury the past, but every once in a while, like in this exact moment, the memory would climb out of its coffin for a visit. The metallic odor of gunpowder on his hands, the distant crack of the bullet zipping out. Unfortunately, I knew Owen’s volatility firsthand, and as much as I hated Ryan for what he’d done, I couldn’t condemn him to death. If Ryan didn’t survive this, none of the rest of us would either.
‘The gun,’ I pleaded.
‘So that you can defend him, Mac? I don’t think so.’ Owen lifted the barrel, then aimed it at me.
Chapter 15
Robin
DECEMBER 2000, BEAVER FALLS, PENNSYLVANIA
Winter in Western Pennsylvania hurt. It bit your cheeks, chapped your lips, stung your throat. Worst of all was when you didn’t wear weather-appropriate shoes. Then it froze your toes numb until they felt like blocks of ice weighing fifty pounds each.
Trudging uphill with feet so encumbered was another torture winter sadistically enjoyed. I had just finished my last class of the semester, of the year actually, and I couldn’t wait to reach my dorm where I hoped Lily and Mackenzie had mugs of steaming hot cocoa waiting. Boxed mac ’n’ cheese, popcorn, and hot cocoa were about the only things we used our kitchenette for, and even the mac ’n’ cheese usually tasted inedible when we didn’t have milk and butter on hand. If you’ve never tried watery mac ’n’ cheese, don’t start now. The box tastes better.
‘Hey, wait up!’ someone yelled behind me, but I didn’t recognize the masculine voice. A crowd of freshmen rushed along the sidewalk around me, but no one else stopped. I certainly wasn’t about to.
‘Chick with the long brown hair and impractical shoes!’ So it was me he was calling to. I turned around. By the glow of a solitary streetlight I could just make out the figure approaching me in the dusk through the cascade of falling snow.
‘Do I know you?’ I asked.
His eyes widened with excitement or recognition, I wasn’t sure which. ‘Yeah, I’d know a face that pretty anywhere. We’ve definitely met.’
He stepped into a patch of light along the curb, giving me a better look at him. His cheeks were rosy from the cold and his hair was flocked with snowflakes. He looked faintly familiar, but not anyone I knew. Not from my classes, at least.
‘Are you a student here?’
By here I was referring to the only college in Beaver Falls; it was the only thing that put the small town on the map.
‘No, but I know I’ve seen you before. You ever eat at Pizza Joe’s?’ he asked.
Bingo. That’s where I knew him from. I’d probably seen him countless times, since the pizza shop was a local college favorite, especially for those of us who only knew how to cook watery mac ’n’ cheese and popcorn.
‘Oh yeah. I think I remember you now.’ It was Cute Waiter Guy. His name began with a juh sound, but it flittered at the edge of my tongue. John? James?
He was still cute – cute enough to introduce myself to, but not quite cute enough to be memorable. College life was full of new crushes, and even I could admit I was a tad boy crazy. He looked about my age, maybe a couple years older. I suddenly felt naked without makeup,
so I pulled out my metallic lip gloss and puckered up, swiping my lips before pocketing the gloss.
‘I’m Robin.’
I stretched out my arm, offering my gloved hand. With cheap faux charm, he kissed my knuckle and I chuckled at his old-fashioned display of chivalry. It actually worked, though. He was instantly cuter.
‘I’m Geoffrey. Friends call me G.’
‘How original, G.’ I rolled my eyes, lacing the letter with sarcasm.
‘Aw, don’t judge. I can’t help what generic nicknames other people come up with.’
‘Know what my friends and I used to call you? Cute Waiter Guy.’
Cocky as ever, he smirked as if he thought that was apt. ‘Oh, yeah? That’s funny. Where you headin’?’
‘To my dorm. Then I’m going to grab dinner in the cafeteria. I’d invite you, but it’s students only.’ I shrugged, resuming my stride. My dorm was still a long half-mile uphill from the main campus and I was wearing high-heeled tennis shoes, the worst possible choice for walking in slippery snow but all the rage in 2000.
Technically G could have purchased a meal ticket, but there was no way I was bringing this stranger into my judgmental world just yet. He’d get eaten alive. If my friends saw me show up with some new guy at dinner, the interrogation would never end. Plus I wasn’t sure I was interested enough to force myself through a whole meal with this guy just yet.
I’ll admit, he was intimidating. And alluring at the same time. Definitely a bad boy with streetwise swagger. I wondered how much preparation went into getting his hair to look so carelessly disheveled. He wore a Kurt Cobain-ish flannel lumberjack shirt and frayed jeans, but no coat. That just wouldn’t be cool, even when temps were in the twenties. Then it occurred to me: maybe he had fallen on hard times. Maybe his grunginess wasn’t an affectation. Maybe he was homeless. It was a wickedly provocative notion – showing pity on a cute homeless guy, maybe showing him a good time. But I wasn’t that kind of a girl, though people sometimes made that assumption because I was a notorious flirt.
