I nod my head yes.
I follow Deborah and Dad into his office where papers are strewn across his desk. I look at the clock. It’s almost midnight. Shit. I don’t even know what day it is. My brain feels upside down. I’m too exhausted to be afraid of talking about what happened.
Just get it over with.
I start with meeting Josh in Boston, then Heather, then Will and Meredith and everything that happened in Italy. Well. Almost everything. My story gets fuzzy around finding Kara’s body. How they ruled it an accident.
Dad stares at me the entire time, like he’s looking at someone else—anyone but the girl he raised. A sadness fills my chest as he turns to Deborah. “Did you reach any of the Americans from California?”
“I already spoke to someone named David in Los Angeles,” she says. “He was very distraught but probably more about the possibility of a scandal in the press than anything else. Understandably so.” She mumbles the last part and glances at me with a worried look. “He said you told him you were backpacking after a Peace Corps stint.”
Dad looks at me for confirmation.
“Yes. Kara told him that,” I say. My mind flashes back to Kara that night casually drinking wine in a bikini like she’d known those strangers for years. How adventurously and fearlessly she lived her life. Lived. Past tense. I’m surprised when tears don’t follow the memory, but my eyes are dry and numb. My whole body is numb.
Deborah writes something on her notepad. “He clearly had no idea that she died. And I honestly don’t think he, or the others, had any clue as to what was going on with the cult.”
Cult.
I keep hearing this word bounced around, but it doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t join a cult. I shake the word out of my head.
Dad is staring at me, his eyes pained. He must see I’m getting upset because he says, “Honey, why don’t you go get some more rest. Let us sort through this.” He turns back to Deborah as if seeking guidance, and she gives him a subtle approving gesture. As they fall back into deep conversation, I walk out of the room and click the door shut.
The glass doors across the back of our house glitter against the bright kitchen lights. I open one into the dark humidity, the swell of insects screeching through the night. Home. I curl up in a chaise and stare out at the dark treetops. A normal person would feel safe right now, completely relieved. But the tangible baggage I brought with me—the box of tapes I carefully hid in the back of my closet—will never allow for peace.
I can’t tell anyone about the tapes. The thought makes me nauseated. When I think about what was on my Sin List, tears fill my eyes. I can’t bring myself to listen to the other Sin Lists, even now when I wake up with nightmares and can’t go back to sleep. I don’t even want to know. After hearing my own voice on a tape that who knows how many people heard, it would just be … wrong.
Knowing someone’s darkest secrets is a burden no one should have.
I long for peace.
For a full night’s sleep without nightmares.
For no memories of Europe.
Or Boston.
For a town where I can be completely anonymous.
For a brand-new life.
* * *
I wake to the sound of gentle knocking on my door. “I’m up,” I say, assuming it’s Patti, but to my surprise, Deborah pops her head in.
“Are you sure?” she says with a friendly smile.
I sit up in my bed. “Yes, of course.”
She steps into my room, dressed in a sleek pantsuit with her purse over her shoulder. She stands near the door, as if careful to respect my space. “So I’m flying out today, but I wanted to say a proper good-bye.”
My sadness at her announcement takes me by surprise. After all, I barely know her. But Deborah had taken over in Zurich and made me feel safe when I didn’t know where else to turn. And now she’s leaving. I try not to cry as she stands in my doorway.
“Please,” I say. “Sit down.” I point to the end of my bed. “I don’t even know how to say this, but … thank you for…” Tears smear my room into a giant blur. “I was so scared, and you—”
“No, no, no.” Deborah waves her hand around as she moves to my bed. “Please don’t cry. I’ve already spoken to your dad about planning our next visit. We’ll meet up very soon, maybe in New York. I really want to get to know you, Em. If only to hear about the crazy shit your stepsister gets into,” she jokes, already knowing how to make me laugh.
And I do laugh through my tears. Yet we both know the unspoken obvious: My situation is the new handful.
Deborah presses her hand into the bed and stares at it before looking up at me. “Listen. I know you don’t like to talk about your mom. Patti filled me in. But if you ever want to, I’m here. Even in Zurich through that thing called a phone line.”
I sit still and silent, grasping the necklace I hadn’t taken off for a second since I left Italy.
She briefly glances at my mother’s necklace and then directly at me with a serious expression. “She was an amazing woman, you know … and so much like you. One thing about your mom: She was the kindest soul, and she always embodied that saying about people taking on the weight of the world.” Deborah smiles tightly. “Sometimes the world burns you for that, but your mother … even then, she never closed her heart to others.”
I can’t help a small smile. It disappears just as quickly. “I barely remember her, but I’ve missed her for … so long,” I whisper.
“She’s with you. I know it. And I’m sure you can feel it,” she says, standing to lean toward me and take my hand into hers. “She’s always been with you.”
It’s something people have said to me my whole life, yet right now with Deborah, I actually believe it.
Disassociation. Floating. In some ways it will feel like your old self is dead. Specific memories may hit you unexpectedly. Acknowledge them and let them pass. Don’t give these memories too much power.
Shattered Pieces
My best friend, Summer, lives in a tree house.
Well, not an actual tree house, but it feels like one when you’re sitting in her bedroom looking out the window at the dense green canopy of limbs. I can hear her mother’s wind chimes even through her closed window. A storm front is stirring them into an erratic urgency.
I haven’t seen Summer since Christmas, and even then we had only a few random days in between her work hours, but Patti is the one who suggested I visit her. “It’ll make you feel better to see her,” she said. And as usual, Patti was right. Just being in Summer’s house is a huge comfort. Hanging out with her feels as much like home as my own house—like no time has ever passed between last year and now.
When I appeared at her door, she took me into a giant hug, one that felt like it would never end. She quickly ushered me up to her room, where we’ve been sitting in near silence. Summer plops onto the floor to rummage through a box of CDs as if searching for the right soundtrack for this awkward moment. She’s the kind of friend who can just hang out while leaving things unspoken. She’s always been a listener, but this time everything is way too heavy and I don’t know what to say, so she finally turns to me and breaks the silence. “Do you want to talk about what happened, like, even at all?”
Of course I want to tell her, but the idea of reliving everything all over again is too scary, even though Summer has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. It terrifies me to think that she wouldn’t understand this. Plus, I have no idea how to explain something that still doesn’t feel like it’s over.
“Hey, it’s fine. Really. I get it,” Summer says with a soft smile and goes back to rummaging through the music choices, each plastic square clicking against the hardwood floor in quick succession.
My heart swells. I remember how Heather would beat information out of me until she was satisfied she had enough for the Kingdom to manipulate me with. She was never a real friend. Summer will be around to listen the moment I’m ready to talk. Of course she wi
ll be. “Tell me something happy and exciting,” I say.
Summer glances up at me. “Well, I got a new job.”
“No way. You quit the restaurant?”
“Yep.”
“So what’s the new job?” A glimmer of normalcy illuminates our conversation.
“It’s at a resort.” She pauses. A worried look crosses her face. “In Pensacola.”
I pause. “You’re moving?” I try to hide my disappointment. All I want is for things to go back to the way they were before, but life is still moving on without me. The Kingdom took so much away from me in ways I’m just beginning to understand.
“Just temporarily. It’s only for a month. Or so …”
I stare out the window at the trees rustling under a bright sun bearing down between clouds. I guess this is the phase of life everyone talks about—when our paths and plans shift and U-turn into random directions without warning. I always looked forward to this time, but I never thought about it being sad … or scary.
“Em! You can come visit me! I actually think it would be good for you. I mean, to get away from—”
“The rumors?” I say what we’re both thinking.
Summer laughs. “Oceanview gossip. It’s better than the tabloids.” Tamara was always the gossip magnet in my family. I was always … well, the boring one. That changed when I got home and everyone got word of what had happened.
Summer’s expression turns serious. “Em? I know things are weird right now, but I need to say something.” She opens and closes a CD case nervously. “I’m … so sorry. I mean, I kept talking about coming to visit you, and I just … I feel like I should have been there for you. That I could have—”
“Stop.” I hold up my hand. “Seriously. Nothing about my personal disaster was in any way your fault. I was … Well, I was an idiot.” I know I was manipulated, that much is clear now even if so much still isn’t. But I can’t believe I didn’t see the signs.
“What about … the guy?” Summer gives me a tentative look, like she’s afraid to ask too many questions beyond that.
“Josh,” I say matter-of-factly. I fidget with a pillow in my lap. “What can I say? I was a lonely idiot.” I let out a sarcastic laugh. My analytical brain confirms it, but my heart still wants to know what happened to him—if he actually left the Kingdom for good, or if he never will and was playing me all along.
Summer goes back to her CD search. “Aha!” She holds one up with a giant smile. “I found the perfect song.” Summer always knew when to change the subject. It’s one of the many things I love about her.
The intro to Deee-Lite’s “Groove Is in the Heart” prompts me to laugh as Summer starts dancing spastically. “Come on,” she says. She grabs my arm. She swings her arms around, and I do the same thing, spinning and spinning until I have to flop on her bed. The jet lag still pulls at me like a drug that won’t leave my system. “Okay. Okay.” She rolls onto the floor to flip through more CDs. I stare out the window again, thinking this is just the same view I spent my entire childhood looking at while talking to Summer about everything I’ve ever wondered. Talking about the horrors in Italy would infect such a special place with negativity and regret. I won’t do that. I’d rather keep it locked inside, where at least I’m the only one affected by it.
A loud crash echoes outside. I sit up. “What was—” Then another even louder crash sounds, like something shattered. I stand up, but Summer seems unconcerned as she flips through CDs again.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s just Jo.”
Summer has always called her mother Jo, instead of Joellen (her full name) or Mom. And they’ve always been more like partners in crime than mother and daughter. Jo always treated both of us like “little adults,” a term she used for us. Summer’s mom is an artist who sells her work at local festivals and galleries, and growing up, there were never rules about which parts of the house we were allowed to eat food in or work on our own creative projects. Every room holds works in progress in various stages of completion, sculptures surrounded by objects that haven’t made the cut yet. My favorite thing about Summer’s house is every window frames a view of the treetops; there are so many trees that they block the view of the bayou just behind them. Staring out the window now at the movement of leaves, I’m mesmerized by how they sway collectively by one outside force, like something being shaken to life.
“What in the world is she doing?” I ask.
Summer gets up to look out the window. She turns back to me, her brown eyes sparkling with the same playful curiosity she’s had since we were kids. “Wanna go see?”
We stumble down the spiral staircase to the ground-level room that is Jo’s studio. Mr. Kitty, their giant black cat, is sprawled out on a rug by the sliding glass door. Summer yanks the door to the side with a loud rumble, revealing Jo in the backyard, standing over a wooden table stacked with mismatched plates and colorful squares of tile. She picks up a hammer and brings it down on a piece of tile.
“Jo!” Summer yells. “You are disturbing the peace!”
Jo turns around and pulls the clear, plastic eye protector onto her forehead. Her face lights up when she sees me. Her ash-brown hair has grown so long, it’s almost to her waist. A tiny braid wrapped in colorful yarn hangs even longer, a few inches past the overall length. Jo was always the cool, artsy mom.
“Emily! Look at you!” I can tell she’s taking in my appearance, and I’m embarrassed. Even with Patti’s home cooking and all the comfort food I could want, I still look gaunt and pale. Jo’s expression isn’t judgmental. It’s more like she’s looking at something she wants to fix.
“She’s finally home,” Summer says, as if explaining something she can’t say another way out loud, but Jo stays in the moment, which is totally her. Summer and I once watched her painting a canvas in the backyard when a mid-sized alligator slipped out of the marsh grass and watched her from the edge of their yard. She never stopped painting but periodically acknowledged it by saying things like, “I see you there,” until it finally turned around and slid back into the water.
“We’re glad you’re home,” Jo says to me with a genuine smile. “Now”—she glances at Summer—“go find something to put on your feet other than flip-flops so you two can help me with this.” She pulls the protective glasses back over her eyes and turns her attention to the table.
Summer squeals and takes off running up the stairs. I go inside and sit on the floor with the cat until Summer comes down with a pair of Doc Martens and rainbow-striped socks.
“Seriously?”
She laughs. “Sorry, Rainbow Brite. Laundry isn’t really Jo’s thing when she’s in the middle of a creative project. Just pretend you’re an artist.”
I slip off my sandals and put on the socks and boots. I stand up and tug at my khaki shorts, as if that will help with this ridiculous ensemble. When I pull the door open, a blinding patch of sun gleams across the blue tile floor, triggering a sudden anxiety.
The floor morphs into the flash of sun on the swimming pool in Italy. Kara. I see her arm, her face. No. No. No. No. I try to stop the flashback by stomping on the tile with Summer’s boots. I even tap my heels together. “There’s no place like home,” I say in my best Judy Garland voice to Summer. We both giggle, even though I have to force myself to speak and to laugh. And even as my anxiety fades into the background, I can’t take too much comfort in that—its undercurrent never completely disappears. Panic is like a permanent live wire I’m learning to step around.
Jo shuffles through the plates on the table. She picks up a blue one that has a year and a building printed on it. She hands it to me.
“Why would you break this?” I ask.
“Because it was twenty-five cents at Goodwill, and I need that shade of blue for my sky.”
“But this belonged to someone who wanted to remember this building in 1978.”
She ignores my comment as she places the protective glasses over my eyes. “All right,
Emily Dickinson.” This is what Jo and Summer always called me when I would say things that seemed too serious.
I put the plate on the wooden table full of gouges and pockmarks. The wind blows my hair into my face. I take a deep breath and let myself feel it stirring before brushing my hair back. I notice the birds and squirrels moving through the periphery of trees. My heart races as I lift the hammer. I adjust my grip. I squeeze my eyes shut and my Sin List tape pops into my head.
The world around me goes completely blank until I hear the loud, satisfying crack of intentional force.
Anxiety when faced with choices. Inability to make decisions. It’s okay to let someone else help you make decisions while you find your bearings. Take baby steps.
Surfing for Sanity
My toenails are pink.
This is what I’m thinking as I watch the surfers glide across the waves. I burrow my feet into the sand and lean into the warm breeze, where the smell of beer and cigarettes mingles with traces of coconut from our oily Banana Boat bottles. I lift my toes up one at a time, let the sand fall away, then bury them back under.
I didn’t pick out this toenail color, but this is the sort of thing that happens when Patti takes control. I followed her around the salon in silence. When they sent me to pick the color, Patti found me twenty minutes later blanked out in front of a cheerful display of bottles.
Ever since I returned from Italy, even the easiest decision can cause me to freeze. And then the trembling follows, like a personal earthquake, the fault line always under my feet. Patti was in her element, though. She even directed the hairdresser. “Just lighten it up as much as you can,” she said with a wave of desperation. Her thin silver bangles jangled too close to my ear, causing my skin to prickle. I looked up and caught her extended glance at my stringy locks. I knew she was cringing at the idea of where my hair had been, what the dead ends may have brushed up against. “And cut off at least two inches,” Patti added before clicking away in her open-toe heels.
Those Who Prey Page 24
