by Kim Liggett
Mom clears her throat and my father looks over on cue. She dabs at the corner of her mouth and he does the same. They have their own language like that. I’m not even sure if he had something on his mouth. Maybe she just wanted to remind him of her presence. How much he needs her.
Mare kicks me under the table, quickly opening her mouth to show me her chewed up food. I press my lips together to stifle a smile. I guess we have a language too, the kind that leaves bruises.
“I’m envious,” my father says, his eyes misting over. “You’re on the cusp of adulthood, your whole life ahead of you. A new beginning. Mark my words, this trip will make a man out of you.”
Mare rolls her eyes. “It’s four days, caving and camping in a tourist trap.”
My dad ignores her, squinting his eyes like he does before he’s about to make an important point in a speech. “You’re going to feel real hunger. Real fear. Real appreciation and contentment for the first time in your life. You might not ever want to come back.”
And there’s something about that statement that gets to me. My dad talks about the trail like it was the best time in his entire life. Four days, alone in wilderness. How sad is that?
As soon as my mom lowers her sorbet spoon for the final time, my dad says, “Well, that was a lovely dinner. Give my compliments to Gladys. The roast chicken was excellent tonight.”
I’m expecting him to head down to his workshop, but instead he pauses behind me, placing his hand on my shoulder. It feels heavy. Like my bones might collapse under the weight of what he’s about to say. “Grant, I have something I want to show you.”
Mare gives me a knowing smile as she excuses herself to go upstairs.
“Don’t stay up too late, you two.” Mom air kisses us both on the cheek. “Little Grant has a big day tomorrow.”
As my mother heads to her bedroom, where she’ll take an Ambien and doze off listening to motivational speeches, I follow my dad outside.
The air is colder than I expected, but spring can be unpredictable like that. I wonder how cold it will be in the cave. How long I’ll last down there.
As we stroll down the covered porch, past the columns, the rosebushes, I see exactly what this is all about. Just the sight of it floods the back of my throat with acid, but I choke it back down.
There, sitting in the drive, is a brand-new Range Rover with a red bow on top. It’s not even a car, really. It’s a tank.
I rock back on my heels, feeling like I’m going to pass out, but I force myself to stand up straight.
“We got silver this time,” he says as he hands me the keys.
I try to hand them back. “I still can’t—”
“As of four twenty-four P.M. this afternoon, your license has officially been restored.”
“But I thought—”
“Monday’s just a formality.” He swipes a cottonwood seed off the hood. “You do what the lawyers tell you to do and all this will go away. You’ve got graduation, a summer abroad, maybe meet a few French girls, and then college. Everything will be back to normal before you know it.”
Normal? I want to scream.
After what I did, should any of this be normal?
But I smile instead. Because that’s what he wants. That’s what everyone expects of me. To feel grateful for all of this.
“Want to take it for a spin?” he asks.
The idea of getting behind the wheel again makes me feel sick to my stomach.
“I wish,” I manage to get out. “But I’ve got to work on my paper … Lord Byron.”
“You’re still into poetry, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I look down the drive, past the gate, anywhere but here.
I get the implication. Real men, Tavish men, aren’t into poetry.
“I want you to know that I understand.” He looks me straight in the eyes, which is something he hasn’t been able to do since the incident. “We all have regrets. Things that bring us shame. In my day, it wasn’t a crime unless you got caught. And with the media … it’s a different world out there now.” He puts his hands in his pockets. It makes me wonder what he got away with. “We all have to make tough choices in life, but it’s how we deal with it that matters. That Tavish determination will see you through.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I reply.
I think about hugging him but, as if he can sense the incoming awkwardness, he reaches out to shake my hand.
Maybe I’m reading into things, but it feels like he understands everything. More than he cares to admit.
7
WHILE my dad escapes to the basement to drink Scotch and whittle his ducks, I walk through the house, taking it all in. The smell of oiled soap on wood floors, polished silver, thick, soft rugs dampening the sound of my heavy footsteps. Old photographs and antique letter openers adorning the tables. Chandeliers and chinoiserie wallpaper. People say the house you grow up in is a map to your childhood. But all I see is perfection. I don’t see the spot where I spilled cranberry juice on the rug. I don’t see the dent in the banister where I ran into it with my tricycle. I don’t see the ink marks by the back hallway closet where my sister and I measured each other to see who was taller.
The rug had been replaced. The banister repaired. The plaster repainted.
But it went well beyond that.
Going up the first flight of stairs, I smooth my hand over the wall on the second floor, where the nursery used to be. He was only with us for six weeks. He died of SIDS—sudden infant death syndrome. There was no funeral. No one spoke his name. They plastered right over the door, as if they could erase him from existence. I wonder if that’s what will happen to me.
As I’m heading up to the third floor, I see the light on in my sister’s room. I can’t remember the last time I went in there. I push the door open a crack. She’s on the computer, doing homework, music blaring. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy bun, and there’s little dots of white cream on her face.
I knock and she flinches.
“You scared the crap out of me. I almost swallowed my retainer,” she says as she twists around in her chair and throws a pillow at me. “So … new car, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking around at all the ticket stubs and photographs pinned to her corkboard.
“Are you nervous?” she asks.
“Not really.” I put my hands in my pockets so I don’t give myself away. “I’ve been planning for months. So what if I starve for a couple of days?”
“No … I mean about the other thing … on Monday.” Even Mare can’t say it out loud, and she’s fearless. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“Same goes for you,” I say as I pull down the boarding school brochure from under a pile of to-do lists and other meaningless junk.
“Please,” she says as she glances at it. “Like they’re ever going to let me go.”
“Maybe they’ll surprise you. You should at least apply … see what happens.” I set the brochure in front of her. “If you set your mind to something, you can do anything.”
“So can you.”
I lean over and hug her, which is probably overkill, but I think I’ll regret it if I don’t. “See you, weirdo.”
“See you, loser.”
I walk down the long hall, making a point not to look at the photographs lining the walls, but I can feel my younger self staring back at me. Judging me.
As soon as I close my bedroom door behind me, I let out a ragged breath—every bit of rancid air I’ve been holding inside. I’m looking around for something to do, busywork, but my room is beyond clean. I’ve always been tidy, but the past few months I’ve gotten worse. Outside of this room, I try to keep it in check, but this is the one place I can let my neat freak flag fly.
But I finally have actual things to attend to. Important things.
I was smart enough not to write anything down, but I’ve been making this checklist for months. I have it memorized.
And now the time has finally come.
I read over it one last time and decide to take out a quote.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air …
It’s my favorite, but it might be a little too heavy-handed. The last thing I want to do is raise any red flags.
Grabbing the housing preference sheet for GW off my corkboard, I fill it out.
I have no preferences. That was easy.
Next up, I sly dial Mary Grace Wells. As planned, it goes straight to voicemail. “Hey, Mary Grace, it’s Grant. I’m getting ready to head out for my trail trip for a couple of days, but I was wondering, when I get back, if you might want to hang out. Grab dinner or something. Okay, well, have a great weekend.”
My palms are sweaty. I’m out of practice. Of course, my mother would’ve been thrilled with that scenario. The Tavish and the Wells families go way back.
As I’m getting ready to shut down my computer, a chat window pops up in the right-hand corner.
Bennett101: No way! You got your internet back. Finally.
I write back. Guess so.
Bennett101: Sure you don’t want to ditch the cave, come to the beach with us? I could pick you up at the trail, drop you back off on Sunday. They’d never know.
GTAV-V: No. It’s cool. I’m kind of looking forward to it. But thanks.
Hey, Bennett—
I’m staring at the blinking cursor, thinking about everything we’ve been through together. Boy Scouts, summer camp, how we used to hide under the floating dock to avoid swim practice, studying for the SATs, trusting me with his secret and not getting mad when I didn’t feel the same. There are a hundred things I want to type—Thanks for being my friend. Thanks for trying to cheer me up. Thanks for never looking at me like I was some kind of monster. But I don’t.
I exit out. I’m about to shut it down when I decide to pull up Google search.
I’m staring at the box. I swallow hard at the prospect. All this time I’ve been wanting to face the truth, and now that I have it right at my fingertips, I’m scared to look.
I type in “Grant Tavish V” and hit Return.
Four people killed in tragic—
I exit out. Clean my browser and shut it down.
My heart’s pounding so fast I think it might burst out of my rib cage.
I get up and pace the floor. Dragging my hands through my hair, I try to remember to breathe. You’re almost there. Just stick to the plan.
Grabbing my hiking pack out of the closet, I rush around the room, doing the rest of the things on my list. I wanted to take my time, put thought and purpose into every action, but now I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible. I need to keep reminding myself that tomorrow I’ll be on the trail, making my descent at Crystal Falls, where all I have to think about is my next step, my next breath. Where everything is up to me.
I stand in front of my corkboard. The court summons stares back at me.
It’s the one thing left hanging over me.
Taking down the flimsy sheet of paper, I open my desk drawer and bury it. Not at the bottom, like I was trying to hide from it. Not at the top, like it was foremost on my mind. But somewhere in the middle. Like it was just another thing I had to take care of.
8
“YOU don’t remember anything.”
I shoot up in bed, dripping with sweat, chest heaving. My eyes dart around the room, landing on everything that’s familiar—everything that will never be the same.
But as soon as I put my feet firmly on the ground, I remember what today is. What it means.
I get dressed, brush my teeth, and force myself to leave a crumpled pair of pajama pants on the floor.
As I head downstairs, I pause on the second-floor landing.
There’s a woman in a long, pale pink robe, standing next to the wall where the nursery used to be. At first I think it’s a ghost, a figment of my imagination. But when I step closer, I realize it’s my mother. She looks tired. Older. Almost fragile.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She looks up, startled, tucking an envelope into her pocket. “Bad dreams. That’s all.” Her eyes veer toward the hidden door. It’s the closest I’ve seen to an acknowledgment. I always thought she buried it because she didn’t want to face it. But maybe no one let her face it. Maybe we had that much in common.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I say.
“No. I was just coming up to check on you.”
Thinking I must’ve slipped up somehow, a wave of panic rushes through me. “Why?”
“Just to say … good luck,” she says as she steps behind me, messing with my pack. “Are you sure this isn’t too heavy?” She tugs on the straps.
“It’s fine. I’m used to taking a lot more gear with me when I go on a day hike.”
“Your keys are on the entry table.”
“I’ve got an Uber meeting me at the gate. I figured it’s probably not a good idea to ditch a brand-new car out there. Besides, I have no idea where I’ll come out.”
“Marvin can pick you up. Or I can pick you up.”
I’m surprised by her offer to drive me herself, but I don’t have time for this. “No. This is good. And I’ll be seriously ripe after four days of—”
“You don’t have to do this,” she says quietly. “You don’t have anything to prove.”
I swallow hard, trying to keep my tone as even as possible. “But I do.”
She takes my hand and squeezes it, the same way I did with her in the car yesterday. It’s all I can do to hold it together.
“See you,” I say as I pull away from her and head down another flight of stairs, out the front door, into the crisp morning air. I don’t dare look back. I can’t bear to see my mother’s haunted face staring after me through the windows.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but it felt like she was saying good-bye.
Being mindful of the cameras lining the drive, watching my every move, I look straight ahead.
I can just hear them now: Did he look tired? Did he look confused? Did he look sad? Did he seem overconfident?
I exit the gate and get into the back of the waiting car. The driver doesn’t need to say a word. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he knows exactly who I am.
Grant Franklin Tavish V.
A murderer.
9
AN hour and twenty-nine minutes later, we arrive at the Crystal Falls parking lot. It’s jammed with school buses. There’s a WELCOME RICHMOND PUBLIC SCHOOLS OUTDOOR CLUB banner hanging between two trees.
“No,” I whisper as I get out of the car, slinging my pack over my shoulders.
I should’ve checked to see if there were any events out here today. And that makes me wonder how many other things I missed. It might be that one tiny overlooked detail that unravels my whole story. Unclenching my fists, I take a deep breath. Instead of obsessing, beating myself up over it, I keep my head down, trying my best to blend into the scenery. But as I make my way to the main trail, it’s pretty clear I don’t belong with this group. These are city kids.
People are running around, screaming and laughing. There’s a group of girls freaking out because they saw a spider.
It’s annoying, for sure, but that’s not what really gets to me. They’re all bursting with life. Promise. I don’t even remember what that feels like. I almost don’t want to get too close … afraid it will rub off on me.
As I pass by the main entrance to the caves, I see most of them are crowded around the first pitch. The chaperones are trying to get them lined up to take a turn on the harness so they can practice dropping in. It’s only about a fifteen-foot drop, but from the way everyone’s reacting,
you’d think they were jumping off the James River Bridge.
Everyone’s hollering and acting out, like they’ve never been in the woods before. Except for one girl, standing perfectly still as a flurry of movement surrounds her. She almost looks like a statue. Tall, athletic build, track pants and a sweatshirt, but she looks regal in a way. When she glances back at me, I get the strangest sensation, like I’ve seen her before. I shouldn’t have made eye contact. I need to keep a low profile. I can’t let anything get in my way at this point. Hopefully she didn’t recognize me.
“Just stay focused,” I say to myself as I hurry past them, making my way farther up the trail to the second entrance, the one reserved for more experienced cavers. But as I clear a cluster of pines, I see it’s been taped off. A sheet of paper pinned to it. TEMPORARILY CLOSED.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I let my pack fall off my shoulders, and look at my watch. I haven’t even started and I’m already off schedule. I start pacing around the drop point.
“Okay, think.” I snatch a leaf off one of the trees and start picking it apart.
I guess I could hike ahead to Custer’s Chimney, drop in there, and then backtrack, but that’s four miles from here. Logically, I wouldn’t do that. If I hit a snag like this, I’d just skip the cave part of the trip and stay on the trail … but I can’t do that. Too much has gone into this.
A couple of people scream and laugh from the school group. I peer back through the foliage. I’ve memorized every square inch of this cave system from the guidebook, and both entrances intersect about a mile before Widow’s Peak. It would only add an hour or so to my schedule, but there must be a hundred kids crowded around the entrance, waiting for their turn. It’s going to take forever to get through all of them, and if I go over there, asking if I can cut ahead, everyone’s going to notice me. And then they’ll tell the press what an impatient jerk I was. I can’t have that.
No. I either have to wait or …
A gust of air bellows up from the taped-off entrance, making the sign flutter.
Looking around, I make sure no one’s watching and then slip under the tape to stare down into the crevice.
