Blink

by Sasha Dawn

  It all happened, more or less, the way I’d sorted things out during my run along the beach. When Goudy cracked, and admitted Damien Wick was his cousin—kinfolk is the word he used—and that Damien had helped secure a girl to replace the foster girl Wayne had killed in a fit of rage, the trial was over within a week. The police department gave me some bogus award I’m pretty sure they invented, and publicly thanked me for my part in bringing Rachel Bachton home. Rosie was so proud, and so happy, that she kissed Hinkley square on the mouth. Maggie Lee and Miss Lina were over-the-moon happy for me, too.

  But just as I told the cops, I didn’t do anything but love Chatham Claiborne. She chose to trust me with her memories. She chose to share with me details of her life, of her body . . . details that ultimately saved her. She’s the real hero here, not me.

  My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Savannah: Saw her today. She’s good.

  Savannah texts every now and then, from her bunk at Winston Hall for Teens in a suburb, just south of Sugar Creek. Aiden hears from her more often than I do—I think they’re secretly getting it on—but that’s no surprise. I knew he’d like her. He’s even taking her to winter formal next month.

  But Savannah assures me that Chatham is adjusting to life as Rachel. I imagine the transition was much like the confluence at which Alana Goudy’s remains were uncovered—choppy at the intersection, but finding a new, unique current once the waters blended and calmed.

  We’re all like river rocks at the bottom of that confluence. We all bear the marks of the waters that wear us down, but it’s also the waters that contour and smooth our exteriors. It’s the turbulence that makes us what we are, inside and out.

  And so the Bachton family blinked out of the media eye as abruptly as it emerged twelve years ago, a testament to the saying life goes on.

  The Sugar Creek Cavaliers lost in the second round of state football playoffs, but the appropriate statement was made. College coaches abound; they all know we’re a budding force no one wants to fuck with. College is no longer a pipe dream for me, but an eventuality I look forward to.

  I’ve texted Chatham, but she doesn’t reply. Detective Hinkley recently told me Chatham has a new phone, and a new number, so I shouldn’t read into it, that she’d get in touch with me when she’s ready. He delivered a letter I wrote her months ago, and another one I wrote last week. But so far, she hasn’t replied. I try to understand, try to remember what the cops tell me: give her time.

  But how much time is enough time?

  How much time does she need to reconcile her life before with life now?

  Do I even fit into her life now?

  I push a few Scrabble tiles out of line:

  CHATH_ _ CLA_BORNE

  AMI

  I AM

  I suspect she’s making a clean break from the chaos she knew when she was with me, and I can’t say I blame her.

  _ _ _TH_ _ C_A_BO_N_

  CHAAMLIRE

  I AM RACHEL

  But still . . . I hope she remembers that whatever her name is, or was, I’m part of her, just as she’s part of me.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper as I look down at the board.

  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

  CHATHAM CLAIBORNE

  I AM RACHEL BACHTON

  . . . Because even if she wasn’t ready to tell me her name, she’s always known, on some level, who she is. You don’t need to know your name to know who you are.

  T i m e

  It’s January now—going on three months without Chatham—and I’m shoveling snow, while my sisters watch with their hands pressed against the picture window in the living room. They stick their tongues out at me. I stick mine out at them.

  I’d often tried to imagine this town without Damien in it.

  Life without the threat of him.

  A mother and sisters without the fear of him.

  And this is it. He’s behind bars, and he’ll be there for a long time.

  “Need some help out here, Josh?”

  I turn to face my mother’s latest flame, who just pulled up a few minutes ago. “Sure.”

  Hinkley hasn’t even been into the house to greet my mother, but he’s already armed with a shovel, and he’s already clearing the sidewalk of snow. “Some of the guys on the force are taking their families sledding this afternoon. Thinking of taking the girls.”

  “They’ll love it.”

  “You want to come along?”

  I glance up at my sisters, who are giggling and happy, like normal almost-five-year-olds. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “If you have other things to do, if you wouldn’t mind just driving the sled out there, or loaning me your Explorer—”

  “No, I’ll go. I’ll load up the toboggan, take the girls. You and Rosie can have a few minutes of peace to yourselves on the drive out.”

  “If this works out between your mom and me, we’ll have to think about buying a car we can all fit into.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh. After tossing a few more shovels full of snow, I admit, “It’s something I wanted to do with Chatham. Take them all sledding.” I know I’ve said it before in his company—I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the things Chatham and I never got around to doing—but Hinkley’s gracious about my repetition.

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Well, you never know. It could happen someday.”

  Hinkley’s like that. Optimistic. Believes in positive reinforcement. He’s a pillar of the community, makes his own money, has his own place, and has a daughter from a previous marriage for whom he pays child support.

  And this is the guy Rosie decides to take things slow with. Drunk and abusive she falls for within minutes. Upstanding guy? Let’s give it some time. Ironic. But actually smart, too.

  “Why don’t you go in,” Hinkley says. “I’ll finish up out here. You’ve done most of it.”

  “No, I can—”

  “Josh, go ahead. I have a feeling your mom’s going to need help wrangling those little monkeys into snowsuits.”

  He has a point.

  When I walk in, Rosie’s stirring the contents of the crockpot so we’ll have a warm dinner when we get home.

  “Hinkley’s finishing up.” I put on a pot of coffee, because he’s gonna need it. He has no idea the energy required to repeatedly climb the toboggan hill with my sisters in tow.

  “You know, you can call him Steve.”

  “No I can’t.” After a second, I add, “Mom.”

  “We’re good, right? Steve, you, the girls . . .”

  “Yeah.” And I actually believe it.

  “Stay close,” Rosie calls to the twins, who are falling into the snow on purpose, amazed it doesn’t hurt. She and Hinkley each have a hand on the toboggan tow, and I smile to see their fingers playing with each other when they think no one’s looking. “We have to walk up the hill,” she tells my sisters.

  “Joshy!” Margaret squeals.

  “Joshy!” Caroline parrots. She jumps at me and I lift her in my arms. “It’s so fun!”

  “Yeah, you’re about to have the best fun in the world,” I assure her.

  “Best fun,” she says.

  “Best fun,” I say.

  Once we’re waiting in line at the top of the hill, I gaze out at the horizon. I see the Northgate Lighthouse to the right. I see the abandoned caboose to the left.

  Rachel Bachton was here.

  My phone buzzes with a text.

  It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but I open it anyway:

  It’s a picture of a snow castle, which could only be a creation by the best artist I know: Chatham.

  I smile, and laugh, and wipe tears from my eyes.

  Another message comes through: Hi.

  I reply: Hi.

  She returns: Tiny Elvis sometime?

  A sense of relief and excitement flows through me. She wants to see me.

  I type: Chocolate cake’s on me this time.

  A c k n o w l e d g m e n t s

  Special
thanks to my second family, the Coverts—Chris, Mary, Margaret, Jonathon, and Caroline—who always welcome us with open arms. It’s no secret you are the example I strive to follow. I thank you for the Tupperware reference—always—and for “Annoy Them With Music.” You are true treasures for all of us. Thanks, by the way, for lending me a couple of names for this manuscript. Where would this story be without Maggie Lee and Miss Lina?

  To Alix Reid: Another excellent collaboration! And to think it all began as a conversation at Counter Coffee Shop in Forest Park—I feel cooler just saying I’ve been there (snap, snap, snap)! Thank you for believing in this concept, and for helping me rearrange the structure. Again and again and again. I love working with you.

  Andrea Somberg, I’m forever grateful for your guidance. You’re the best agent EVER! Thank you for taking the time, and paying attention . . . and for putting up with my often long-winded emails. Commiserate with Alix. I’m not known for my brevity.

  To my kindred spirits at David Heigl Design Group: thanks for understanding when the words take precedence over Vintage Blue Toile and Caesarstone.

  Aiden: I enjoyed meeting you on the Jersey Shore years ago when you were a little boy. I named Aiden for you, although he grew to be nothing like you. Say hello to your cousins, your grandma Sue, and your Auntie Dom and Uncle Jason for me. The next time I’m in Jersey, I’d appreciate hearing another of your ghost stories.

  Samantha, there’s a little of you in every heroine I write. Chatham Claiborne stole your seat at open studio. Thanks for sharing it with her. It was through your intense study of art this past year that I was able to channel the artist Chatham Claiborne came to be. She Snapchats in your fashion, she’s incredibly thoughtful, and she shares your ambitions and your lively spirit of survival. By the way, does Chatham’s Homecoming dress sound familiar?

  Madelaine, my every heroine has attributes of yours, too. Chatham Claiborne borrowed your wardrobe—and your haircut! You gave her such style that I often envisioned you as I wrote her. She’s a born leader, a survivor, and a giver beyond reason. She wouldn’t hesitate to help her friends, and neither do you. Your talent with pencil rendering definitely influenced Chatham’s. I’m sure she’s listening to twenty one pilots as she’s sketching.

  Joshua, your triumphs fleshed out a character who’s been throwing ropes in my brain since before you dropped your call with Bruce in San Antonio. Your sense of responsibility, as well as your recklessness, filled the lungs of these pages, and they’re now breathing. You never quit, and your history proves it. I appreciate all our Q&As about high school football, and I hope I’ve done the sport decent justice. I appreciate your dimples and take pride in seeing them more often now that we’ve found our forever.

  To my readers:

  See you next time IN WICKER PARK.

  A b o u t t h e A u t h o r

  Sasha Dawn creates tales of survival and error, disasters and dreams. She has degrees in both history and writing, and loves old buildings and new ideas. A warrior, she fights traffic daily in the north suburbs of Chicago, where she lives with her husband, daughters, and puppies. Sasha is the author of the critically acclaimed Oblivion and Splinter.