by Jo Crow
I knew the second I lifted my hand and flipped off the camera that what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself. There was too much I needed to process, and no one was interested in respecting my privacy.
The click of cellphone cameras surrounded us. I was only vaguely aware of them. If the townspeople wanted to take pictures of me, so be it. I was willing to put myself out there in front of millions of strangers when the documentary aired, after all.
I tore away from the cameraman and jogged for my car. In my wake, people started to shout. The same cruel words from earlier found their way to my ears.
“Bitch!”
“Murderer!”
“Psychopath!”
I couldn’t slam the car door soon enough.
Hands trembling, I tried to fit my keys into the ignition, but I was so tightly wound that I missed and scraped the tip of the key against the smooth metal panel. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and found my focus. Then I tried again.
This time, success. When I woke the engine, Samuel’s cameraman was situated right behind my car. He’d been filming the entire debacle. Embarrassed, I geared into reverse, hoping my brake lights would move him safely out of the way.
They didn’t.
The man was a professional, dedicated to his job, but it left me in an uncomfortable position. I knew that from here on out, every move I made wouldn’t only be criticized by the townsfolk, it would be broadcast to the rest of the world. I wasn’t the kind of woman who drove over cameramen. I didn’t want violence. I wasn’t a murderer.
But I wasn’t acting like a very rational human being, either.
“Get out of the way.” I spoke the words aloud, knowing the cameraman couldn’t hear me, but hoping the cosmos might. “I don’t want to hit you…”
Just in case the cameraman hadn’t noticed my intent, I crept backward to encroach on his space. For a moment I was sure I would nudge him with my bumper but, before that happened, he jumped away and took wide, predictable steps back. It looked like it wasn’t the first time he’d been responsible for filming a sudden escape, and I cursed myself for not looking more thoroughly into Samuel’s directorial credentials before agreeing to film the documentary. Had he done this before? He must have, if his crew was this thirsty for footage.
I let the thought go and focused on the drive. What I needed now was to calm down before I went back to James. I couldn’t let him see me this way.
Crowds parted for my car as I left the morgue’s parking lot, but the blistering gazes I received did not leave me be. I did my best to avoid eye contact, taking the drive slower than usual to be extra certain no one tried anything. If Samuel wasn’t going to stage something to drum up drama in his documentary, someone from town might. The last thing I needed was someone to throw themselves in front of my car in order to further implicate my name. Since news had leaked of my return, I’d been followed, called names, and refused service. Mob mentality was real, and I was witnessing it firsthand. If the crowd was enraged, the murderer wouldn’t need to take action against me—the townspeople would see to it for him.
Once upon a time, Hickory Hills, North Carolina was a rural hub for quartz and mica miners looking for a quiet place to raise their families. When Spruce Pine Mining District took over, the town shrank. Houses on the outskirts of town were abandoned. Businesses were boarded up.
Then McNair Furniture arrived.
I drove by the old factory, now in a state of disrepair, its windows dark and its walls tagged by graffiti. When my grandfather had brought his operations here, seeking tax relief and cheaper land, he’d inadvertently brought with him the town’s salvation. Those who struggled following the decimation of the town thanks to Spruce Pine found employment in the factory—on the assembly line, in the office, or in the warehouse.
Now all of that was gone.
My lips tightened as the factory disappeared behind me, its ghost lurking tall and ominous in my rearview mirror. That piece of land was a part of my heritage I wanted to forget existed, but it haunted me. There was no escaping the crooked way the C in McNair hung on the factory’s street-facing facade, nor the blight it made on an otherwise picturesque countryside. My family had settled here and started an empire, but when my father disappeared, that empire had crashed and burned, taking the whole town with it.
And according to everyone with an opinion on the matter, I was the one to blame.
I passed by abandoned houses with overgrown lawns and turned down a street badly in need of repaving. It looked like my GPS was on the side of the town, guiding me through the desolation and destruction my family had caused. Exposing its misery. I knew it would have come to this, but I hadn’t realized how bad it was. A few years in California had saved me from the creeping horror that was the death of a small town; now I had no choice but to face it.
Another death.
As if Hickory Hills hadn’t seen enough of them.
Calmly, I followed the GPS down the derelict street. Houses with boarded windows and rotting porches flanked me on either side. The first inhabited house I came across was run-down, its central bay window broken but not yet fixed. I doubted it ever would be.
From that point onward, more houses were occupied. Abandoned properties dotted the street, but didn’t dominate it. The closer I drew to the heart of town, the livelier the street became until, at last, I arrived at a townhouse compound that was in need of some maintenance, though not entirely run-down.
Amanda lived here, according to the address she gave me.
If there was any negativity left inside of me, I needed to shake it off, to let go of Clara and put on the bold, unflinching mask of James’s mother.
I checked my reflection in the mirror, smoothed back my hair, and let go of the stress. It was time to get back to what mattered—it was time to get back to James.
I left my past behind me and stepped out of the car. I needed to focus on the future—our future.
Nothing would stand in my way.
5
I found Amanda outside, pruning the shrubs that encircled her rental property. When she saw me, she lowered the garden shears and ran an arm across her forehead to wipe away her sweat.
“Hey!” She grinned. “I didn’t think you’d be so fast. Detective Elkins is a bastard.”
“You can say that again.”
“So, dish. What’s going on?” Amanda planted the tip of the shears into the earth. “There were bones, and what? What happened? I’ve been worrying myself sick all morning thinking about it.”
I ran a hand along my arm nervously. I had no idea what was going on. There were still so many questions and loose ends that I couldn’t be confident about anything. “They’re still testing; personal effects belonging to my parents were recovered with the remains. I can’t say for certain, because there’s a possibility it could be someone else’s bones planted there as a sick prank, but-but I think it really is them.”
I lifted my head as the sound of rapid footsteps approached. James skipped down the steps of the townhouse, then latched onto my leg. I ran my hand over the back of his head, letting the short, prickly hairs brush my palm; give me hope. James had taken to the chemotherapy wonderfully but, while the doctors were impressed, they’d told me point-blank that the kind of cancer he had came back more often than not. DIPG was one hell of a disease.
“Hey, little man. Were you good for Amanda?”
“Yes.” He smiled. I noticed how one side of his lips didn’t stretch as far as the other. It couldn’t be coming back already, could it? Part of me had been living in blissful ignorance, hoping James’s improved health would continue. Hoping the doctors were wrong, and the mad scramble to make money for experimental treatments wouldn’t be necessary.
Deep down, I knew better. Seeing his small, lopsided smile confirmed it.
“He was pretty much the perfect house guest.” Amanda’s stark white work gloves dazzled in reflected sunlight. “Polite, quiet, and eager to please. W
e cleaned the dishes together, didn’t we, buddy?”
“Yup!” James grinned, and I saw the imperfection in his smile more clearly than ever. My heart sank. “Dishes!”
“After we finished up the dishes, James wanted to go outside, and I needed to do some yard work, so it was pretty much the perfect morning.” Amanda held the shears out, keeping them out of James’s reach. “Mind holding these for me just for a sec, Clara? I’ve gotta run into the house and get some water before this sun melts me into a sweat puddle. Anyone else want some?”
“Me!” James unlatched from my leg to turn his attention to Amanda, bright, gregarious. For now. But how long would that last? If his face was any indication, not long. “Please?”
“I heard the magic word. I’d love to get you something to drink.” Amanda was already on her way back to the house, but she looked over her shoulder at me for guidance. “Is plastic the best bet?”
“If you have it, please.” I nodded. James was improving with his manual dexterity, but he hadn’t graduated to glass cups yet. I didn’t want him to break any of Amanda’s dishes. “I’d love a drink, too, please.”
“Please!” James beamed. The groggy boy I’d left behind at the cemetery that morning was gone.
He followed Amanda into the house, likely eager to help, and I found myself alone in the yard. There were still a few branches left to be trimmed so, while I waited, I gripped the well-loved wooden handles and put myself to work with the rusted blades. After all Amanda was doing for me, it seemed the least I could do.
James’s scurrying footsteps marked his passage down the stairs, and I heard ice clink against itself the closer he approached. He came to a stop beside me, eyes bright and smile crookedly beautiful, and held up his solo party cup of water for me to look at.
I was pretty sure Amanda used the cup on purpose, and I had to hold back a grin. The last time we’d seen each other, solo party cups bore a different set of connotations. Motherhood had changed me.
I was glad.
“Water, ma?” James asked. His grin never wavered. “Want?”
“No, thank you, sweetheart. That’s for you. Amanda is going to bring me my own glass.”
“Okay.” Then, like it was nothing, James plopped down onto the grass. Water splashed over the side of the cup to run down his fingers, and he shrieked with delight. I set down the shears and watched as he lifted the cup to his lips, the bright red plastic contrasting against his pale skin. He drank deeply, icy water running down his chin and dripping onto his shirt. When he was done, he set the cup between his legs and looked up at me with wide, adoring eyes. “Thank you.”
“You need to thank Amanda when she comes back out.” I squatted beside him and ran my hand along the soft regrowth on his scalp. “We always need to be polite, or we’ll make the people around us feel sad.”
“Mmhm.” James nodded sagely.
“What’s that about being sad?” Amanda stepped out of the house, two glasses of ice water in hand. Beads of condensation glimmered, some growing so thick they ran down the glass in tiny rivulets, dragging droplets with them. “At Casa Harwood, frowns are outlawed.”
“Thank you, Amanda,” James chirped, turning his affection her way.
“For what, buddy?”
“For water.” James lifted his solo cup, spilling more water down the side.
“Oh. You’re welcome.” Amanda handed me a glass of water, then lowered herself carefully so she sat beside James. “There’s just one thing you’ve gotta do for me in return, okay?”
“What?” James leaned forward, biting down on his lower lip. I sat with them, enjoying the simple moment for everything it was worth. A few minutes with James calmed me better than my own efforts ever could.
“You’ve got to promise me you’ll never stop smiling.”
James laughed. He smiled extra wide, lit up from head to toe.
“That’s a good boy.” Amanda laughed. “God, Clara, I can’t believe he’s yours. Times have changed, haven’t they? I can’t believe we’re old enough to have kids.”
“I think I’m still in shock.” I laughed, too. “It’s really easy to forget that back then I was a completely different person.”
“Time changes people.” Amanda shrugged. She sipped at her water, looking at me from over the rim of her glass. She cradled it in both hands. I watched her fingers trace slowly over the condensation-soaked exterior. “I went away to college and came back. You did the same. We grew. We met new people. We changed. Some things stay the same, but time doesn’t stop for anybody.”
“Mm. I know.” I dropped my gaze to examine the ice floating in my water. The small, cylindrical pellets were already well on their way to melting. “How’s the job going?”
The moment’s hesitation before Amanda replied piqued my interest, and I looked up to find she’d thinned her lips and looked away. “It’s hard. Working with CPS is challenging in ways you could never believe, and rural branches like this? I do a lot of traveling, and I see a lot of heartbreaking things—conditions kids should never be put in, and family dynamics that are so toxic I go home at night and pray something out there changes, because I know the kids I see aren’t the only ones suffering.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I set a hand on her knee. Amanda redirected her attention my way and offered a small, sad smile. “But you know you’re doing the world a service, right? The work you do helps protect the innocent.”
“That’s what keeps me going, even when they slash my hours because of funding problems.” Amanda took a deep drink, then glanced in James’s direction. “But enough about me and the work I do. Last I heard, you were in Europe, then I saw on Facebook that you moved to California? You’ve got to tell me all about it. I’ve never even left the state.”
I laughed, trying to keep it casual, but only partially succeeding. Desperation lined my humor, drying it up. Amanda raised an eyebrow.
“That bad?” she asked.
“It wasn’t that it was bad…” I searched for words, but didn’t find them. James, meanwhile, finished his water and lay back on the grass to stare up at the sky. “I guess, with everything that happened, I didn’t enjoy it. Not the way I should have. Getting out was good for me, and Europe helped me find myself, but I think it’s always going to eat me up inside that I left so soon. Before I knew what had happened to Mom and Dad. But I just couldn’t take it.”
“What you went through was traumatic. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” Amanda frowned. “I know there was a lot of backlash about you leaving the country, but you had your own life to lead. It wasn’t like you went into hiding—you went to continue your education. You’d planned it out before anything happened with your parents.”
“Yeah, but try telling anyone else in Hickory Hills that, and see what kind of a reaction you get.” I picked at a stray hair on my pant leg. “So, it was mostly a period of recovery for me. I put my head down and studied hard. I cleaned up my act. I was celibate all through college, if you can believe that.”
Amanda snorted, then covered her mouth and gave me an apologetic look. I shook my head and rolled my eyes playfully, but I knew she had every reason to laugh. We hadn’t exactly been model students during our high school days, and when it came to men we’d been wild.
“I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just hard to imagine you being a prude… much less a prude in Europe, with all those beautiful men and all those dreamy accents.” Amanda snickered. “I guess something must have changed, since you’ve got James with you.”
I nodded. “After I got my bachelor’s degree, I came back to America and pursued my master’s degree at UCLA. I met someone in my program, and we dated for a few years. Then we had James.”
“So, where’s he at?” Amanda folded her arms and set her elbows on her knees. “Back in Los Angeles, waiting for you to get back?”
“No. I don’t know where he is.” The memory was painful, but only briefly. I had other things to worry about than Brandon. “We b
roke up shortly after James was born. It was… it wasn’t bad, but there were some hurtful things said. I know I could go after him for child support, but when I found out James was sick, tracking him down sank to the bottom of my priority list.”
“I can imagine.” Amanda frowned. “Hey, James?”
“Yeah?” James rolled onto his side, expression bright.
“Do you remember when we went to get the gloves to work in the garden?” Amanda asked. “When we found that big old bouncy ball?”
“Yeah!”
“I want you to go get it.”
James’s gaze turned to me, seeking permission. I nodded, and he sprang to his feet with energy only a two-year-old could muster before darting for the front door. Amanda met my eye and held my gaze.
“So what’s wrong with him, exactly?” she asked. “You’ve been kind of hush-hush about it on Facebook, and I understand why, but… what’s going on?”
James’s condition wasn’t something I was vocal about. After his diagnosis, the struggle to keep him healthy and comfortable during treatments consumed my life, and I didn’t have time to look for outside support. We’d lived in and out of hospitals and treatment centers, each day pushing me to my limits until I was sure I would snap.
And if James had lost his fight? I didn’t have the heart to confess it to however many of my Facebook friends who became invested in his treatment and his condition. It was a source of stress and heartbreak rather than support.
“He was diagnosed with DIPG not all that long ago.” I bit down on my lip, trying to collect my thoughts. “It stands for diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma. Basically, it means James has a series of tumors on his brainstem that affect face and eye movement and control of the muscles in his throat. Most children who are diagnosed don’t live much longer than nine months. Two-year survival rate is 10 percent.”
“Shit.” Amanda covered her mouth with her hand. “Clara, I don’t know what to say…”
“It’s fine.” I tilted my head back, looking skyward. Billowing white clouds passed by overhead. “It’s been almost seven months since his diagnosis. The doctors put him through chemo—they surgically implanted chemo wafers into the area where the tumors were, in hopes it would destroy them. James took to it well, though he’s not cured.”
