by Theresa Weir
“You taste like lavender,” he whispered.
I worked my knee between his hip and the couch, and then I lowered myself onto him, to hell with foreplay. I’d missed him. I needed him to erase it all for me again with this new and fresh and real love. Love? Love?
Once he was buried deep inside me, I shushed him and let the moment stretch out in slow motion, one frame at a time. And in my head music played, soft, sad, one note after one note.
There was no mad ending, no building crescendo that ended in a crash. This was a lullaby. A sweet and tender lullaby. And all the more astounding? It was performed by me. Orchestrated by me.
And then we both fell asleep. I fought it, and he fought it, but we drifted off, me on top of him, his good hand embracing me. I woke up to find that we were still together, and he was still inside me. I moved my hips, and I felt him come to life, and the sweet goodbye continued.
Later, after he’d fallen into a real sleep, I got up and covered him with a blanket, then I slipped on my clothes. In my backpack I found my lavender lip balm. I left it on the kitchen table, next to the homecare supplies. Maybe when he got back to California he’d use it and think of me.
“Molly?” came Ian’s voice from the other room.
Damn. I didn’t want to say goodbye. Not the word. And I didn’t want to cry. I was afraid I would cry.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“I can give you a ride.”
“That’s okay.”
Silence, then, “I understand.”
And I think he did understand, and that’s what hurt. I think he was the only person who’d ever understand me.
“Can you wait a minute?”
I heard him moving around. I heard the sound of jeans slipping over skin, and the jingle of a belt bucket. He appeared in the doorway buttoning his thin plaid shirt, looking familiar and endearing.
I swallowed.
“I wanted to talk to you for just a minute.” He looked uncomfortable. “I can make coffee.”
“No, I need to go.”
He nodded. “Just a few minutes. Come into the living room.”
I put down my backpack and returned to the living room. I looked at the couch, and then I chose to curl into the stuffed chair we’d picked up at Goodwill.
He sat on the couch and cleared his throat. Elbows on his knees, hands clasped as well as he could clasp them, he looked down at the floor, getting up the nerve to say whatever it was he was preparing to say. For a second I almost wondered if he was going to propose, then I realized how ridiculous that was.
He finally looked at me. Solidly, without any hesitation or doubt. “I know about you.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I figured it out.”
No. He couldn’t be talking about what I thought he was talking about.
“Why you behaved the way you did the day of your dad’s funeral. Why you didn’t care if I sold the house.”
I wanted him to stop. Just stop.
“And why you wouldn’t sleep in my room. Or rather, your father’s room.”
The words he’d spoken earlier came back to me: I know. It had seemed an odd response, but now it made sense. A sense I didn’t want it to make.
I uncurled myself and got to my feet. I wanted to clap my hands over my ears, but all I could do was stare in horror at Ian’s mouth as he said the things I didn’t want him to say. The things I didn’t want him to know.
He had a degree in psychology. Of course he’d figured it out. The secret I’d never wanted anybody to know. The reason I’d never wanted a guy to get close to me, to get into my head.
“Your dad molested you, didn’t he?”
There it was. I could see the words floating in the air. Tainting the very room where Ian and I said goodbye. Our pale yellow room. Our perfect room. If he knew so much about me he should have know not to say those words here.
“Yes.” My reply was wooden. Defeated. Ashamed.
“I know you don’t want to talk about this, especially with me, but you should talk to someone. I looked into psychologists in the area and I found a few possibilities.”
A piece of paper appeared, with names written in Ian’s bold, slanted hand. I took the paper. Without looking at it, I folded it. I imagined walking to the kitchen, putting it in my backpack, walking out the door. But my feet wouldn’t move.
“It started when I was eight. Well, that’s my first solid memory. I imagine it began long before that.” I was looking at some spot in the distance, the frame of a painting—another thing we’d picked up at Goodwill. The frame was gaudy and ornate, buffed in that gold paste you can get at a craft store. I imagined someone dipping her finger in the paste, then spreading it over the carved vines of the wooden frame. Thinking about something so mundane helped to silence the terror in my head.
“When I got older I told him I’d report him if he ever touched me again.” I pulled in a trembling breath. “It worked. He stopped. His reputation was everything to him.” Gold paste. Spread it, then buff it with a soft cloth. “It was no surprise to find I wasn’t in his will. The whole thing was a way of getting me back.”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
I couldn’t look at him, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was sorry.
“Promise me you’ll see somebody,” he said. “Promise me.”
“I will.” A lie.
I thought about the bridge. My bridge. It would always be there, waiting for me if I needed it. That reassurance gave me confidence because it was good to know that all of this could end if it got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m going to go now.” I turned, and somehow I walked out of the room, my movements stiff and jerky.
He followed. “Stay a little while. Have some coffee.” He didn’t touch me. He must have known any contact would make me crack.
Coffee was too normal. This was not normal. There was nothing normal about it.
I picked up my backpack and slipped it on. I thought of how I’d laughed earlier when I found myself being towed. That had been funny.
The last person on earth I’d wanted to know about me, to know my secret, was Ian. I’d wanted to leave him with the memory of a sweet girl with lavender lips. Not the real me.
“Are you going to be okay?”
I had to look at him otherwise he’d never believe me, and he might even follow me. So I looked. And I saw the anguish in his eyes. I smiled. I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
He relaxed a little because I’d said what he needed to hear.
“I’ll miss you,” I told him, reaching for a truth that might reassure him some more.
“Call me. Text me.”
“I will.”
I left. And it felt a little like the day of my father’s funeral. Hurrying from the house, leaving something bad and horrible behind. But this time I was also leaving something good.
Chapter 25
“I’m going to have to withdraw from all my classes.” I was sitting across from my advisor, a girl not much older than me. “I shouldn’t have tried to attend at all, but I thought the distraction might be good for me.”
“Normally at this late date you’d only be able to get part of your tuition back. But in your case, considering the situation, I’m going to put in a request for a full refund, minus the processing fee to see if they’ll make an exception. Regardless, you’ll be getting a partial refund.”
“Thanks.” I gave her my new address, which was now Rose’s couch. Not sure how long I’d be camping out there, but it was the only address I had.
After meeting with the advisor I headed across campus to Folwell Hall hoping to catch Professor Scott in his office.
“I wanted to tell you I’m leaving,” I said after he smiled at me and told me to take a seat. Now I felt bad. Worse than bad, because his smile vanished.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I loved your class, but I’ve just got
a lot going on in my life right now.”
“I understand. It was probably too much on the heels of your father’s death.”
“Yeah, I think so. I know so.”
“I hope you return and take another of my classes. We won’t offer the Nirvana class again for three years, but we’ll have one on the Beatles and the Stones.”
Nothing would replace the Nirvana class for me, and I couldn’t imagine anything past the moment. I sure couldn’t imagine being here on this campus in three years. Or anywhere.
I bent over, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out four sheets of typing paper held together with a pink paperclip. “I did the last assignment.” I passed the papers to him.
The assignment had been a short essay deconstructing a Nirvana song. I’d chosen “Come as You Are”.
“Don’t leave.” He riffled through the pages. “Stay while I read it.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair. Didn’t want to stay. Didn’t know how to get out of it gracefully, so I sat silently while he read.
There were a lot of theories about the lyrics of the song. Some people said it was about drugs, and the gun was a metaphor for a needle. Most thought it was about accepting people no matter who they were, no matter what ethnicity, gay or straight, rich or poor. But I think part of what makes any song special is being able to bring yourself to the song and interpret it from your own perspective. And I liked to think that had been Kurt Cobain’s intention. He took my hand and pulled me into a story, but he didn’t tell me what I was seeing. He left that to me. That’s what I wrote in a more formal style.
For me, the song was about being yourself. Not hiding. Not pretending. Not being fake. And here I was, someone who’d carried this big secret with me for so many years. Always keeping a part of myself hidden from everybody, friend or enemy. But the stuff Ian said was true. Maybe my past didn’t define me. Just because I had a dark secret didn’t mean I wasn’t me. It didn’t mean people didn’t know me. They just didn’t know all of me. And that was okay.
“Excellent again,” Prof Scott said once he finished. “When I saw the song title you’d chosen I was afraid it would be similar to everything else I’ve read, but you put a new spin on it. And like I’ve said before, you have a voice that feels honest to me. Most students, even the ones who turn in amazing papers, are still trying to figure out their voice and they tend to emulate writers they like. I see it all the time. That’s how they learn. If they stick with it they eventually find the voice that belongs to them. It’s a process. You seem to have skipped right over that.” He tapped the papers on his desk and replaced the pink clip. “Do you mind if I keep this?”
“I wanted you to have it.” I zipped my backpack and got to my feet.
“Listen, if you need a recommendation of any kind keep me in mind. And think about the writing.”
“I will.”
Next stop was the college bookstore where I sold my books for a small fraction of what I’d originally paid. When I left, my backpack hardly weighed a thing.
The day was cold and I was wearing my heavy coat, stocking cap, and red mittens. My bike was back in working order, thanks to Rose’s boyfriend. I unchained it, and pushed it into the street. Somebody called my name. Somebody waved. Taylor. I waved back, and he jogged up to me.
“Hear you moved in with Rose,” he said.
“Yeah, and I just quit school,” I told him.
“Oh, man. Sorry. Wanna go for coffee? Espresso Royale in Dinkytown?”
Within walking distance.
I rechained my bike and we walked across University Avenue to the café.
Sitting in the window with all of the plants, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, Taylor said: “I’m sorry I never said anything to you about your dad. I’ve never known anybody who died. I didn’t know what to say or how to handle it.”
“That’s okay.”
He relaxed.
He looked better. His long hair was shiny and clean, and he didn’t smell. “I’m moving to LA in January,” he said.
“Oh?” That surprised me. He was always saying he’d never leave Minneapolis.
“I’m sick of winters here.”
I thought about living in another place. A warm place. “I’ve never been anywhere else. Not to live, anyway.”
“Me either.”
We finished our coffee and went different directions. Me, wondering if I’d ever see him again. Him, thinking about California. Like another person I knew.
That night I went to work at Mean Waitress, wondering if this was the rest of my life. I joked with customers, I was mean, but the entertaining kind of mean, and I came away with good tips. I thought about what Professor Scott had said about writing. What could I possibly have to say that anybody would be interested in hearing? My story? And if it was published? What then? The world loved my father. They didn’t want to know what he’d done. And I wasn’t even sure people would believe it. With the will issue they’d just say I was some brat who wanted to get back at her dad.
So what? So what if people said that? And so what if their perceptions of him were shattered. The man was a monster. And the story was mine to tell.
Chapter 26
The house already echoed. The closing was in two days and Ian had gotten rid of a lot of stuff on Craigslist. Movers were coming soon to pack up and put everything else in storage. He’d leave it there a few years. Molly said she didn’t want anything, but that could change. At some point in the future she might wish she’d kept a piece of furniture or a knickknack. Or she might never want to see any of it again, but he planned to keep it safe until the time when she could better make that decision. He’d also kept the things he and Molly had bought together—the table by the bed and the landscape with the gold frame. A couple of lamps.
He wandered through the house, checking for anything he might have overlooked or missed. He thought about the day Molly had given him the tour, and how different the place had been then. Dark and depressing. Now the walls were light and most of the floors had been redone. It looked like a different house, which was what he realized Molly had been trying to achieve. Erase the past.
He checked the bedrooms and was walking down the hall when he glanced up at the ceiling, at the trapdoor Molly had pointed out weeks ago. It wasn’t the kind of door with an attached ladder. He was pretty sure this was just a board that had to be shoved aside.
There could be stuff up there.
With a sigh he went to the basement and returned with the stepladder they’d used for painting. He stuck his phone in his back pocket so he could use the flashlight app if he needed it.
After opening the ladder and situating it below the door, he climbed the steps, then reached for the square piece of wood. It most likely hadn’t been opened in years, and it had been painted over at least once, but he finally broke the seal. Like he’d thought, the door nested in a frame. Once it was free of the frame he was able to lift it past the crawl space floor, then blindly shove it to one side, leaving a black gaping hole.
Trying to be careful of his hand, but unable to be careful of his hand, he groped, got a grip, then pulled himself through the hole with his arms, his legs dangling. Up to his waist, he shifted his position and heard the ladder crash to the floor below.
With one last heft he made it through, rolling and pulling out his phone at the same time. Turn on the app. Shoot it around the room.
Pretty much what he expected. Dust and cobwebs. Flooring made of rough planks, the roof maybe four feet high, nails sticking through blackened wood. The building felt so much older up here. He could see the bricks from a chimney that was no longer visible downstairs.
Shouldn’t have bothered. Now he was going to have the pain-in-the-ass circus of getting back down with no ladder.
After catching his breath he got to his feet. Then, bent and the waist, he crouch-walked the length of the space, panning the light from left to right. He was about to pronounce the attic empty when he spotted a g
ray metal box tucked in one corner where the roof sloped down to meet the floor. Crawling, then finally sprawling on his stomach, he snagged the box with his fingers and pulled it toward him.
It was small, about eight-by-ten-by-five inches. A metal handle on top, a catch on the side secured with a padlock. He scooted backward, then dropped to his knees, sliding the box toward the hole. Once there, he swung his legs into the opening, dangling them over the edge. So now he had this mystery box.
In his head he imagined shooting off the lock with a gun he didn’t have. Then he imagined hitting the box with a hammer. Then he remembered the desk in the office.
Pressed for time, he’d given up going through and getting rid of everything. Instead, he’d taped the drawers shut so they wouldn’t slide open in the move. One drawer had been full of keys.
He lowered himself through the hole until he was four feet from the floor. Then he let himself drop, rolling as he hit. No broken bones, he put the ladder back in position, rescued the box, replaced the board, and climbed down.
No wonder Molly had never been up there.
In the office he sat on a chair with wheels, placed the metal box in the middle of the desk, and ripped the tape from the drawer where he’d spotted the hoard of keys.
He went through half the stash before finding anything that fit the small keyhole. Holding his breath, he turned the key and the lock sprang open.
He expected financial statements. Things like that. But no, this was baby stuff. Why would anyone leave baby stuff in the attic? Hide it in the attic?
On top of everything was a tiny pink name band, the kind hospitals put on a baby’s wrist. He was about to set the band aside and dig deeper when the name caught his eye. Not Molly Young.
A baby named Eva Chilton.
Maybe the box belonged to previous owners of the house. Yeah, that was probably it. Anytime he moved he found something left by people who’d been there before. Something overlooked. Lost. Forgotten.
Under the band was a white gown. Tiny. Like something for a newborn. Under that were a bunch of newspaper clippings. He opened the first one, the paper yellow and crisp with age. He expected to see a birth announcement. Instead, he found himself reading an article about a kidnapping. A newborn named Eva Chilton had been kidnapped from a hospital in Montana. Montana was where Professor Young had lived for a while after taking off with the “other woman”.
