It’s likely that everyone would try to pretend nothing happened for the entire drive to the high school. The boys would spend those quiet drives flipping through their memories, trying to figure out who would call them a rapist. Then they would remember Chloe and maybe recover the unsavory details they had ignored in the aftermath. Devon and Mike might remember the slackness of her body, the way her head rolled from side to side as they moved on top of her. Liam might recall her tear-stained face and how she had fled from him on a winter’s night. They might try to explain the memories away and justify why they couldn’t possibly be considered rapists. They might not be successful, though. They might be left always wondering if they were truly good people.
I knew that Liam would probably connect the spray-painting to me. He knew that Chloe had told me what had happened on that last night. But I wasn’t scared of him or the other boys. They were cowards, and I’d faced scarier things than them this year.
At the graduation, I imagined the mothers raising cameras to their faces, pausing to examine their sons through the anonymous gaze of a lens. Surely that wasn’t the face of a rapist. It was inconceivable that the sweet little boy who loved books about dinosaurs and wore hockey pajamas to bed could grow up to be a young man capable of such violence. They hadn’t raised a rapist. But a voice would linger in their heads, whispering, “What if?” And those mothers would hesitate to have a photo from graduation framed because they didn’t want to be reminded of their doubts and the guilt that those doubts provoked.
Maybe those families would momentarily forget during the festivities, but they would go to bed that night wondering what secrets festered in their homes. In the end, that graduation day would always have a shadow over it in their memories; something that was supposed to be wonderful had become complicated.
I should have felt good about all of this. It was only fair. Why should they have a nice graduation when Chloe would never get one? But as we drove away from Devon’s house, our final stop, I felt even emptier than I had before. I remembered how right I had felt when I’d sat with Pat, knowing that while I hadn’t fixed everything, at least I had provided her with a small measure of closure. Now all I felt was regret. It didn’t matter if those boys were bad people; I wasn’t sure if our actions were right.
Chloe would have loved it, but I wasn’t Chloe. I was Jenny Parker, and I felt nauseous thinking of all those confused mothers and startled younger siblings. I wondered if they would be scared to be in their houses now, holding their breath every time they unlocked the door or went to the bathroom in the night. I had stolen their sense of safety, and I didn’t know if it had been mine to take. Revenge made me feel weaker, not stronger, as if it showed how toxic I was on the inside. It hadn’t brought Chloe back, and it had made me feel as if I’d lost a piece of myself as well.
Tom saw the tears rolling down my cheeks and lightly grabbed my shoulder.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, the tears spilling over faster. I wiped them away with one hand and tried to think of something, anything, other than what I had just done.
“Why don’t you pull over?” Tom asked, pointing at a small parking lot by a public playground. I nodded and pulled into a spot, waiting until I turned the car off before breaking into full-out sobbing.
“Hey, come on,” Tom said helplessly. “What’s wrong? Look what we did tonight—you should be happy!”
“We didn’t do anything! We just spray-painted some shit,” I sobbed, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. “This was supposed to make me feel better and it didn’t!”
“I don’t know what to say,” Tom said in frustration. “You seemed all up for it a few hours ago.”
“Maybe I just wanted to do something with you!” I cried angrily. “And I thought you knew what would help me, but you don’t!” I was still crying, but I also felt mad at myself—for going along with Tom’s stupid plan, for convincing myself that a bit of a petty vandalism could fill the hollowness I had felt since Chloe disappeared.
“I’m not a mind reader, Jenny. I haven’t even known you that long!” Tom said. The way he was frowning at me made me feel even worse.
“Yeah, you’ve made that clear! I thought you gave a fuck about me but you’re leaving!” I cried out, almost instantly embarrassed. I had tried so hard to play it cool with Tom, but I was really quite bad at it.
Tom’s face softened and he pulled me in for a hug, our bodies awkwardly angled by the car seats. I wanted to pull away; instead, I found myself crying on his shoulder, angry and ashamed about how I was acting, about how much I wanted him to stay.
“I do care about you, but I have to have my own life. Jenny…I’m not Chloe, and I can’t replace her for you.”
And there it was. The unspoken reason I had become so dependent on Tom in the last few months. It wasn’t that I loved him (although I really did care about him), but that I loved Chloe. I loved Chloe, and I didn’t know how to live my life without having someone to love. I thought Tom would save me from being alone, but he couldn’t, and it was unfair to expect a teenage boy to solve all my problems. Chloe was gone, and I was here, and nothing and no one could ever change that.
“You’re right,” I sobbed, feeling my heart break open. The raw emotions I had been trying to contain for months rushed through the cracks. “I just wish you could.”
We stayed like that for a long time. Finally, when I had cried myself into a dull calm, I started the car. Tom offered to drive, but I declined. I wanted to reclaim a bit of dignity after my breakdown. Tom had been good to comfort me, but I had to begin taking care of myself. He had been my training wheels as I started a life without Chloe. Now, I needed to learn to go it alone. I wanted to know who I was without another person as a point of reference, how to live a life that wasn’t devoted to someone else.
When we got to the Walmart parking lot, I climbed out of my car to say goodbye to him. He pulled me into a hug, and I made sure to notice every detail of how he smelled and the way I fit snugly into his arms. The feeling of that hug made me ache with pleasure. I felt myself waver, shocked that this was the end; he really was leaving.
“Have a good trip,” I said, my voice tight and choked. Tom leaned in for a final kiss and then we stepped away. For a moment I felt off-balance and dizzy, but my body steadied under me.
“Thanks, I’ll be in touch, I promise,” he said. I shrugged.
“Only if you want to. You don’t have to worry about me,” I said quietly. “I’ll be okay.”
“You’ll be more than okay, Jenny. You’ll be great,” Tom said firmly. I smiled.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Then he got in his truck and drove away. I sensed that Tom was doing the right thing by leaving Thunder Creek. If he didn’t go out and discover who he was and what the world was like, then eventually I would outgrow him. Tom needed to follow his dreams and make a life for himself, and I was going places. Maybe not this year, but definitely the next.
The fact that we were done with each other wasn’t completely sad. In a way, it was beautiful to reach the end of the chapter. I could feel myself closing the book and looking up, wondering, “What next?” And just imagining the possibilities.
Chapter Thirty–Seven
July 15, 2006
I spent the first few weeks of summer reading books and pulling as many double shifts at the diner as I could handle. Working as a waitress—where I was always taking orders, delivering food or tallying bills—distracted me from Tom’s absence and all of the things that had happened this year. It already felt like a lifetime since I’d said goodbye to him, the night we’d spray-painted the houses.
The vandalism hadn’t been widely discussed in Thunder Creek, but the teenagers all seemed to know. Everyone was debating the identity of the vandal and arguing over whether the boys really were rapists. They were popular, yes, but there were a lot of kids at Thunder Creek High who would be happy to see them fall from grace.
Everything just seemed too easy for Liam and the others, and a lot of people secretly resented it.
Meanwhile, I was keeping a low profile and avoiding everyone from school (other than Jake and Bobby). I knew that Liam probably suspected it was me, and if he ever found me at a party, he might lash out. But I didn’t go to parties anymore, and I had spent the last six months acting like a loner anyway. Besides, I was sick of the sound of Creeker gossip.
I was enjoying a rare morning off when my mom called me from the diner. I sighed, sure that she was about to ask me to come in because someone had called in sick.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, examining a new crop of freckles that had bloomed on my arms from my time in the sun. I had never totally given up hope that the freckles might someday merge into one another and give me the illusion of a tan.
“Jenny…,” my mom said, her voice breaking and shuddering. “Oh, Jenny…”
“What? What is it, Mom?” I asked, feeling my anxiety rise. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and I felt as if, once again, my life was about to change.
“Sweetheart, they found her. They found Chloe,” my mom finally said. I could tell that she was crying.
“Alive?” I asked. I knew the answer would be no, but for a single moment, I rediscovered a shred of hope. Maybe my mom was upset because Chloe had been held by some sadistic kidnapper, or maybe they’d found her on skid row, injecting heroin and turning tricks. I’d believed Chloe was dead, but maybe I’d been wrong. I’d never wanted to be wrong so much.
“Oh no, baby. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that. No, Jenny, they found her body,” my mom said in a rush. I leaned against the wall, wrapping my arms around my stomach. I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me, my lungs left crinkled inside my chest like deflated balloons. I struggled to breathe and felt tears filling my eyes. I thought I’d been ready for this, thought I’d eradicated any doubt I had that Chloe was dead, but a secret wish had remained intact. It was like I’d lost her again, and the thought that it was all over made me cry harder.
“I’m so sorry, Jenny. I can’t believe it. She was at our place so much over the years, I feel as if I’ve lost her as well,” my mom said.
“Yeah,” I said, not sure what else I could say. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor in the kitchen, cradling the phone.
“Someone’s coming in to cover me. I’ll be home in an hour, okay?” she said.
I considered telling her that I would rather be alone, but I couldn’t. The sheer size of this news made it seem impossible to handle alone. I needed someone to be with me, to make me feel like this wasn’t the end of everything good. I didn’t want this to be reality; I didn’t want this to be my life. I pressed my hand against the linoleum, unwilling to even get up off the hard floor.
“Thanks, Mom. Come home soon,” I said, tears running down my face. I hung up the phone and pressed my head against the wall, the reassuring firmness making me feel like I wasn’t in danger of floating away.
I’d known this would happen someday. So why did I feel like my heart was breaking?
—
My mom found me still sitting on the floor in the kitchen. She didn’t say anything; she just sat down next to me, groaning a little as her sore back jarred. I put my head on her shoulder and cried, feeling her stroke my hair and make comforting noises. We sat there for ages, my face buried in the scratchy sleeve of her uniform as she held me. I felt like a kid again, needing my mom to chase away the nightmares and monsters that hid under the bed. The world seemed so large and threatening, but I felt safe there, wrapped in my mom’s arms in our hot little kitchen.
“I’m sorry, baby,” my mom whispered, her voice as soft and familiar as childhood blankets.
“She’s gone. She’s really gone,” I murmured.
“Yes, she is,” my mom said. “But you’ll never forget her.”
I nodded and fell silent again, realizing that words would never fill the hole inside of me. My mom could have said the most profound and comforting sentiment possible and it still wouldn’t have been enough. It was better just to be with my mom, existing in the moment without thinking about the next one.
A while later, I got up and went upstairs for a nap. I could hear my mom downstairs, washing dishes and listening to the radio. I lay on my bed, feeling drained from all the crying, my eyelids sore and heavy. I didn’t think I would be able to sleep but I did, clutching the mitten I’d hidden under my pillow.
I didn’t wake up until around 4 p.m. I could smell garlic from downstairs and knew that my mom would be making my favorite meal, spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread. But I didn’t go right down. Instead, I pulled out my laptop and began searching for news about Chloe. I had to know what happened.
The police hadn’t released much news, only that a body had been found by some kids building a tree house in the woods on Blueberry Hill, not far from the ski hill. The body had been found at the base of a very tall ridge, the forest so thick on the cliffs that it was hard to see where rock ended and sky began. The woods were so dense in that area, and so far from any mountain-biking or cross-country skiing trail, that it could have been years before anyone even walked near the ridge. The cause of death had not been released to the public, but the police could now confirm that they had found Chloe Shaughnessy.
I sighed, staring at the picture of the police chief at the press conference he had given in the morning. I felt bad for the kids who had found Chloe; after spending over five months outside, the body would likely have been a horrifying sight. It seemed like it was always children who found the hidden crimes in Thunder Creek. A few years ago, three preteen boys had found the body of a newborn baby abandoned in the forest, left there by a woman who couldn’t cope with the idea of having a child. A forest could be the dumping ground for awful secrets, and it was often kids, unafraid to stray off the path and find their own way, who discovered them.
The police may not have released her cause of death, but I knew she had jumped. Her parents probably did too. They were unlikely to think Chloe had gone for a midnight hike in January, one that had resulted in an unfortunate accident. Mr. and Mrs. Shaughnessy were probably sitting in their house right now, trying to understand why Chloe had killed herself. They were probably so confused, afraid that they’d never understand what had happened. But I knew what happened; I had been carrying the secrets around for months. Chloe’s parents needed to know the whole truth. I didn’t want to do it, but I knew it was necessary. Now that I knew for sure, I had no excuse. I had to act.
—
I waited two days before I called the Shaughnessys. It might seem like I was trying to screw up the courage to do it, but it was actually really hard to wait. Now that I knew what I had to do, I would have preferred to just get it over with. Still, I wanted to give Chloe’s parents a couple of days to process the fact that their daughter was dead before I dropped any more bombshells on them.
Chloe’s mom answered, and I asked her if I could come over and talk to her and her husband. She probably assumed that I just wanted to pay my condolences as Chloe’s best friend, but in any case, she said yes. I climbed into my car after hanging up the phone and started driving to Blueberry Hill before the gravity of what I was about to do sank in.
I parked my car and knocked on the door. It occurred to me that the last time I had been at this house was February 2, the night I dropped Chloe off. The last time I ever saw her alive. I breathed in deeply, trying to find a trace of her lingering on this porch. Maybe I was crazy but I did feel something. I felt calmer being here. Chloe felt closer.
Chloe’s mother answered the door. Linda’s face had the swollen, ruddy look of someone who’d been crying for days. Her hair was clean but she was wearing a ratty old University of Toronto sweatshirt and a pair of paint-splattered jeans. I had never seen her looking so casual.
“Hi, Jenny,” Linda said, pulling me in for a hug. She leaned on me, and I could feel her weight spread across my shoulders. I
started to wonder if this was the right time to talk to Chloe’s parents. Were they too fragile right now? But I knew that if I didn’t do it now, I would never do it. It was never the right time to tell someone that you knew why their daughter killed herself.
Greg appeared behind Linda, looking a little more pulled together, though I could tell by the bags under his eyes that he was exhausted. Chloe had never been close to her dad, but one look at Greg instantly told me that their distance hadn’t reduced his suffering at all. It might have actually made it worse; you weren’t just mourning the person you lost but also the possibility that you might have become closer in the future.
“Would you like a drink? We have water, juice and soda,” Linda said, pulling away from me. I shook my head.
“All right, then,” Linda said, gesturing toward the living room. “Let’s go in here.”
We sat down in the formal living room, a place I had only ever walked through on the way to the kitchen, the TV room or Chloe’s bedroom. The couches were covered in a stiff dove-gray fabric and were firm enough that you never felt like you could relax. I scanned the room, seeing a familiar face staring out at me from every corner. Chloe’s school pictures covered the mantel piece and the top of the piano. It was comforting to see her there, as if she were in the room with me for this difficult conversation.
“I wanted to come here and talk to you guys,” I began hesitantly. “I know they found Chloe, and I’m sure you’re asking what happened. And I don’t know for sure, but I thought I would tell you what this last year was like for her…”
And then I told them everything. I started with the house party, the bullying and the rumors. I ended with that last night; the date with Liam, the aftermath, Chloe’s demand that I drive her home, and my suspicion that the events of the evening had driven her to kill herself. It was really hard to say out loud the things I’d been holding inside for months, to see the shock and sadness on Chloe’s parents’ faces. By the end, they looked stricken, their faces pale and horrified.
The Lives of Desperate Girls Page 25
