by Gail Giles
Carrie took one of Dad’s hands in hers. Dad closed his eyes and then he looked at Carrie. There were no secrets between them. They fed each other with the long spoons.
How could I take a chance of turning the world against them again?
But how could I ever have what they had if I was untruthful all my life?
Dad’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Maybe Jemma was right. Your mother wasn’t cut out for such a harsh, lonely life, but I was too selfish to see that. We argued about everything but Alaska. When your mom found that lump, she knew I’d take her back to Seattle, get her the care she needed. But she didn’t say a word. Not to me, not to Jemma.”
“I knew. I read her journal,” I said.
“Did you understand what might happen if you didn’t show your mother’s journal to your father?” Carrie asked me.
“No,” I said. Almost a whisper.
“Of course not. If you had understood that she would die, would you have told your father and left Alaska to save your mother’s life?”
“Yes. Sure, I would, but . . .”
“There are no buts,” Carrie said. “You were caught in a trap and you didn’t even know how you got in it.”
“Carrie’s right,” Dad said. “I finally noticed how much weight your mom had lost and took her to the clinic, but the cancer had metastasized. The doctor didn’t give her more than six months.”
“I remember when we went to the clinic in Fairbanks. I thought that was such a big deal because we stayed in a hotel. Then on the way home, you and Mom told me she was sick.” I stopped. “I remember her being sick for longer than six months after that.”
“She died less than three months later. It felt long to you,” Dad said.
“I still don’t get it,” I said. “Why did she let herself die rather than leave Alaska?”
Dad sighed. “She wanted us to live where I was happy. Where you would be free from city crime and enjoy the last frontier. But, Wade, some of it was sheer hardheadedness. She wouldn’t let her parents win their argument. She’d die first. And she did.”
His voice got uneven. “I was furious with her for so long. She could have saved herself. I felt like she cheated us.”
“I was mad at her, too. For a long time. But I finally got over it,” I said.
“When?”
“When I figured out that Carrie loved me. I forgave Mom for dying then.”
“That’s what did it for me, too,” Dad said.
That night Dad and I needed a lot of coffee and a lot of tissues. Carrie needed her share, too. But I was bursting through and over the big breakers, sailing against the wind, landing with a hard thump, but landing on the smoother water on the other side.
The night I finished writing, there was slow rolling thunder and soft steady rain. I wrapped the books in my poncho and walked to Sam’s in shorts and a tee, letting myself soak in the stuff like a shower. I opened my mouth and drank. It was clean and warm and new.
I knocked, gave Sam the books, asked her to read them, and left.
I was done.
I had begun.
What would happen?
I stood at the waterline, letting the wave nuzzle my feet. It didn’t matter. I would . . .
Live with it.
Chapter 29
LIVING WITH IT
I closed the cover of the last book and grabbed my laptop. Searched the archives. Fairbanks Daily News-Miner. First article reports two children in a fire. Both hospitalized. Both names withheld until details are known. Second article. One boy seriously burned. One boy catatonic but physically unhurt. Boy’s father treated for burns to hands and arms. Third article. Burned boy identified as Bobby Clarke. Died of burns. Other boy remains unidentified. Troopers believe he poured gasoline on Clarke and set the fire. Unidentified child’s father tried to save Clarke. Perpetrator still unresponsive.
Another article with a picture of a burned cabin. CABIN FIRE VIGILANTE JUSTICE? the headline read.
I moved forward to the editorials when Wade/Kip was put in a mental hospital for juvenile offenders. Most of Alaska was outraged.
This was getting me nowhere. I knew all this. Well, at least it told me that Wade was truthful in his narrative.
How much of a chance did I want to take? Could I do this? I Googled a name. Still there. I punched the number into my cell, hesitated, then hit send.
“Hello.”
A woman.
“Hello,” I said. I should have thought about what to say. “I . . . uh, is this the mother of . . . Bobby Clarke?”
“Who is this?” Her voice cracked, teary and angry in a quick swirl.
“You don’t know me, but — I . . . what I want to know is . . . what you can tell me about Kip McFarland?”
There was silence. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. But before she spoke I felt it — the hate had no trouble traveling the thousands of miles to fill my ear.
“He’s a vicious little bastard that burned my baby to death, that’s what I can tell you. And he walked off and lives his life somewhere like he didn’t do a thing.”
The pain caught up with the hate then, I think. She made hiccuping sounds. I realized they were sobs she tried to hold in, sobs that refused to be held back. She almost whimpered when she said, “He didn’t even go to prison. Like burning my boy wasn’t worth . . .”
She pulled in a deep, hard breath and pulled out the hate she needed to keep talking. “Faked some kind of craziness. Crazy like a fox. Four years. Four years he was pampered in a hospital and then they give him a new name and a free plane ride to who knows where. He’s living the good life while my baby screamed his life out for three days and died.”
Those brutal hiccuping sounds came back. I waited.
“There’s no chance it was an accident?”
“Accident?” Now her voice grew low, conspiratorial. “That boy was evil, clean through. His father, too. Let his wife die rather than take her to a doctor for her cancer. If the state had the death penalty, those two should have been the first.”
Silence again. No sounds of crying. I still wanted to know what Wade was like before —
Her voice was sharp when she interrupted my thoughts. “You didn’t say who you were or why you wanted to know about Kip McFarland. Do you know where they are? Do you? There’s some besides me and my husband that think some home-style justice could still be served. Where you calling from?”
I clicked off.
Dear God. Wade and his family were still being hunted. The danger was not only from within but from without.
I Googled another subject. Child killers. What makes them kill? How many kill again? What makes the difference?
And that seemed to come down to one thing. Conscience. Does the killer have one? Do they feel remorse?
Is remorse the same thing as shame? I have shame, but I don’t really have remorse. Is remorse not forgiving yourself? I had given Wade a lot of words about acceptance. That I wouldn’t trade my mistakes.
But is that true? If so, I’d have been in church. I’d have gone back to school. I wouldn’t be a hermit on this beach. I wouldn’t believe, deep where I won’t look, that Dad and Mom are ashamed of me. That ease in myself is the mask I wear.
Does Wade wear a mask? Will he ever set someone on fire again? No. I believe that right down to my bones. Remorse runs his life. Will I ever drink again? I want a drink now. Which one of us is closer to letting their demons overtake them?
I felt safe with Wade. Accepted. That with his help, I might deal with those things that I had buried deep. But if I accept Wade, am I saying I don’t deserve better than a murderer? Someone who was locked up for years? I only hurt myself, but he killed a child.
I only hurt myself? Bullshit. Look at my parents.
But if I go to Wade, am I clutching another of the walking wounded? Two fractured people hoping to make one whole? Won’t that stop us from ever being strong enough on our own?
He killed a child.
I
’m not strong enough to be around someone working through something this big.
He killed a child.
He was a child when he killed a child.
Maybe only two people that have hurt themselves so badly can help each other?
He set a child, a CHILD, on fire.
Walking next to him, people couldn’t point one finger at us — we wouldn’t know which of us they pointed at. They’d get two for the price of one. Why open myself up for that?
I can’t think. I can’t stop crying.
I shut down the computer, closed the books. And then shoved them under the bed.
Friday afternoon I went for a sail. Alone. Without Sam. The porpoises didn’t show to keep me company either. I hadn’t heard from Sam in five days. I tried not to think about her as Elton glided along a gentle onshore breeze. I guess she had read my story. I hadn’t seen her. Her car hadn’t moved from her drive. She was making it clear that she wanted no part of me. But Dad or Carrie had no complaints at work. There weren’t any headlines, vicious phone calls, no hate mail. I thought Sam would let them stay safe, but this was my last sail anyway.
I pulled onto the beach when the sun was touching the horizon. The tops of the water were the color of mermaid scales. I ran the sails down and took them to the shed. I’d wash them out tomorrow morning, maybe before I left. I already had a bus ticket to Dallas. I never wanted to see water again. Dad said he’d help with an apartment. I could finish my school stuff and get into a junior college. I’d be fine. I grabbed my cell phone in the shed.
I went back out to the boat and stood beside it. The stays clanked against the mast. The sun was gone.
My phone rang.
I couldn’t breathe.
It rang again.
I reached for it.
Flipped it open.
Sam.
I punched the button.
I didn’t say hello. I couldn’t.
“I’m here,” she said. “Standing right behind you.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So many good people took care of me during the writing of this book. If anyone can make gold out of straw, it’s Andrea Spooner. Jill Dembowski makes sure I send Andrea the straw. Scott Treimel tells me to use better straw. Deb Vanasse sorts the moldly straw out and tells me to shape up. Jim has to live with all that messy straw and sometimes finds just the right piece for me to use on just the right day. Victoria Stapleton never lets me get too big for my britches. An author might put words on the page; other people make it a book.
My thanks to Ajahn Pannadhammo and to Ajahn Kusalo for the quote used about the Hungry Ghosts taken from the Wheel of Life.
You may find more interesting material on their Web site and blogs:
Web site: http://www.arrowriver.ca
Blogs:http://bhikkhublog.blogspot.com/
www.buddhamind.info/leftside/actives/w-o-life.htm
