by Nicole Baart
The links were flimsy at best, pathetic at worst. Jess was convinced that her amateur sleuthing leaned far toward the pathetic side of the spectrum, but it had given her a sense of purpose all the same. Deputy Mullen and his team could keep investigating, and Jess would do her part. If she actually stumbled upon something significant, she’d share it. But for now her hobby was becoming a secret obsession that was one of the only things keeping her sane. Or messing with her already fragile mental and emotional well-being. It was a toss-up.
Shaking her head as if to dislodge those errant, pesky thoughts, Jess walked over to the small desk in her room and slipped the folder in the top middle drawer. It felt wrong somehow to have it out when the boys were home. She couldn’t stand the thought of them knowing that their father had kept secrets from them. That he had a folder filled with the names of strange women who had committed some pretty heinous acts.
“We’re looking into it,” Deputy Mullen had told her when she pressed him about the file in the diner. “But there’s no reason to believe these notes are related to his death.”
“They were hidden in a motel safe,” Jess said, quirking an eyebrow in disbelief. “Clearly he was trying to keep them a secret.”
“The safe also contained his phone, wallet, and keys. Was he hiding them? Look, Jessica. I’ve said it before: the simplest answer is often the right answer. There’s just no evidence that the file had anything to do with what happened to Evan.” Mullen raised his hands as if in surrender. Or maybe he was warding her off. “If something surfaces, we’ll follow the lead wherever it takes us.”
“But until then . . .”
“See if you can figure anything out. Like I said, my guess would be Evan was doing some sort of a medical study.”
Jess had already scribbled notes to call Dr. Murphy and Dr. Sanderson, Evan’s partners at Auburn Family Medicine—not that she needed to be prompted. The file was just about the only thing she could think about.
Her hand was still on the desk drawer and her thoughts a million miles away when Max came storming into her room.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“Excuse me?” Jess spun, an easy smile on her face because the glow of their quiet morning lingered. But Max was not smiling.
“I said: Where is it?”
Jess took a step toward him, but he matched her movement by sliding back an equal distance. She almost laughed—he was still wearing his pajama pants and a rumpled T-shirt that said Allergic to Mornings—but she checked herself. Her son was clearly not in a laughing mood.
“I’m sorry, hon. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My journal,” he spat, crossing his arms high over his chest. His upper arms were filling out, the muscles defined in a way they hadn’t been before. When had that happened?
Jess squeezed her eyes shut for a second. “I didn’t even know you had a journal.”
“Yes you did! I got it from Carter. Remember?”
It had been a long time, but Jess did remember. Over a year ago, when the tension in their house had become so thick and viscous it was hard to walk upright, she and Evan had decided that Max needed to talk to someone. Carter Mayfair specialized in youth therapy and shared the same office as their couples’ counselor. They set up a few appointments so that Max could see Carter at the same time that they met with Eleanor. Couples counseling proved to be ineffectual, but against all odds Max had liked Carter. No one was more surprised about it than Max.
“He gave me a journal to write stuff in before bed.” Max was pacing now.
Jess recalled the journal, and she also remembered that Max had downplayed it. “It’s not like I’m going to use it,” he said after the final appointment, when Carter gave it to him. It was a parting gift of sorts, and Max looked skeptical when Carter clapped him on the back and leaned in to whisper one last thing. Max tried to appear disinterested, but Jess noticed that he ran his thumb over the leather cover, flipping the magnetic clasp that held it shut open and closed. Max liked it, whether he would admit it or not. And apparently, he had used it.
“Honey, I haven’t seen that journal since you took it home. I thought you threw it away or gave it to someone else or something.”
“I wrote in it!” Max was practically hyperventilating. “Like, all the time.”
“Okay.” Jess reached a hand out to soothe him, but he batted it away. “Hey, we’ll find it. We’ll figure it out.”
“It’s gone. I bet Gabe . . .” Max flung himself out the door and flew down the stairs. Jess followed hot on his heels.
“Give it back!” Max shouted. “You’re such a baby. Give me back my book!”
Gabe was half-folded over the back of the couch, one leg on either side like an overgrown cat. He looked up slowly, eyes dazed from Madagascar 2 and the bleary winter light that seeped through the windows. He squinted at Max. “What?” he said, and then slipped off the couch and crumpled to the floor.
Jess dashed to put herself between her sons. Gabe was giggling uncontrollably, pleased with himself and the silly act of falling off the couch. Max was irate, fists clenched as he glared at his brother in accusation.
“Cool it,” Jess said, looking up at Max from where she crouched on the floor. She lifted Gabe by his arms but he was all floppy, his limbs like Jell-O. She left him where he was but took his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. “Gabe, did you take Max’s book? I’m being very serious right now. I need the truth.”
Gabe snorted a little and shook his head. “I can’t read!”
“You’re learning,” Jess told him, using even this unlikely opportunity to encourage him. His teacher had said positive reinforcement was necessary if they ever wanted him to progress. She snuck a quick glance at Max and watched as he rolled his eyes. Turning back to Gabe, she pressed him. “I need you to think really hard. Did you go into Max’s room and take his book?”
“I’m not allowed in Max’s room.”
“That hasn’t stopped you before.” Max lunged at his little brother and poked him hard in the side with his foot. “It’s black and has a lot of writing in it. What did you do with it?”
Gabe scrambled up, holding his ribs where Max had jabbed him. His features clouded. He shouted: “I don’t have your book!”
Jess sighed. “Max, enough with the accusations. I don’t have your book. Gabe doesn’t have your book. Did you take it somewhere? Leave it at school, maybe?”
“I would never take it to school.” He ran both of his hands through his hair and cupped the back of his neck. Jess could see that his jaw was clenched so tightly his teeth had to be aching.
“Okay, let’s figure this out,” she said. “Where did you have it last?”
Max turned abruptly on his heel and took the stairs two at a time. Because she didn’t know what else to do, Jess followed. Not about to be left behind, Gabe raced after her.
“It was right here,” Max said when Jess stopped in the door of his room. He indicated his box spring, a flat expanse of pale blue fabric pulled taut over a wooden frame. He had thrown off the mattress. It was crooked on the floor, the sheets and blankets half ripped off. Clearly he had been upset to find his journal missing. “This is where I kept it.”
“Have you checked under the bed?”
He shot her a livid glance.
“Okay. How about behind the nightstand?” Jess moved deeper into the room as Max shook his head. “Desk? Closet?” She reached for a pile of clothes on the floor and shifted it to the side. Nothing. “Your backpack?”
“I’ve looked everywhere,” Max said. “It’s gone.”
All at once the fight seemed to leak out of him. It left him weary, the corners of his mouth so low Jess worried that he was going to cry. He sank to the box spring and seemed to wilt there, his shoulders slumping forward and head hanging so that his hair covered his face.
“Hey,” Jess said softly. She sat beside him and chanced a touch. He tolerated the weight of her hand on hi
s back and she felt a rush of affection. And concern. “It has to be around here somewhere.”
He didn’t move.
“It must be pretty important to you.” Jess rubbed her hand in a slow circle.
“It’s full,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve written on almost every page.”
Jess was shocked that Max had kept a journal, but she kept her surprise to herself. She was thrilled that he had found a way to express himself, to deal with all the things that had happened. And she was suddenly very angry that it was gone.
“When did you realize it was missing?” she asked, standing abruptly.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“When’s the last time you saw it?” Jess approached Max’s desk and, when he didn’t object, began opening drawers and scanning the contents. Mostly junk. Old papers, ballpoint pens missing their caps, a ball of sorts made of duct tape and pages ripped from a magazine. Sports Illustrated, she guessed.
“I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago?”
“That long?”
“Yeah. I’ve been locking my door during the day, but I guess I should have started doing that sooner.” His words were venomous, bitter.
Jess froze for a heartbeat and then turned to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Max scowled at her. “I know what you did. After you went through my stuff I started locking my door.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Jess said, exasperated. “Say what you mean, Max. I’ve had more than enough of your games.”
“I mean that you didn’t do a very good job of sneaking around. I know that you were in my room. I knew it the second I stepped into it. You left stuff out of place—you might think my room is a disaster, but I know where everything goes.” Even though Max was angry, he didn’t shout. He was resigned, resentful. But he stayed on the box spring and pulled his legs crisscross beneath him.
Jess studied him for a minute, hands on her hips and heart in her throat. Then something clicked into place. She crossed the space between them and sank to her knees in front of her son. “When was I in your room, Max? Think about it. When did this happen?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple weeks ago.”
“Think.”
After a few seconds Max said, “The day we all got sick. You were downstairs with Gabe and my room was all messed up. I knew it was you. Who else would it be?”
Jess’s mind whirled back to that night. A crooked picture, a tented curtain. The feeling that nothing was quite as it should be. That someone had been in their house. Max had felt it too.
“What was in your journal, Max?” She hardly dared to voice the question, but really, what could it be? He was thirteen years old. Surely nothing of consequence existed in his personal diary.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Stuff.”
“About school?”
He tilted his head to give her a furtive glance. Just as quickly as his eyes met hers they skidded away to his hands, his lap. “Dad,” Max said eventually. “I wrote a lot about Dad.”
* * *
October 10, 2017
Carter says that anxiety needs a place to go. That if it doesn’t come out, it will rattle around inside looking for an escape. When it comes out sideways its ugly, he said. Like what I said. Then he listed drugs + sex + delinquincy (his word). He made his hands all crazy and said it would come out like an alien baby and there’d be blood everywhere. He was trying to be cool, but i said I don’t watch alien movies and I don’t know what your talking about. But anyway i’m not sleeping. Last year I made a list of all the swear words I could think of and then I burned it in the backyard. Maybe I’ll do that again.
What I’m mad about:
1. G is a baby and mom lets him do anything he wants
2. D+M fight when they think I’m asleep (even if i was, i’m not deaf)
3. school sucks + I kinda like Elsie F but she like Maddox P
4. sometimes i wish i had a birth mom and dad like G—I’d find them and maybe live with them if they were cool and had $$
5. D has a secret
—Max
Catrin W.
30, African American, working on GED
Shoulder-length weave, rainbow-painted fingernails, athletic build.
No one knows.
ADW, 49m, 7m pp
CHAPTER 18
IT WAS AFTER suppertime when the plow finally made it down the Chamberlains’ road. By then the snow had stopped and the storm clouds had moved on, leaving behind wispy strands of cirrus that spanned the starry sky. As the moon rose, the long streaks of clouds slashed across its pale face, scarring the evening with a reminder of the violence that had come before.
And it had been violent. In the afternoon, the weight of the snow and ice had become too much for several of the tree limbs. They bowed and splintered, yearning toward the ground until they screamed and cracked and crashed down. The sugar maple in the Chamberlains’ front yard lost a branch that was almost the thickness of Jessica’s waist, and when it snapped free, the sound ricocheted like a gunshot and ended in a boom that made Gabe scream.
The snow was sixteen inches deep according to the news, but when the street was finally clear, it was piled on the curbs at least three feet high. Meadow Drive looked like a tunnel, a sparkling, surreal tunnel, and beneath the snow the concrete was black with a thick lacquer of ice.
Mere minutes after the plows drove out of sight, the twin beams of headlights drew everyone to the window as a truck pulled up in front of the Chamberlains’ house.
“Grandpa!” Gabe shouted, running for the door. “It’s Grandpa!”
Henry Lancaster didn’t own a truck, but his neighbor had allowed him to borrow his in order to dig Jessica out. “There’s a plow blade on the front,” he said in greeting when Jessica met him in the garage. “You can’t exactly use a shovel for this.”
Jess was already pulling on her North Face snow pants, her plush mittens, and heavy boots. Being a mother of boys necessitated such accoutrements. There were sledding hills to enjoy and snowmen to make, plus the occasional pond skating adventure or wintry hike. All the same, Jess didn’t wander out into the snow all that often, and as she pulled her balaclava over her head, she was met with the faint scent of exhaust. Snowmobiling. The last time she had worn snow gear was when Todd had taken pity on the Chamberlain boys and appeared in their backyard on his snowmobile. It was near the end of March and Evan had just moved out. A late-in-the-season dump of snow had blanketed the world in white, and they had all taken turns riding behind Todd on the snowmobile, accelerating across wide stretches of flat fields and thrilling at the lash of snow in their faces. It was one of the first times the boys had laughed after Evan left.
The memory stuck like a broken zipper, but Jess yanked herself past it and pulled down the fabric in front of her mouth to offer her dad a faint smile. “Thanks for coming. You’re right: I don’t think we could have dug out on our own.”
Evan had always done the shoveling, and because he genuinely enjoyed it, he insisted that they didn’t need a snowblower. But Jessica was grateful for the bulky machine that she helped her father lift down from the back of the truck. He gave her a quick lesson and then used the truck to clear the worst of the snow. Jess only feared for her landscaping a couple of times—as far as she knew, Henry had never used a plow blade attached to a pickup truck before.
The moon was high and casting diamonds on the snow when Henry and Jess stopped to survey their handiwork. Gabe had thrown on his snow gear, too, and was tearing up the fresh expanse of white on the front yard. With the truck and the snowblower silenced, Jess could hear his shrieks of delight as he threw up the soft, wet snow and thrust handfuls of it in his mouth. She could remember the taste of snow herself, the light, cold whisper of frost and nothingness on her tongue.
Henry was grinning. “What a storm!”
Jess didn’t say anything.
“Hey, why so glum?” He elbowed
her, their puffy arms whisking off each other in a lisp of water-resistant fabric.
“I guess I’m not as charmed as you are by the destruction.”
There was definitely destruction. Branches littered the snow, sinking to hidden depths in places and reaching heavenward in others, knobby fingers stretched in supplication. Some trees seemed to melt, long limbs curling down like something from a fantastical Dr. Seuss story.
“It’ll be a nightmare to clean up,” Jess said. “In the spring, when everything melts. And I’m not sure my cherry blossom will survive.”
It was true. The lovely little tree near the sidewalk looked like it was weeping. Or mourning, maybe, the burden it carried simply too great to bear.
“We’ll plant a new one,” Henry said with conviction. “A trio if you’d like. A fresh start sounds pretty perfect right now, wouldn’t you say?”
Jess could feel him looking at her sideways, waiting for her to respond. She knew he wanted nothing more than for her to leave this pain behind and walk into a future that held all the possibility she believed she forfeited when Evan walked out the door. But she wasn’t ready to move on just yet.
“Did Evan ever confide in you?” Jess asked carefully. She kept her attention trained on Gabe. He was climbing over the fallen limb, crawling between the narrow branches and clearly enjoying some adventurous fantasy.
“What do you mean?” Henry sounded just as cautious.
“After we were separated.” Jess turned to her father quickly and reassured him. “Evan was a part of our lives for twenty years, Dad. I wouldn’t be upset if you stayed in touch while we were separated. In fact, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Henry searched his daughter’s eyes for moment and then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “We had lunch a couple of times. He loved you, Jessica. He wanted to work it out.”
