by Dan Kolbet
I lean back in my seat and try to close my eyes. I wonder if the Xanax lady as any extras?
* * *
We land in Minneapolis around 6:00 in the evening, which in January means it's pitch black outside and freezing. As the plane taxis to the gate the icy landscape is illuminated by the blinking lights on the wings. Heavy snow comes down in icy pin drops that melt on the plane's hot engines. I'm glad Michelle had the forethought to look at the weather and remind me to pack for the extreme cold. My parka is in my carry-on and I already feel the need to zip it on.
"Welcome to Minneapolis," a flight crew member says over the intercom. "The local time is 6:02 p.m. It's a balmy 22 degrees out there . . ."
I wake Libby, who managed to sleep through the entire flight and landing, which was probably the best for both of us. We collect our carry-on bags and head to the rental counter where we procure a four-wheel drive SUV for the next few days.
"Do you want to drive out there now, or find a hotel and go in the morning?" I ask.
"I'm not sure if I'd be able to sleep if we waited until the morning," she says.
"Can you find it in the dark?"
"That's a good question. I think so."
"Good enough for me," I say, because there was absolutely no way I was going to be able to sleep either.
We drive north for about an hour and a half on Interstate 94. The highway is clear. The snow has stopped and I can still see the lines on the shoulder where the plows recently passed. The land is flat, at least the parts I can see from in my headlights.
We pass the exits for St. Cloud, finally taking Exit 160 at the city of St. Joseph and begin driving through the small town.
"The buildings you can see lit up over there are from the college," Libby says. "They're a lot taller than anything around here."
I see a sign for the College of St. Benedict and conclude that's what is slowly fading away from view in my rearview mirror. I make a mental note of the landmark so I can find my way back to the highway, just in case Libby can't find the house.
We drive down several narrow roads, following signs toward Rassier Lake. Tall trees, encapsulated in heavy snow block any view from the road.
"Turn here," she says after a few miles.
"There's a road there?"
"Yes," she says. "See the little shelter off to the side? That's a school bus stop. That's where I'd get picked up for school."
"There's no sign."
"Trust me, it's the right spot," she says.
We pass several large homes with three-car garages before crossing a single lane bridge.
"That's the Watab River, but it's really just a little creek most of the time," she says.
The bands of trees lining the road become more dense as we snake our way back over the unplowed and seemingly abandoned road. The SUV slides from one icy rut to the next. The fresh snow masks any previous tire tracks. We round a hairpin turn at a turtle's pace to ensure we don't slide off the road and into the ditches that run adjacent to our path.
The trees part and a clearing comes into view. At the far side of the clearing, backed by a forest of trees, sits a small brick rancher with an attached single-car garage.
The lights aren't on. My heart sinks. She must not be home.
I park in the driveway behind a silver Ford pickup that's covered in six inches of snow.
"Is this it?" I ask, but I can tell from the expression on her face that we're in the right place.
"Yes. This is Aunt Ella's house."
"Doesn't look like she's home," I say, disappointed.
But just then a flash of light comes through one of the basement windows. It flickers, then fades again. We glance at one another, but neither of us comments on it. My first thought was that a burglar was prowling around the basement of the unoccupied home with a flashlight. But before I can say anything, Libby opens the door and steps out of the SUV. I follow into the winter wind and shin-deep snow.
The porch light is off and I can't see any lights or motion on the first floor, but again the light flickers from the basement. Someone is here.
Libby knocks on the door and after just a few seconds I hear a clanging sound like a frying pan falling to the floor.
The noise doesn't faze Libby, who continues to stand at the doorway.
The basement light disappears and then suddenly reappears to the left of the doorway. Whoever was in the basement is now headed toward us.
"Maybe we should wait until morning," I say wondering why a burglar would answer the front door.
Before Libby can reply, the front door opens.
In the pale moon light, obscured by the cover of the porch stands a white-haired, elderly woman in sweatpants holding a flashlight toward the ground. She's completely soaking wet from head to toe and a puddle is forming on the tile floor below her. In her other hand is a large empty cooking pot.
"It's about time you got—" she says, before stopping herself mid-sentence. There's a long pause before she whips the bright light upward to Libby's face, then to me, then back again.
"Lib?" the woman asks.
"Aunt Ella, what happened?!"
The flashlight glare returns to my face.
"Not who I expected, but I wondered when you'd finally show up here," Aunt Ella says, handing me the cooking pot.
Chapter 43
Minutes later I find myself in a dark basement, knee-deep in frigid, stagnant water, with a flashlight in my mouth as I feel around with my hands for my own safety. What the hell am I doing?
"The main water shutoff is in there," Aunt Ella shouts from the stairs, pointing toward a room at the far end of the basement. Her voice is Deep South, not Midwest or that unmistakable Minnesota accent. It's smooth and casual. "Can you see it, then?"
Ella's standing just above the water line and illuminated only by Libby's cell phone light, which she is holding above her head.
Endless debris, floating in the inky blackness, brushes across my legs as I wade deeper into the basement. The wet carpet clings like seaweed to my shoes. I have no desire to see what is floating in the water—or under it. I thought I saw a rat, but it turned out to be a ball of yarn with a tail of string. I block out the floating trash and focus on my destination.
Once I make it to the utility room I see the problem. A pipe on the ceiling burst and is spewing water against the walls and floor, flooding every square inch of space with a few feet of water. The room's ground-level rectangular window is broken. Protruding from the opening is a piece of chopped firewood. I can see a pile of wood stacked outside in the snow near the window.
"That damn plow driver did it!" Aunt Ella bellows into the basement. "I told him not to back into that cord of wood, but did he listen to me? No. He did whatever he damn well pleased!"
I find a blue valve on a silver pipe, which I presume is the main water shutoff. I give it a twist. It doesn't budge. I continue to grip it, but my hands are numb and it seems to be glued or frozen shut. Water spewing from the pipe above drenches me and I have to take deep breaths with my mouth open because of the shock of the water temperature.
"Do you have a wrench?!" I yell toward the stairs, hoping I can gain some leverage on the valve.
"It's in the toolbox on floor by the water heater," the woman shouts down to me.
I find the water heater, but the toolbox is fully submerged in the water with no way for me to locate it, let alone find the right tool. I scan the room, looking for anything I can use to help turn the valve. The water sprays my face as reach up to a curtain rod holding several blouses and dresses. I grab one of the wire hangers and twist it so it will fit inside the teeth of the valve knob. I wind the hanger inside holes in the valve.
After several attempts I get the knob to budge free. I twist it down as far as I can. Eventually the water stops showering me and I know the main line is off. I return to the bottom of the stairs with a smile, expecting a hero's welcome for my success.
"OK, now you gotta pull the drain cover so
all this'll drain out," she says. "It's in the center of that same room."
I can't tell if Libby smirks at the comment, but my gut tells me she did. I reluctantly turn back wondering why she didn't tell me to pull the drain before I stood freezing it the water.
I return to the utility room and feel around with my feet until I hit a dip in the floor with a circle in the center. I reach down and lift a thin rubber saucer off the drain. The weight of the water was holding it in place. After a gurgle of air bubbles burst upward, I know the drain is working. My body is so frozen I don't stick around to watch the water recede.
Aunt Ella stares at me when I make it to the bottom of the stairs. And then she says something I didn't expect to hear.
"Thank you, Bill," she says, as if she's said it a thousand times.
So, she knows who I am. And it unnerves me.
* * *
We trudge up the stairs, Libby the only one among the three of us who remains dry. Libby and Aunt Ella seem to fall into a familiar pattern, with me on the outside shivering.
Libby retrieves my bag from the SUV and by the time I change my clothes, she's got a fire going in the living room. I find her and Aunt Ella sitting on an ottoman in front of the small fire. Ella is wrapped in a large blanket that makes her slight frame seem even smaller.
"The lights went out a few hours ago," Aunt Ella says. "I called it in, but I haven't seen anyone from the power company yet. That window had to have been broken two nights ago. I haven't been down there much you see, because of my back, you know. That's when the snow plow driver came. He hit the damn window and that pipe broke because of it. He's going to hear an earful from this lady, that's a sure thing."
So we sit in the flickering glow of the fire. The entire house dark except the orange flames licking at the wood inside the fireplace.
"Do you know me?" I ask, after the room had gone silent for an uncomfortably long time.
Aunt Ella nods her head yes.
While Libby is obscured by shadows, I can see a look of surprise on her face, but the old woman's reply doesn't surprise me. It's obvious now that I've seen her. I can't believe it, but I know who Aunt Ella is. Or should I say I don't want to believe it, because if what I think is actually true—and I know it is—then Jane is more of a monster than I could have ever imagined. And the lie Libby was led to believe can only be described as twisted.
I shake my head as the realization sinks in.
"And do you know why we're here?" I ask.
She again nods yes. "But I don't want to talk about it," she says.
"What are we talking about?" Libby asks. "How could you know him? I've only known him for like two weeks."
"This isn't the time," Aunt Ella says.
"We've traveled a long way to be here and we're going to have this out," I say, as calmly as my voice can be.
The woman raises her finger to protest just as the power to the house comes back on. A large console TV blinks to life in the corner, displaying a very loud episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman.
"Oh," she says. "That's a sign. No more of this. No more."
She stands and flips off the television.
"I won't be entertaining you tonight," she says. Lib, your room is as you left it. You can stay there."
Then she points to me.
"Bill, you can have the couch."
She doesn't say another word, but walks about the house turning off all the lights, until we're again sitting in the dark.
"I don't understand what's happening," Libby says.
I take Aunt Ella's vacated seat next to Libby on the ottoman and put my arm around her. A door slams upstairs.
I begin to tell Libby everything I can remember about her mom that seems relevant to our current situation. The flood gates open and information pours out. I tell her what she was like to live with and how until today I didn't realize what was really happening with her. I tell her that I'm embarrassed and ashamed for not noticing these traits earlier. I tell her why her mother saved those newspapers. I apologize for bringing her back here and having to face this again. We talk about the pills and we talk about Aunt Ella.
At first she takes the news without a word, but after a moment her face blushes with anger.
"I can't believe it," she says through streaks of tears, but she realizes it's true. "They both lied to me. Why?"
Aunt Ella is Libby's grandmother. When Jane ran away from life with me, she ran back to her mother.
Chapter 44
I missed it. I missed who Jane was, because I was only seeing the person I wanted to see. I ignored the absences because they didn't seem like anything important, but that's only because I was absent myself. I didn't press her about her past or her family because I honestly didn't care. She said her parents were long gone and didn't talk about them at all, so I never asked. Had I been the partner to her that I should have been, I wouldn't have missed the signs. I could have helped. I again, failed her. My fault.
She wasn't good at keeping friends, she told me when I asked why she didn't want bridesmaids at our wedding. What about her friends back home in Colorado where she'd supposedly grown up? I had asked her this not knowing that it too was a lie.
"There's nobody worth asking," she had told me.
The signs were there. Had she gone missing before? Who was she before I had found her in that dentist's office so many years ago? Did I just miss the signs?
Thinking back on it now, there was one weekend that should have clued me in that something was off about Jane. Something that didn't fit the character of the woman I was in love with. But I wrote it off as a bump in the road, not a sign of things to come.
It was Memorial Day weekend back when we were still dating. When everything was simple and we were in love like none other. We were on our way out of town to enjoy the three-day weekend at Lake Roosevelt in eastern Central Washington. My friend Joey invited us to stay at the property his family owned. A few other couples were going to be there and I was excited to introduce her to some of my college buddies and to get her alone so I could finally propose to her. I was ready to get married. I'd bought the ring a few weeks earlier and it was burning a hole in my pocket. I had planned to get her out alone, away from the cabin and pop the question. I planned to say we were going to take a hike or something cheesy like that. I had it all planned out.
I was excited and ready, but we were actually in a bit of a funk in our relationship. I was pushing toward marriage and commitment, while she seemed perfectly content as we were. I was busy trying to stay employed selling insurance and she was going through the routine of the dental office. Not much excitement happening for either of us. I thought it was just cold feet. Normal, but then I brought home a dog and Jane seemed to change.
It was like the dog was the final straw and she lost it. It was too much commitment for her.
The week before Memorial Day I had brought home a little Golden-Retriever-mix puppy. Some guy was selling the litter of pups on the side of the road. I don't know why I stopped. I never did stuff like that, but I thought a dog would be fun and why not? We could raise the little guy together and practice being parents before we got the real thing. So I bought the cutest one in the bunch, a female who I instantly fell in love with.
When Jane came home that night, she parked her car under our carport beside the house and came in the back door. I hid behind the kitchen counter, holding the dog, and waited until Jane came in before scooting the dog out into her view. I found out right then that Jane didn't appreciate surprises.
"OH, MY GOD," she screamed. "BILL! Get in here!"
I popped up behind the counter.
"What?" I asked. "It's a puppy."
"And what is it doing here?"
"I bought her for us," I said, confused at her reaction toward the dog.
"I don't even know what to say," she said. "I don't want a dog."
I picked up the puppy who had begun to lick Jane's shoes.
"But how can you say no to this
little face?" I said in my best baby-talk voice.
"No. Just like that," she said, walking out of the kitchen.
"Well, I can't take her back. She's ours."
"She's yours," Jane said over her shoulder.
I just thought she didn't want a dog. I mean, that's what she said, so why would I think it was something else?
For a week, Jane ignored the dog who I had decided to name Willie. No playful puppy time. No walks. No little wet kisses on the cheeks. Nothing. I thought eventually Willie would wear her down and she'd come around. It never happened, despite my best efforts. She was the sweetest dog too. She loved everybody, even Jane who wanted nothing to do with her.
So, when Memorial Day weekend came, I was not looking forward to taking Willie with us, but I couldn't very well leave her at home alone or in some random kennel. I put her in a travel crate, filled the bottom with newspapers just in case and strapped it down in the back seat for the drive. On our way out of town we stopped at a bakery to pick up scones and muffins for the trip. I didn't want to arrive empty handed and who doesn't love fresh pastries for breakfast?
The Rockwood Bakery is in a residential neighborhood by Manito Park with no parking lot, so I had to park two blocks down and hike back to the bakery, leaving Jane and Willie in the car.
That was the last time I saw Willie.
When I returned to where the car had been parked, it was gone. I circled the block, but it wasn't anywhere nearby. I walked the surrounding blocks, thinking there had to have been a good reason for Jane to move the car. There wasn't. I tried her phone. No answer. I started to get worried. On my third trip around the block Jane pulled the car up next to me.
"She got away from me," she said.
"What do your mean?" I asked, confused.
"She was whining and whimpering so I thought she needed to go pee or something, so I let her out and she just ran off."
"You don't have her?" I asked.
"No," Jane said, with no expression of concern visible on her face.
"OK, where did she run off? Let's find her," I said as I got in the car to resume the search.
