My Name Is Rowan: The Complete Rowan Slone Trilogy

by Tracy Hewitt Meyer

  Aidan’s death set the tone for the next seven years of my life. Guilt had settled into my bones and ate away at me day by long day. My family blamed me. I blamed me.

  But I had finally broken free, as free as someone with scars like mine can be, and moved on, moved away. It wasn’t me who’d killed Aidan. It was Mom. Now I was in a good place, here at the Anderson’s home. So why did I feel utterly and completely alone?

  Did my dad know that it was Mom who was responsible? That she had smothered him in his sleep? Would it change anything if he did know?

  My heart felt heavy, like it was weighted with a ten-ton boulder. The world beneath my feet was shaking more and more each day, threatening to knock me over. I had come so far from the razor-wielding girl I was last year. But things felt like they were slipping, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

  “I don’t want to be that girl,” I whispered. “I don’t want to be that girl.” The girl with all the problems. The girl who whines, cries, pleads with life to be better. I want to be the girl who survives, who finds a way to be happy, who finds her place.

  The air inside the house was stifling, so heavy it pushed against my shoulders, shoving me down, beating me down so far until I wasn’t sure that girl existed.

  I hadn’t cried since I’d moved in with the Andersons. It had been one thing that I wouldn’t allow, couldn’t allow. If I cried, it was like the beginnings of a crack; like opening a door and inviting a demon in. If I cried, I wouldn’t be able to stop and where would that leave me? Back on the bathroom floor with Dad’s rusty razor in my hand, slicing through the pain one line at a time.

  “No!” I cried. “Don’t go back there. Don’t go back there.” I rocked back and forth, trying to sooth myself like I used to soothe Aidan. “Calm down, Rowan. It’s okay.”

  Levi pushed his large, warm body beside mine and nudged at my arm until I fell into his solid warmth. He let me snuggle until calm eased into my mind.

  I grabbed my coat and left. There was only one place capable of soothing my soul, and I had to go there.

  BEAUTY MOUNTAIN was where Mike and I had our first kiss last year, where our relationship had truly started. It was a high mountain peak outside of town. You could only reach it by a narrow, dirt road that wove straight up a mountainside.

  It was cold but had stopped snowing. My old car sputtered and spewed and coughed, but made the climb at a slow, steady pace. There were no other cars and the thick, heavy forest blanketing either side obscured the afternoon sky.

  I parked off the side of the road and hiked to our rock, a large gray boulder that fit both Mike and me perfectly. This was the place Mike and I often came when we needed more than just stolen hours in the middle of the night; when living under his parents’ watchful eyes proved too much.

  It felt foreign, alien, to be here without Mike. The surface of the rock was too wide for just me. If the thin crack that ran through it suddenly opened, it would swallow me whole and no one would ever know. But it was solid, cold, nearly frozen and helped ground me in my life.

  Dad.

  Trina.

  Jess.

  Mike.

  Gran.

  Mom…

  My breath came out in a wave of white mist and the skin on my cheeks felt feverish, hot. The surface of the rock was smooth and I lay down on my stomach, sprawling across its wide surface. The feel of the frigid stone helped soothe the ache that lingered inside me.

  My eyes closed as my lungs filled with the musty, earthy smell. The trees, leaves long gone, created a haunting canopy over my head. I pulled my sleeves over my hands, curling the seams into balled fists.

  There is no razor. There is only me. My fingertips tingled, but I focused on deep breaths—in and out; in and out—and I willed the world away.

  “RO, WAKE up. Rowan?” Someone shook my shoulder. “Rowan!”

  I blinked and lifted my head. My jaw hurt from lying on the rock. I opened and closed my mouth, pain shooting through my temple. My arms and legs, ears and fingers, nose and toes felt frozen. My body was stiff and sore, jerking painfully when Mike put his arms around me and helped me sit up.

  “What are you doing here?” The day had turned to twilight around me, shadows dancing gray and pink over the distant peak.

  “I’m sorry.” I ran a hand over my face and worked my jaw to loosen the stiffness. “I just needed some air.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you all afternoon.” He climbed onto the rock and pulled me into his lap where I fit like a small child. My arms wove around his neck and I settled into his chest, my cheek pulsing with the beat of his heart.

  “Ro, what’s wrong?” His breath warmed the top of my head.

  Seconds passed then minutes as we gazed through the thick branches, watching the horizon darken into streaks of orange and red. My watch said it was only five o’clock, but the day had slipped out of my grasp, as had my time with Mike.

  Words would ruin the moment and I wanted, needed, to capture this like a camera captures a perfect picture before an angry black crow swoops in at the last minute and ruins it. In Mike’s arms I was safe, content like I wasn’t anywhere else in the world. I drank in every minute detail, imprinting it in my mind, tucking it away for safe keeping so I could pull it up and remember it when he was hours away and I didn’t know when I would see him again. His smell, the feel of his hair on my hands, the beat of his heart against my cheek. Everything was important to remember.

  He tried to lean to the side and look at my face, but I clung too tightly for him to move. The threads that were loosening were slowly weaving back together. I was becoming whole again.

  “WE’D BETTER get back.” Mike ran his fingers through my hair, sending a tremor down my neck. We were snuggled so close together, with his coat opened in the front to allow me in, there was no separation. If I got close enough, would he be able to disentangle himself? Would he want to?

  “Come on,” he said. “You’re shivering.”

  “Okay.” My eyes strained to focus in the darkness. I could barely see the outline of his face, or the trees, or anything for that matter.

  He jumped to the ground then lifted me down beside him and kissed me. I lifted to my toes to meet his lips full on. His arms wrapped around my waist and helped lift me higher. My hands wove into his hair, and he held me tighter. If I could get lost anywhere, it was in his kiss.

  Several moments passed, the kiss threatening to turn into more. But I knew his parents were expecting him. I forced myself to break the kiss. It didn’t work. Minutes passed, and I pulled away again. “Come on. We’d better go.”

  There would be more time tonight after everyone was asleep.

  AT THE house, preparations were in place for more than just dinner with a few friends. Mounds of unpacked grocery bags were piled down one half of the black granite counter and down the other half was a line of bowls, some full of food, some empty and waiting.

  “Mom, we’re home.”

  The smell of marinating meat filled the air, and my stomach rumbled. Mrs. Anderson stood at the wide windows that overlooked the backyard, watching Mr. Anderson struggle with the grill. His curses rang all the way through the closed door. Mr. Anderson had wanted a new grill for Christmas but Mike’s mom gave him new golf clubs instead. Levi was rolling in the grass behind him, unconcerned and happy.

  “Hi, Mrs. A.”

  She turned. “Hi, you two.” She wiped her hands on her Kiss the Cook apron and walked to the counter. “Your father is going to catch his hair on fire.” She shoved two enormous salad tongs into a bowl and started tossing. A red cherry tomato popped out and rolled across the floor.

  “You should’ve bought him a new one for Christmas,” Mike teased. He stepped over the tomato and headed outside, flipping the collar up on his coat as he shut the door behind him.

  Mrs. Anderson smiled, shaking the salad dressing in a well-manicured hand. “How was your day, dear?”

  “It was good.” I picked up the to
mato and threw it into the trash. “I met Jess for lunch. Saw Mike for a while this afternoon.” Saw my sister. Heard my father was back. Jess is pregnant.

  “That’s nice. I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do.” She sighed. “I can’t believe he’s leaving so soon, although I’m sure you can’t believe it either.” She set the salad and dressing on the table and flashed me a sympathetic smile. “It’s supposed to start snowing again, but I hope it doesn’t. I’m excited to see Mike play in this tournament.” She moved back to the counter and started slicing bread. “I know it’s an indoor tournament but still. The roads could be bad.”

  I nodded and dumped tortilla chips into a bowl.

  “The youth group at the church is having a movie night next weekend. Do you think you would like to go? You have to RSVP. They’re expecting a good turnout.”

  An image of Mike rolling his eyes popped into my head. His parents went to church every Sunday and expected me to go with them. I hadn’t grown up going to church, but if it made the Andersons happy, I did it. That didn’t mean I wanted to go more often than was absolutely necessary. There was something about sitting in the pew alongside Mike’s parents without him, and the eyes of the congregation firmly fixated on my back that left a sour feeling in my stomach.

  One Sunday over a month ago, I overheard Mrs. Anderson talking with a silver-haired widow after the service. The elderly woman had her wrinkled hand on Mrs. Anderson’s arm: You are so kind to take her in. God has smiled on that child by sending you as her angel. I don’t know how you do it, though. She has to come with an awful lot of problems.

  Mrs. Anderson’s response was: We love Rowan, and it’s a joy to have her live with us. I fell in love with Mike’s mom at that moment with a ferocity I’d never felt toward my own mother. But I also felt ashamed. She wasn’t my mother. She was my boyfriend’s mother.

  I avoided church as much as I could after that. “I have to work. Janie has been giving me more hours.”

  “Animals really love you. God has certainly given you a gift. I think you’ve found your calling, sweetheart.”

  Delilah trotted in, sniffed my pants, farted, and walked away.

  “Well, most animals love you.” Mrs. Anderson laughed and I couldn’t help but join in.

  “How many people are coming tonight?” I poured salsa into a small, hand-painted bowl.

  “Thirty. Maybe forty. I doubt more than that.”

  My back was turned so she couldn’t see my disappointment. So many people? But I didn’t want to seem less than a team player so I threw myself into party preparations, filling the rest of the bowls with whatever Mrs. Anderson told me to, laying out plates and napkins, utensils and cups. I lit candles to make the house smell nice and put Scout up in my room. Mike was throwing Levi’s ball while he watched his dad try to get the grill to light.

  I realized I had forgotten to invite Jess. I ran upstairs and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.

  Come over now. Party at Anderson’s.

  She texted back immediately.

  Just woke up. What?

  Party. Andersons. You. Here. Now.

  K.

  I didn’t tell her to invite Paul. There was a good chance Mrs. Anderson knew Paul, or at least who he was. She volunteered at the high school when Mike was a student, and Paul was a regular substitute. Best to let that relationship remain in secrecy, at least until the entire world found out he was the father of a seventeen-year-old’s baby.

  MIKE’S FRIENDS were coming over at seven. Mrs. Anderson had also invited a few of her friends from church so it was going to be a full house. It was already six forty-five so I needed to hurry. I left the kitchen with a smile plastered on my face. I even whistled a few notes of some show tune I remembered from childhood.

  Soon I was in my room rummaging through the closet. Between my own purchases, what Mrs. Anderson bought me, and what Tabitha had left behind, I had a completely new wardrobe: jeans, khakis, shorts, skirts, and a slew of long-sleeved shirts and sweaters. There were even piles of shoes in the back of the closet, some so barely worn they looked new.

  I had transformed right before my own eyes into someone else entirely, from a tiny spit of a girl in worn-out jeans, a hoodie with the word ARMY spread across the back, and boots bought from the thrift store into a young woman with soft makeup, freshly trimmed hair, and designer jeans. Sometimes I didn’t recognize myself.

  I undressed, throwing my clothes onto the bed, and stood in front of the mirror. My hipbones jutted out against the white cotton underwear. If I wanted to, I could trace my rib cage and count the bones underneath. The breasts I had grown when I finally had gained some weight were dwindling back down to tiny, nearly nonexistent buds.

  I sighed and watched my chest go up, then down. My stomach was churning slowly. I ran a hand over the concave surface. Hunger was something I rarely felt, so I knew it wasn’t that. I sucked in my cheeks and my cheekbones protruded sharply, making my reflection ugly. With the thumb and middle finger of my right hand, I circled them around my left wrist. The tips met and then overlapped. What did Mike think of my losing weight again? Did he even notice?

  I went back to the closet, pulled out a pale yellow sweater set, and tossed it on the bed. Then I grabbed a dark brown patterned skirt. Mrs. Anderson had even bought me a pair of nude pumps to match.

  I held the skirt to my nose and inhaled. The last time I wore it was to Mike’s cousin’s wedding the weekend before Mike left for college. He kept lifting the skirt high up my knee under the table. At one point toward the end of the reception, his parents were on the dance floor and we were at the table alone. I let him push his hand all the way up. His touch had sent shockwaves through my body. Even minutes later, when his parents returned, the flush was still on my cheeks and Mrs. A. asked if I had a fever, going so far as to lay a cold hand on my forehead.

  I crumpled up the skirt and threw it across the room, the wooden hanger leaving a mark on the light blue wall. I grabbed the sweater set and threw it on top of the skirt. The shoes were right inside the door of the closet. I hurled them, too.

  I crawled into the closet and started throwing shoes, one at a time, across the room. Some smacked against the wall and dropped to the floor with a thud. A couple landed on the bed. A shiny black pump with a heel larger than I could maneuver went sailing toward the dresser and knocked off the lamp.

  Tucked away in the farthest, dark corner of the closet were my old black boots, the only pair of shoes I wore last year. I had bought these with my first paycheck after I started working for Dan, my old boss at the used car lot.

  I had cashed that check, grabbed Jess, and then hightailed it to the thrift store. These boots were beloved. But I didn’t wear them anymore. I hadn’t worn them since I moved in with Mike’s family. They didn’t go with my new, fancier clothes. Now I had a designer pair of boots that Mr. and Mrs. Anderson had given me for Christmas and a pair Tabitha left before she moved to Australia.

  With the old boots tucked under my arm, I crawled out of the closet, clothes smacking into my face, and returned to the mirror. I slid my feet into the boots, the black blaring against the pale skin of my legs.

  My feet filled the soft, worn leather; my toes spread out, flexing and stretching. My heel nestled into the perfect dip in the foot bed. I sifted through the other discarded shoes and found the silk skirt and sweater set. Laying them out on the bed, I smoothed the wrinkles and looked at them for a long time, my feet getting sweaty.

  Without putting them on, I went back to the mirror. My skin was pale all over my body except where the scars colored the inside of my arm red. With a fingernail, I dug into the skin between my breasts and scratched a line down to my lower stomach; not breaking skin, but leaving a faint, crimson line in my nail’s wake. Now there was another place on my body that wasn’t perfect.

  I scratched four fingernails over my chest, shoulder to shoulder. Then I ran four fingers up my thigh, starting above my knees and ending right before my
hips. My torso looked like a map.

  As I stared at myself, unblinking, the lines began to pulse and grow redder somehow, even though I hadn’t broken skin. I thought about Mike’s old razor in the bathroom. I didn’t use or own a razor. In fact, I didn’t shave the soft hairs off my legs because I refused to hold a razor in my hands.

  But now my fingers shook, calling to me like an angel of mercy, begging me to take that next step.

  Do it, Rowan. Do it. You know you want to. You’ll feel better.

  But where? My other arm? My thighs that were always covered by shorts or jeans? My stomach?

  Mike’s razor was down the hall. I left it in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom on purpose, a sort-of courage check—would I use it? Would I not?

  From the sounds coming up the stairs, voices and music mixed with Delilah’s barking, the house was already filling with people. The razor called to me, though. Its siren song wove through the air like a tide rushing in, rushing toward me.

  My chest rose with each fast, shallow breath. Mike’s razor was like a tiny security blanket, ready and waiting. When I first moved in, knowing the razor was there had been a daily test to see if I could make it through the day without wrenching it out of its hard, plastic case.

  And I had made it, day-by-day. But right now, each limb shook with anticipation. The decision was made. The release was near. I couldn’t wait. There would be help for me now. I’d make it through this night, through Mike’s leaving tomorrow. Through Dad’s return. Through everything else that was spinning out of control.

  I may have even laughed out loud. I wasn’t sure.

  I reached for my robe, counting the number of seconds it would take me to dash to the bathroom and dart back. I would lock the door, throw the robe across the floor onto the piles of shoes, and finally feel like I had some sort of control in my life.