The Dead of Summer

by Heather Balog

  “Where are we going?” Carson asked, struggling to his feet. It was a bit harder for a guy of his size to get up from a rickety swing than it was for me, despite me being overweight and all.

  “I’m texting Lindy to see if she found anything,” I explained as I dug out my phone.

  “Don’t bother,” Carson said. “She’s coming around the side of the house right now.” I looked up to see Lindy practically bouncing down the path between the two houses, clutching a small photo album to her chest. Colt leaped to his feet and began to bark as she approached.

  “Calm down,” Carson said, gently stroking the top of his head. Colt obeyed immediately, sitting on his haunches. “Good boy.”

  “Look what I found! Your house reeks of bleach by the way,” Lindy said, waving the album in the air. A piece of paper fluttered out from between the pages.

  “You dropped something!” I said, glancing around nervously, hoping Mama couldn’t see her.

  “Oh.” She glanced at the ground behind her. Stooping down, she picked up the paper and examined it for a second. Her eyes widened and her mouth drew up into a little O shape. “Holy crap, Kennedy. You’re gonna wanna see—” A squeaking noise interrupted her. We all turned our heads toward the sidewalk. Old Mrs. Nettles was being pushed past in her wheelchair by her home health aide.

  “Let’s go somewhere else to look at this stuff,” Carson said, interrupting Lindy and grabbing her by the crook of her arm. “Somewhere quiet.” I silently thanked him with my eyes even though Mrs. Nettles was so deaf she wouldn’t hear a semi driving into her living room.

  “I don’t know if this can wait till we get somewhere private,” Lindy said excitedly, reaching me and shoving the paper in my hand. “This is huge!”

  “How did you get in the house?” I asked, before accepting Lindy’s find.

  She smiled devilishly. “I broke the window with one of the branches.”

  Why hadn’t I done that? I would have never found the body…But then I would have had a broken window and a raving mad mama.

  I examined the piece of paper, which now had dirt smeared across the top. I could barely make out the header—I had to wipe the dirt off to read.

  “Shelby County” the top read, with an official looking seal raised in the middle. It looked like a birth certificate. At first, I thought it was my birth certificate. I had never actually seen my birth certificate in the flesh. Confused, I wondered, what was Mama doing with a birth certificate from Shelby? I was born in Henderson County.

  “Shelby County in Texas?” Carson asked incredulously.

  I nodded. “I was born in Texas. We came here when I was eight.”

  Carson eyes grew wide, excitement spilling over the brims. “I lived in Shelby—” He clamped his mouth shut, as if he had said too much. “I mean, I visited there. Once.”

  I nodded, but didn’t have to time to reflect on his odd behavior as I quickly skimmed the lines of the birth certificate.

  Riley Noelle Ryan…Date of birth December 24, 2005…wait, this was at least five years after I was born. This couldn’t be my birth certificate.

  I sank to the ground on the path between our house and the neighbor’s and glanced up at Lindy. “Where did you find this?”

  “In this album,” she told me, still swinging it in the air. “It was between your mama’s mattress and box spring.”

  I choked back a laugh. Mama and I utilized the same hiding places. No wonder why she knew what was in my journal.

  I gazed back down at the birth certificate, words dancing in front of my eyes, taunting me.

  Mother: Tracie Ann Ryan, maiden name, Carter. Father: Mark Andrew Ryan.

  This person, this Riley, had the same mama and same father. She was my sister.

  EIGHTEEN

  “You have a sister?” Lindy squeaked. “How come you never told me you had a sister?” She stood over me, hands on her hips, voice accusatory.

  “I don’t have a sister,” I moaned as Carson slid next to me. “This is all a mistake. I don’t know who this person is.” I waved the birth certificate in the air. I don’t remember anyone named Riley, in fact, I don’t remember any babies in my life at all. Mama had two older sisters—both had kids, my cousins, but they were all a lot older than I was. There were never any younger kids in my life. Despite what this flimsy piece of paper from Shelby County said, I did not have a younger sister. I never had any sister. I would remember having a sister when I was five years old…wouldn’t I?

  Lindy joined us on the ground and snatched the paper out of my hand. She shoved the album she was carrying at me. “I’m pretty sure this album proves otherwise,” she said as she flipped open the first page, a picture of a newborn on a scale, the red numbers lit up, announcing that this baby was six pounds, two ounces. I stared at the completely naked, pink and shriveled up newborn in the picture, fist clenched, mouth open, screaming indignantly as if she had just been served the most barbaric of injustices. Which, I guess birth was to a newborn. You were safe and sound and cozy in your warm little watery sac and then suddenly, whoosh! There you were in this bright, cold, unforgiving place where everything you’ve known has been stripped away from you in an instant. Not quite unlike my life at age eight and nine. Or now at this moment.

  Lindy gave me a minute to soak in the picture before she flipped the page. There I was, mousey brown hair in mismatched, sloppy ponytails that looked like I had done them up myself, sitting on a hospital bed. I was grinning stupidly as if I was purposely was showing off the missing tooth on my lower gum. I probably was. Weren’t five-year-old kids extremely proud of their first lost tooth, like it was actually an accomplishment or something? Their very first participation trophy in a way? I felt like screaming at five-year-old me, ‘Stop smiling kid! You’re not special because you lost a tooth!’

  Maybe I was overreacting to this photo of my younger self, but I didn’t want to look at the rest of the picture. Because I could see the person in the hospital bed was my mama, younger and much more disheveled looking than I had ever seen her (today aside), her hair in a messy bun and wearing glasses (she wore glasses?). Despite her weary expression, she also looked happier than I had ever seen her, cradling that same newborn to her chest, gazing down at her with love and adoration like I had never witnessed.

  This picture couldn’t be real. I didn’t remember it being taken, this moment occurring in my life, but I was there, in this picture, grinning like a dope at the camera, wearing a shirt that was clearly too big for me, a shirt that shouted I’m a Big Sister, an impossibility in itself. I wasn’t a big sister. I could not have been a big sister and not known it. This picture had to be fake.

  I was about to claim that the photo must be a forgery, when Lindy once again flipped the page. Now I was the one cradling the baby, staring down at her with a wondrous smile. I felt light headed while I stared at that picture, as if I were really in the room, watching my past self, cradling this newborn. I could hear Mama’s voice, but it wasn’t her voice that I normally knew. It was lighter, younger, less guarded. Less…pained.

  “Isn’t she pretty?” Mama asked, her words echoing in my head. Past me nodded. “What do you think we should call her? I was thinking Riley was a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

  “I like Riley,” baby me chirped, sounding delighted at being asked my opinion of something so important. “But it’s Christmas. Shouldn’t her name be Noel? Like the song?”

  And then, the younger me started singing to the baby and then the younger Mama joined in, singing The First Noel. It sounded so real and so true that I knew in my bones that this exchange had actually taken place.

  And suddenly, I was back on the ground, tears rolling down my face, big salty tears plopping onto my sister’s photo album, the sister I couldn’t remember a thing about other than singing to her.

  How could we have left my sister in Texas? Why did we leave her? And what the hell did this have to do with someone impersonating my daddy?

  Lindy p
oked at the photo album, the next page showing Mama and a young man. He was holding the baby and staring at her with the same smitten grin Mama had.

  “Is that your daddy?” Lindy asked.

  “I think so,” I stammered.

  I had never seen a picture of my daddy. Mama had hidden everything from me—photo albums and picture frames that should be housing happily married parents with 2.2 children. I never even questioned it. Right now, the idea that it never struck me as strange, was actually mind boggling. Why had I never asked to see a picture of my daddy? Or did I ask and Mama denied me?

  I slammed the book shut. I didn’t want to see anymore.

  “What else did you find?” I glared at Lindy. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but I needed to take out my anger on someone.

  Lindy shook her head. “I didn’t have much time. Your mama came back into the house. But this is huge.” She poked at me excitedly, further intensifying my desire to slap her in the face. God, why doesn’t she ever shut up? Can’t she see how painful this is for me?

  She might have not realized it, but Carson obviously did. He squeezed my hand and rose to his feet. “Come on,” he said to Lindy. “I think we should leave Kennedy alone. She has a lot to talk about with her mama.”

  Lindy glowered at him like she had been slapped. “No way! I’m her best friend! I’m gonna be there when she confronts—”

  Just then Lindy’s phone jangled. She glared at the screen and sighed. “It’s my mama.” She shoved the phone in her pocket.

  That triggered a reminder in my brain. “Aren’t you supposed to go with her to listen to the band she wants to book for your party?” I asked. I vaguely remembered her chattering about it during our sleepover.

  Lindy shook her head. “No, that’s Thursday,” she said confidently.

  “Lindy,” Carson said, eyebrows cocked. “It is Thursday.”

  “Oh my God!” Lindy gasped, and pulled out her phone. She stared at the text message. “Crap. It is Thursday!” Her eyes shifted between me and the cell phone several times—she was obviously torn between spending time with her mama and the juicy mystery in front of her.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, chewing on her lip and getting up. “I’ve gotta go,” she said while dialing her phone. It rang loudly and then was answered. “Come pick me up at Kennedy’s,” she snapped at whoever was lucky enough to be on the other end of the phone. Whoever it was answered Lindy and she made a sour lemon sucking face. “Fine,” she said tersely, ending the call without as much as a good-bye. “David is down the block. I have to. . .walk,” she said as she rolled her eyes—like was a fifty mile walk across Death Valley rather than a hundred yard walk in Novella.

  “But you better tell me everything your mama says.” She practically poked me in the chest as Carson helped me to my feet. “I mean it! Don’t leave a word out. Why, you wouldn’t even know you had a baby sister if it weren’t for me!” She offered me one of her toothpaste commercial smiles and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Adios beotch!” she called out affectionately, sauntering down the sidewalk.

  When she was out of sight, Carson offered me a pitying smile. “Are you okay?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? Isn’t it every day you discover a body in your basement, have a mama acting crazy, and discover you have a sister you never knew about before? I’m downright peachy,” I snapped.

  Carson shrank back from me—pretty difficult to do at his height. “Sorry,” he mumbled, staring down at his feet. I instantly wished I could take the words back.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just really upset and confused and nervous and a whole bunch of things that I don’t know what to do about.” I offered him my attempt at a smile. It probably resembled the smile people gave their executioner before stepping up to the guillotine.

  “Yeah, I can’t imagine,” Carson replied, reaching for my hand with trepidation. I accepted it—it sent a warm wave of comfort through my body, like a blanket carefully wrapped over my shoulders.

  “I wish Lindy hadn’t found this,” I said, pointing to the album I had laid on the ground. I scooped down and retrieved it. “It really makes things more complicated.” Now on top of not knowing who the guy in the basement was, or what he was doing there, or why he was impersonating my dead daddy, I had a sister thrown into the mix. I really couldn’t trust my mama any more. How could I? How could she never tell me I had a sister? And why did she leave her behind when we came here?

  “Maybe it would have been better if she hadn’t found the album. But I was looking at the picture of your daddy. He looked really familiar. . .like someone I’ve seen before. I lived in Texas, too. Maybe I saw him there or something.”

  “He’s been dead for seven years, Carson.” I shook my head. “Be reasonable. You would have been ten years old. You didn’t know him.”

  Carson wrinkled his brow and scratched. “I’ve seen that face. Or someone who looks very similar—” He jerked his head as if someone had snapped back his neck.

  “What? Are you okay?” I squeezed his hand tightly.

  “I just realized! The Mark Ryan looks a lot like the impostor! I bet it’s a family member or something! Maybe his brother or cousin. Did he have a brother?” Carson’s eyes lit up.

  “I really don’t know. But why would a family member pretend to be him? That makes no sense.”

  “Maybe it had something to do with your sister. Maybe something to do with why she was left behind!” He was excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he had cracked the code to a bank vault or something.

  “Okay. . .maybe. . .but why would Mama kill him?” I asked, Carson pulling me back toward the swing.

  “I don’t know. We need to get a better look at that guy on Facebook. See if we can figure out who he really is,” Carson said. “Can you look it up on your phone?”

  My shoulders sank. “I don’t have a phone that I can check the Internet on. I don’t have a data plan on my phone.” That fact had never bothered me until now. “How about yours?” I asked.

  Carson shook his head. “I told you. I don’t have it with me.”

  We sighed in unison, as we leaned back on the swing. I glanced longingly up the road where Lindy had disappeared a few minutes ago.

  “One time we could use Lindy,” Carson said, as if he were reading my thoughts.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” I said with a grin. Carson cracked a smile, his dimple deepening on his cheek. I curled my hand into a fist to prevent myself from lovingly stroking his cheek.

  “We could go back to the library,” Carson suggested, but I promptly shook my head.

  “No way. Marnie will be all hover-y and motherly after I passed out. There’s no way we’ll have any privacy.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments, trying to figure out how we were going to get access to a computer. I rose to my feet, stepping on Colt’s tail by accident. He was so well behaved, I forgot he was there half the time.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said sheepishly. Then I tugged Carson to his feet. “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked as I handed the book to him. “Tuck that album under your shirt,” I said. “We’re going into my house.” I was praying the body wasn’t propped up on the couch in the living room.

  NINETEEN

  We entered the foyer as quietly as possible. I glanced around, relieved that there was no dead body in my line of sight. I tip-toed to the couch, intending to grab the laptop and sneak upstairs. As I reached for it and tucked it under my arm, Colt barked. Within seconds, there was Mama, standing in between the kitchen and dining room, apron on, mixing bowl in hand, flour dusting her cheek. She looked like an ad for a Betty Crocker cake mix. “Hi guys! I’m making cookies! You want some?” Mama chirped. The smell of bleach still permeated the air.

  I took a step toward the kitchen and glanced around suspiciously, looking for signs of disarray. Not that she never cooked or anything; quite the contrary. She ob
sessively made meals for me, as if she was over feeding me to make up for what she lacked otherwise in the realm of motherhood.

  Baking, however, was a sign she was headed for a breakdown. Once I saw those beaters come out, I knew we were headed for a week of eating chocolate chip cookies on the couch and extra hugs with tears in our eyes. Quite frankly, I did not have the energy for one of Mama’s breakdowns right now. Especially one that started off oddly enough with a sunshiny smile and a sing song-y voice.

  “What’s the occasion, Mama?” I raised my eyebrow just enough to let her know, I didn’t have time for a nervous breakdown.

  “Oh, nothing! Just Thursday!” Mama waved her spoon in the air, splattering the wall with batter and offering us a smile that anyone else would call genuine. But I saw the fear lurking underneath her words and shining in her eyes. I suspect she had been desperately concocting a plan to get that body out of the basement before I asked about it again. And she had run out of ideas, so now, she was baking to distract herself from the disaster that she found herself on the precipice of.

  “What are you kids up to?” Mama asked, her voice bordering on shaky as she followed us into the kitchen.

  “We need to use the computer,” I said. I was not asking, I was telling.

  “Um, well…how long?” Mama’s lip was nearly quivering.

  “Don’t know,” I shrugged as I headed toward the stairs leading up to my room.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, voice rising several octaves.

  “To my room. We need privacy. And peace and quiet. And we certainly can’t get that here in the kitchen while you sing Disney songs to woodland creatures and bake cookies.” I watched Mama’s face crumble as I practically spat out the words.

  Okay. That was mean. But I had never been one of those teenagers that constantly battled my mama and screamed and threw things. Hell, I hardly rebelled at all. Last night was the first time I had ever even snuck out of the house for God’s sake. Most of my acquaintances from school—I could hardly call them friends—snuck out on a regular basis. I wasn’t snippy, snarky, or any other fancy word that means bitchy. I didn’t suffer PMS and I put up with a lot of my mama’s inexplicable quirks. But damn it, I was going to go up to my room with Carson and this laptop and I was going to stare her down if I had to. It’s not like we were going up there to make out. Hell, that was the last thing on Carson’s mind, I’m sure. We had a mission and we didn’t need Mama hanging around while we tried to complete it. She would just mess everything up. If I needed to crush her little heart for a moment to accomplish that, so be it. And I was going to have a fit of teenage behavior if I had to.