The Familiar Dark

by Amy Engel

  “Move,” I said, when what I really wanted was to slap my daughter’s name out of her mouth.

  She took a single step backward, not enough for me to open the car door. I knew what my mama would do if she were here. Swing that door wide and send the bitch flying. But I took a deep breath, held on to my temper through sheer force of will, hand tightening on my door frame until my knuckles screamed. “Move,” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice calm.

  She moved, although I could see it pained her. Having me so close and all to herself and not able to cash in on it. “I’ll be at the press conference tomorrow,” she called, jogging alongside my car as I pulled out, tires chirping against the gravel of the parking lot. “Maybe by then you’ll have something to say.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I muttered under my breath. Talking to reporters was for other people. People who could say the right things and make the right faces. That was never going to be me. Yet another thing I couldn’t give my daughter. But maybe, by the time this was over, I’d be able to give her something even better.

  * * *

  • • •

  It had been with reluctance bordering on refusal that I’d agreed to participate in the press conference with Izzy’s parents. Land had called me into the station the day after I’d seen Jenny at the park, said the Logans had already agreed. At first I’d said no flat out, said I didn’t see what good it would do to have me there. Couldn’t Zach and Jenny handle it? If someone knew something, why would having me standing there make them any more likely to talk? They were either going to spill their secrets or they weren’t.

  But Cal, as he often did, was the one to convince me, his voice patient long after Land had stormed away in disgust. Cal agreed with me that it might not matter, that it might make not a bit of difference to have my brokenhearted face showing up in living rooms across the entire country. But what if it did? he’d asked. And finally, the kicker: It’s something you can do for Junie. And I saw suddenly, firsthand, how good of a cop he was, sliding in under people’s defenses, talking them into doing things that arguably went against their best interests. So smooth and kind you didn’t realize you’d been played until it was too late.

  And it was definitely too late now, with bright lights shining into my face and sweat slithering down my back underneath my cheap polyester dress. I wished I’d worn my jeans, but at the last minute I’d swung by the thrift store the next town over and grabbed the first dress I’d seen. Too big and an awful shade of brown. My choice was made all the worse by Jenny Logan, chic and sleek in a black pencil skirt and cream blouse, a single strand of pearls around her neck. The fact that they were probably fake made no difference. She looked the part and I didn’t, simple as that. She was someone people could sympathize with. I was the poor, dumb hick who probably deserved what happened to me. I knew people were thinking it because I’d already thought it myself.

  Land put the three of us in a row, seated behind a table, Zach in the middle. The table was covered with framed pictures of the girls and I was thankful to be behind them. I knew forming a single word would be impossible with Junie’s face staring at me.

  Land spoke first, from a podium to my right. I tuned him out, kept my eyes down, the brightness of the lights burning into the top of my head. When Zach spoke, I forced myself to look up, turn my head in his direction. A line of sweat had formed along his hairline, thin enough the cameras probably wouldn’t pick it up. “We all, all three of us,” he said, glancing first at Jenny and then at me, “are begging anyone with information to come forward. Anything you saw that day, please let law enforcement know.”

  “Even if you think it’s nothing,” Jenny interjected. “Even if it seems like nothing. Please, please call it in.”

  Zach squeezed Jenny’s hand on the tabletop. “That’s right. You never know what might make a difference. What might help us get justice for our daughters. Whoever did this is still out there. None of us, none of our children, are safe until we catch him.”

  No one spoke for a moment, the room awash with the sound of clicking camera shutters, the rustling of notebooks. I concentrated on the freckles dotting my arms, remembered Junie tracing them with her fingers. She always said my arms were my very own connect-the-dots. I jerked my eyes upward, trying not to squint as I looked out into the field of reporters. “Ms. Taggert,” someone shouted. “Is there anything you’d like to say?”

  My eyes were adjusting to the lights, and behind the reporters I could see Cal, face tight with tension. Louise was there to his left, her eyes warm with sympathy. I knew it wasn’t possible, but it looked like half the town was crammed into the room, necks craning for a glimpse of the action. And behind everyone else, standing right next to the door, was my mother. Nothing about her was either concerned or sympathetic. Her bony arms were crossed, her face pinched. I could practically hear her voice if a reporter stopped to ask her name. Mind your own fucking business. How’s that for a name? She looked furious, and her fury fired my own. A match to the anger that now simmered always right below the surface.

  I’d taken too long to respond and Land started to jump in, pulling the microphone at the podium toward his face. “This has been difficult for everyone, as you can imagine. Ms. Taggert isn’t—”

  “I can talk,” I said, voice hoarse and too loud. The whole room went silent, the whispery undercurrents cut off cold. Next to me, Zach stiffened, and I saw his hand flex on the tabletop like he was stopping himself from reaching for me. Whether to silence me or comfort me, I had no idea. Knew only that I was beyond either offering.

  “Call in your tips,” I said. “Talk to the cops. Do all that. And maybe it will help. But I doubt it.” I paused, sucked in a shaky breath. I was smart enough to know the anger zinging through my blood like a fast-acting poison was probably misplaced grief, but I didn’t care. It felt good. Felt good to feel something that would potentially hurt someone else instead of harming me. “But that doesn’t mean whoever did this should be resting easy, thinking they’re going to get away scot-free.” I pointed out at the cameras, stabbing my finger into the air. “Because I’m going to find you, you sick fuck. And I’m going to tear you apart.”

  You could practically taste the shock in the air, a split second when no one moved or spoke, and then it was chaos—cameras clicking, reporters shouting questions, flashes exploding in my face. I caught glimpses between the bursts of light. Jenny staring at me like she’d never seen me before, eyes wide. Louise, still as stone while tears tracked down her cheeks. Cal’s hand scrubbing at his tired, defeated face. The reporter from the laundromat, cheeks flushed, probably kicking herself all over again that she hadn’t gotten me to talk when she’d had the chance. And Land, his forehead mottled deep red as he gripped my arm, pretending to help me stand but really digging his fingers into my skin, bone biting into tendon.

  “What the hell was that?” he said, back turned to the crowd. I stared up at him, and something in his face cracked, softened for a moment. “Jesus, Eve.” He sighed. “How was that supposed to help? We’re trying to get people to have sympathy for you, for your situation. Not turn off their televisions because you scare the shit out of them.”

  I thought about all the press conferences I’d seen over the years, parents trotted out for missing kids, killed kids, abused kids. Everyone feels sorry for those parents, those mothers, until they don’t. Until the mothers don’t cry enough or cry too much. Until the mothers are too put-together or not put-together enough. Until the mothers are angry. Because that’s the one thing women are never, ever allowed to be. We can be sad, distraught, confused, pleading, forgiving. But not furious. Fury is reserved for other people. The worst thing you can be is an angry woman, an angry mother.

  But I was angry and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. I didn’t care what people said about me. And if Land actually thought any of this spectacle would make a difference in finding out the truth about who kille
d Junie and Izzy, then he was even dumber than I thought.

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” I said, ripping out of his grasp and lurching backward.

  Land’s mouth dropped open, but I was already turning away, my gaze skipping to the back of the room. My mama was still leaning against the wall, arms still crossed, eyes still cold. But now, she was smiling.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’d reached my car, shaking hand on the door handle, when Cal caught up to me. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the reporters, but they were blocked from reaching the parking lot by a line of deputies, their cameras kept at bay by a wall of bodies. But still they shouted questions: Eve, do you have any idea who might have done it? What are you going to do if you catch them, Eve? I wasn’t Ms. Taggert to them anymore, I noticed. My cheap dress, my hard eyes, my outburst had stripped away the formalities. They all thought they knew me now, had me pegged.

  Cal let me open the door, slide into the driver’s seat, before he leaned inside. Made sure to angle himself where even a long-range lens would get only a shot of his back. “Why, Evie?” he asked, voice quiet. “What in the hell was going through your head?”

  “Did you see Mama?” I asked, eyes straight ahead. An early-spring butterfly batted against my windshield, yellow wings flapping.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She was there, in the back.”

  Cal shook his head. “No, I didn’t see her.” He paused, reached out a careful hand and laid it on my shoulder. “Please don’t tell me you’re taking cues from Mama now.”

  “Would it be so bad if I was?”

  Cal’s hand jerked away. “Hell yes, it would be,” he said. When I looked at him, his face was red.

  “Why?” I demanded. “She never let anyone get away with anything. She made people pay when they did wrong by us.”

  A short, harsh laugh gusted out of my brother. “Are you high right now? You been into Mama’s stash? Because it sounds like you’re forgetting all the times she used us as punching bags. All the times she smacked us around, forgot to feed us, told us we were worthless.” He scrubbed at his face with one hand, a sure sign he was exhausted and nearing the end of his rope. “I have no idea where this is coming from. I swear to God, Evie, sometimes lately it’s like I don’t even know you.”

  Yeah, I wanted to tell him, join the club. “I’m not saying she was a good mother,” I said instead. “And you’re right, she was never shy about slapping the shit out of us. But no one else touched us. No one dared lift a finger to us. Because they knew what would happen if they did.” I jerked my seat belt into position, put my key in the ignition. “I’m just saying, maybe if I’d been more like her, no one would have had the nerve to touch my daughter. Maybe they would have known better.”

  “Ah, Evie,” Cal said, his gentle voice making tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Being more like Mama would have been the worst thing you could have done. For you and for Junie, both.”

  I thought of my sweet girl, the way she’d snuggle into my side on sleepy Sunday mornings, the way she’d throw her arms around me for hugs, secure in the knowledge I’d always hug her back, press tender kisses to her cheeks. The way she trusted me to never, ever hurt her. Then I thought of her laid out on a metal table, her throat slit open and her life drained away. And I knew that Cal was wrong, because Junie dead, Junie killed, would always be the worst thing of all.

  THIRTEEN

  After I left Cal in the parking lot, I drove around aimlessly. Snuck out the back exit and watched him fade into a tiny dot in my rearview mirror. I was scared to go straight home, didn’t have it in me to be met with a pack of reporters and have to run their gauntlet. Scared of what might come out of my mouth in the seconds between my car and my own front door. I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly and grabbed a handful of Slim Jims and a six-pack of beer, but found my taste for alcohol was still missing, left the first can to warm in my cup holder after a few half-hearted sips. One thing, at least, Cal would be glad to know I wasn’t inheriting from our mama.

  Finally, because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, I pulled into the diner’s parking lot and backed my car into a spot on the far edge, half hidden in early-evening shadow. Through the plate glass window I caught glimpses of Thomas slinging orders out for pickup, watched Louise and Joan talking to the customers, pouring iced tea and serving pie. I could almost imagine myself in there with them, hollering orders back to Thomas, Junie tucked into the corner booth with her homework spread in front of her, munching on a grilled cheese sandwich while she worked.

  I knew Thomas had spotted me, saw his gaze lingering through the window, but when he left for the night, he never once looked my way. Letting me have this time I needed, where I could pretend to be invisible. After he and Joan had gone, I watched Louise wipe down the counters, slide a piece of pie into a Styrofoam container, click off the lights, and lock the door behind her. But instead of walking straight to her car, she crossed the lot to mine. She opened my passenger door and let herself inside, shoved the container at me. “Eat,” she said, handing me a fork and shutting the door as she settled into the seat.

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “Banana cream, all we got left. And don’t say you’re not hungry.”

  I knew better than to argue with her, took a dutiful bite. It tasted flat and flavorless on my tongue, and I had to work hard to swallow.

  “Thomas told me not to bother you out here, but I couldn’t help myself,” Louise said. “I’ve been worried sick about you. And then . . . after today.” She paused. “You were the talk of the diner tonight.”

  “I’m guessing nobody’d seen a press conference like that before.”

  Louise shifted toward me. “It’s not funny, Eve.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be,” I said, taking another bite, knowing it was the last one I’d be able to manage.

  “It’s probably not my place to say this, but someone’s got to.” Louise twisted her hands together in her lap. “Junie wouldn’t have wanted to see you that way. So angry you hardly looked like yourself. It would have broken her heart.”

  Frankly, I didn’t think any of us had any idea what Junie might have wanted. Maybe her fury at being wrenched from the world would have been even greater than mine. Maybe she’d crave blood and revenge. Or maybe she’d want mercy and the mother she remembered. But Junie was gone, and what she would have wanted didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was what I could live with in the aftermath.

  I closed the container, the sickly sweet smell of banana threatening to make me gag. “If you’re asking me to forgive, I can’t do that,” I said. “I don’t have it in me.” Forgiveness was a virtue I’d never been taught and one I didn’t have much interest in learning now.

  Louise shook her head. “I never said a single word about forgiving. But there’s a world of space between forgiveness and vengeance, Eve. A lot of places you can land.” She sighed, reached out, and took the container of pie. “I guess two bites is better than nothing.”

  We sat in silence for a minute, watching the shadows lengthen across the parking lot and listening to the distant sound of a coyote’s howl. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

  “I knew your mama’s folks,” Louise said into the quiet. “Not well, but your grandma was the same age as my oldest sister. They were friendly, hung around some before your grandma got married.”

  I opened my eyes and turned my head to look at her. “You’ve never told me that.” My mama never spoke much about her family. All Cal and I really knew was that she’d grown up around here, had a father who’d died when she was young, and had a couple of siblings she hadn’t seen or heard from in decades. She didn’t like talking about the past, hers or ours. Always said what was done was done, rehashing was a waste of breath.

  Louise looked at me with sad eyes. “I was hoping
I’d never have to. It’s not a happy story, which I guess you could’ve probably figured out on your own.”

  “Tell me,” I said. I’d learned early not to ask my mama, and eventually I thought I’d stopped caring. But I was suddenly hungry for this history I’d never heard. A background that might help bring my mama’s sharp edges into focus.

  “Like I said, I didn’t know them well. Your grandma was only a teenager when they got married, and after that I didn’t have occasion to see her much. Your grandpa had some kind of cabin out in the woods, no running water, outhouse out back. Rough place, even for these parts.” Louise shook her head. “He was a mean son of a bitch. Kept to himself, mostly, but he had a reputation. People steered clear.”

  “Sounds familiar,” I said, thinking of how people always gave my mama a wide berth, hoping to be well out of range when she blew.

  “But your grandma was a sweet little thing. I think she probably had some romantic idea when she married him. Thought she might civilize him.” Louise paused. “But he ground her down into nothing. I’d see her in town from time to time over the years, and she was like a shadow, eyes down, skittish, thin as a rail. Dragging your mama and her other two behind her.”

  I thought of women I’d seen over the years, bodies constantly hunched for a blow. Thought of myself when Jimmy Ray had been around. “My mama had a brother and a sister, right?”

  Louise nodded. “Your mama was the youngest. Her brother ran off when he was about fifteen. Never seen hide nor hair of him again. The sister, Tanya, ended up like your grandma. Married to some man who treated her worse than an old stray dog. They moved away years ago. Don’t know what became of them, but I can imagine.”