Would she understand?
Could we start anew?
“I’m sorry,” I say, at a complete loss for words.
Aunt Dessa is standing now, wearing a long blue T-shirt that looks like Mom’s. She brings the covers up to my chin and kisses my forehead: a soft, warm peck. The letter M dangles toward my mouth. “Thank you for saying that, sweetie.”
What did I say? What does she think it means? I want to ask her, but I almost don’t care—at least not for now. Because right now, though I might be on the verge of sleeping, I’m sweetie once again.
NOW
33
I wake up, hours later, and check the chat feed for Peyton’s name, unable to find it. I stay in the chat room anyway, hoping she’ll show up. But two hours go by and she still doesn’t.
To keep my mind occupied, I open up a search box and type the words homeschool group, bridge project, and Hayberry Park into the search engine. I end up finding an article from two years ago. A local newspaper featured the footbridge donation. The group of students, called the Mighty Mindbenders, uses the park to do nature-based activities.
I click on the link for the group’s website. Several of the photos show the students hiking the Hayberry trails, building stick houses from fallen branches, and doing science experiments by the creek. The online calendar says the group is meeting at the park’s main entrance first thing in the morning. I plan accordingly, setting my alarm. When it goes off, I change my clothes and go downstairs.
My aunt is sitting at the kitchen island with a shoebox full of photos.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s my sorry excuse for a photo album. I thought it was time I sorted it out.” She sets a few of the photos in front of me, those of her and my mother, when she and Mom were teenagers (sunning on the beach, hugging in a park, and huddled up by a campfire).
“You two looked so close.”
“We were close—at one time, that is.” She flips another photo—one that shows the two of them at a restaurant. My mother’s expression is vacant; she looks present but absent. She’s like that in another photo too, what appears to be a family cookout. While everyone else looks straight ahead cheesing it up for the camera, my mother gazes downward at her hands, seemingly lost in thought.
“How old is she in that one?” I ask, pointing at the restaurant pic.
“High school. The summer after her sophomore year.”
“And these other ones?” I nod to a picture of Mom and Aunt Dessa sitting at a park caught in a laugh, both of them wearing matching necklaces with the initial pendants.
“Before sophomore year.”
An invisible light clicks on above my head. Obviously, I knew about the attack, but I never knew how much it framed their lives, compartmentalizing events into before and after (like before and after the fire and before and after the well).
“I wanted your mom and me to be close like that again,” she says.
“Why do you think that didn’t happen?”
She gives a slight shrug. “That’s life sometimes, I guess.”
“What is?”
“Not getting to do the things you want because you think you have so much time. But sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you wind up living with regret, elbow-deep in old photos that act like ghosts.”
“What didn’t you get to do?”
She touches the letter M around her neck. “Remember this: Life is short. And time is limited.”
I nod and look away, having learned that lesson all too well.
“We need to have a talk.”
Unlike the way we’re talking now? “Okay.” I brace myself for her words by grabbing a fork and pressing the prongs into the flesh of my thumb.
“You seemed really confused last night. You said some things.”
Is she referring to my confusion over the garden gnome? Or to what I said after that, when she came back to my room, when I’d been on the verge of falling asleep?
“We’re not going to talk about it now,” she says.
“Why?” I ask.
She delves back into the box and starts to hum, flipping through photos, sorting them into before-and-after stacks, evidently done talking.
I’m done too. I head out the door, eager to lose myself in research. The #22 bus is about a ten-minute walk. It’ll take me into the city of Crestwood, to Hayberry Pond, which isn’t so far from the main entrance of the park. I begin in that direction. The neighbor’s dog barks as I pass by. I grab the wasp spray in my pocket—not for the dog but to help calm my nerves—and continue forward, eventually turning a corner.
A dark gray pickup crosses the intersection, headed in my direction. The truck passed me once already. I swivel to look as it passes by again. It stops and turns into someone’s driveway, then backs out onto the street. It comes this way again, and I take a mental snapshot: Ford, older model, dented fender. I reach for my phone, wanting to get a photo.
The truck drives by before making a U-turn and heading straight for me. It pulls over to the side of the road. I look toward the driver, but the windows are blacked out.
The driver’s-side door whips wide open.
Without even thinking, I start to cross the street in front of the truck just as I hear my name, the familiar male voice. It stops me in my tracks.
Garret’s voice. He exits the truck. It’s only then I realize: I’m standing in the middle of the street, trying to breathe at a normal rate, despite the knot inside my chest.
“Terra? Is everything okay? I saw you,” he continues, when I don’t respond. “I hope this is okay—that I stopped, I mean. I promise I have no library books.” He smiles.
I move back to the sidewalk. He joins me, and I take a deep breath.
The sun is too bright.
The air feels so warm.
“Where are you headed?” he asks.
My mind won’t stop reeling. “You just happened to be driving by?”
“Yeah, on my way downtown. Critter’s has the best coffee. Want to be the judge?”
“No. Thanks. I have to be someplace.”
“Where? I’ll drive you.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine walking.”
“Why do I feel I’ve heard that before?” He grins.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on.” He smiles wider. “Where are you headed?”
“Why do you want to know so badly?”
“Basic conversation. Trust me, I come in peace.”
“I’m going to Hayberry Park.”
“Really?” He eyes the phone in my grip. “That’s a long walk, don’t you think?”
“I was going to take a bus.”
“When you could have a personal escort?” He motions to his truck. “Seriously, let me drive you. Or, at least, let me walk with you. Contrary to what you must be thinking because of the tautness of my muscles, I haven’t gotten in my daily workout yet. A walk would do me good.”
I set my phone to camera mode and take a photo of Garret’s license plate when he isn’t looking. I text the pic to my aunt, along with a message: I bumped into Garret, the guy from the sorority party, and he offered to give me a ride. Just keeping you informed.
Just leaving a trail of clues.
“Okay, thanks,” I say, agreeing to the ride.
Garret opens the passenger-side door, and I climb in. He gets in right after (on the driver’s side), readjusting his seat—back, forth, back, forth; it doesn’t seem to lock. Still, he starts the engine. A big rumble sounds as though the truck might come apart.
“So, how have you been?” he asks, steering the conversation elsewhere.
“Okay, I guess.”
He pulls away from the curb. “Can I ask why you’re going to Hayberry Park?”
“There’s a homeschooling group I’d like to meet.”
“A homeschooling group you want to join?”
I peer out the window. “I just want to talk to the teacher.”
Garret must get the me
ssage—that I’m not much into talking—because he turns on the radio, then apologizes for not getting FM stations. “She’s an old-fashioned lady, but my grandfather’s pride and joy. He passed away last year.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He pats the dashboard. “My grandfather wanted me to have the truck but said I’d have to treat it—her—with utmost respect, which means no using my cell for music either. Can’t make a lady feel as though she’s not enough, right?”
“You’re joking.” I smirk.
He smirks back. “Maybe a little.”
About twenty-five minutes later, he turns into the east entrance of Hayberry Park, as directed.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him.
“Anytime. But, hey, wait. You don’t seriously think I’m going to let you disappear—alone—into the very same park you spent what must’ve been the worst, most horrifying days of your life, do you?”
“Do you honestly believe that?”
“That I’m not going to let you go into the park alone?”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “I have my phone.” As well as the wasp spray and a pocketknife.
“This is nonnegotiable. I’m coming with you.” He exits the car.
I do as well, just as my phone buzzes. There’s a text from my aunt:
Ok. Thanks for letting me know.
Also, are you working Sunday?
Sunday night. I go in at 9.
Can you make sure you’re home around 5?
Is this about the talk you mentioned?
Can you be home?
I guess.
Great, thanks.
“Is everything okay?” Garret asks.
“It’s fine,” I say, pocketing the phone, wondering what Aunt Dessa has to say. Why does she need to make an appointment? What else might she be planning? Does it have anything to do with the photos of her and my mom?
We begin down the path that cuts through the woods and walk for several minutes, through a clearing, passing by a tall elm tree with what appears to be hundreds of initials carved into the bark. We cross a bike path that’s bordered by maple trees on both sides.
“It’s pretty here,” Garret says.
Admittedly, it is, especially with the sun shining down through the maple tree limbs, making the red leaves glow.
“How often do you come here?” he asks.
“You don’t want to know.”
“It’s pretty brave of you. I mean, returning to the place where you were being kept like a prisoner, against your will … Why would you want that?”
“Do you even believe that I was taken?”
“Why wouldn’t I believe it?”
Because not many people do. Because I was publicly called out. So, is he acting? Does he not follow the news? Or does he have his own personal agenda?
“Actually, part of the problem is that I can’t return to the place,” I tell him. “I don’t know where it is.”
“And you think this homeschooling group could help?”
I pull the paper map from the back pocket of my jeans and place my thumb below the spot where I’ve drawn in the footbridge. “It should be just past these evergreens.”
We proceed in that direction, rounding a corner and passing by a creek. I brush a tree bough from in front of my eyes, able to see the bridge’s dedication plaque; it faces us, beneath the first step. As I proceed across, I can hear the group’s voices.
The students stand scattered about the clearing—all of them with easels, painting the scene around them. An older woman—likely the teacher—moves among the group, stopping to observe and comment.
I approach her slowly, waving when she spots me. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Garret.
Still, he follows for several footsteps, staying within earshot.
I introduce myself as Addie Singer. “I’m a student at Dayton University.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Addie.” The woman smiles. Bright white teeth. “Have we met before?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. But I understand that you and your group use this park for some of your homeschool studies.”
“That’s right.”
“A friend of mine is a homeschool teacher as well. She’d like to use this clearing for a science activity, and the park ranger said that she should come and check with you.”
“With me?” The lines across her forehead form a map of their own. “I don’t own these woods.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m afraid I’m not explaining myself very well. She’s hoping to do a collaborative project with you, something with STEM … Her group is small—just three middle-schoolers…”
“STEM?”
“Yes, the whole science, technology, engineering, and math initiative.”
“I know what STEM is, but what is the project? And who’s your friend?” She peers over my shoulder, just noticing Garret maybe.
“Her name is Kelsie,” I say. “She’s pretty new to homeschooling, but she has her teacher’s license. Anyway, the project is based on water systems and environmental engineering. She wants to investigate the park’s water well.”
Her face scrunches up, reminding me of William’s. “I didn’t even know the park had a water well.”
“Apparently, it does. I’m assuming you haven’t seen it, then? My friend didn’t specify the location, but maybe one of your students knows about it.”
“Okay, well, does your friend have a card? I can reach out to her. There’s another homeschool group in the area that we sometimes get together with.”
“Perfect. And, yes, she does have a card. But I’m not sure I brought it.” I search my pockets as panic rushes my face, heating my cheeks. “Maybe I could give her your card instead?”
“We’re online, under the Mighty Mindbenders Group. Tell your friend to look us up.” She takes a step back as though finished with our talk.
But I’m not nearly done. “Could I ask your students if any of them have seen a water well?”
The woman turns away, moving back toward her students.
I follow along. “Please,” I insist.
She stands in the clearing. Her face goes stern. At the same moment, something touches my shoulder, making me flinch. I turn to look.
Garret’s there. “We should probably go.”
Not yet. I move closer to the group. “I have a few more questions,” I tell her.
“Well, I’m done answering.” The woman grips her phone as though making a threat, but she knows as well as I do that the reception in these woods is patchy at best.
“Have any of you Mighty Mindbenders seen a water well in Hayberry Park?” I shout out to the kids.
The children stop painting. A few of them gawk. Others exchange looks.
No one says a word—until a boy comes forward, from behind his easel. He’s ten years old maybe, with round eyeglasses and dark red hair. “I’ve seen it,” he says.
My heart clenches.
“Mitchell, no.” The teacher scurries to his side, places her arm around his back, as if protecting him from me.
Still, I ask him, “Where did you see it?”
Mitchell looks to the right, then to the left, his face puzzling over. “It was behind some bushes. My ball fell inside it.”
“When?” My pulse races.
“I’m not really sure.” His face goes twisty. “Six months ago, maybe. Or last year…”
“Which was it?”
“You need to leave now,” the teacher orders, pulling the boy closer.
“Let’s go,” Garret says.
“No!” I shout, still focused on the boy. “Who were you with? What were you doing? Which entrance did you use to get into the park that day?”
“I don’t remember,” he says.
“Think,” I insist, hearing the urgency in my voice.
“Is she crazy?” a girl asks.
“I think she’s probably crazy.” Another voice.
Snickering follows.
&nbs
p; “I’m calling the police,” the teacher says.
“No!” I shout, moving even closer, wanting to fix this.
But Garret takes my forearm. “It’s time to go.”
I look back at the group—at the little girl tucked behind the teacher’s leg—and reluctantly let Garret lead me away, over the footbridge, and through a grove of trees. But after several minutes of walking, I stop short.
My chest retightens.
How can I leave without talking to that boy some more, without trying to elicit as much information as possible?
“Terra?” Garret asks.
“You should go.”
“Go, where? I’m not just going to leave you here.”
“Didn’t you hear her? She’s calling the police.”
“So, let her. We haven’t done anything wrong. Not really.” Garret places his hands on my shoulders and levels his gaze, forcing me to look into his dark blue eyes. “You’re not going to find your answers here.”
“Then where will I find them?”
“I wish I knew.”
“They think I’m crazy.”
“Let them think whatever they want. It doesn’t make it true.”
I close my eyes and see an inferno all around me. And picture the ceramic garden gnome. And envision climbing down a ladder from my bedroom window on Bailey Road.
“That night at the party,” he begins, “when we were talking about how the people who cross our paths—the good ones, the bad ones, and the everything-in-between ones … how they do so for a reason … That was honestly one of the sanest conversations I’ve ever had.”
“Too bad it was bullshit.”
“You know it wasn’t.”
I suck back tears. He’s way too nice. I’m way too emotional.
“Look, I know you’ve been through a lot,” he says.
“You don’t know,” I snap.
“What it’s like to lose my parents? No, I don’t. Or how it feels to survive something and have no one believe that it happened to begin with? You’ve got me there too. But that doesn’t mean I can’t at least try to understand.”
“Why would you even want to?”
“Believe it or not, there are lots of people who’d love to know and understand you more.”
I reach into my pocket for my troll key chain and squeeze the belly and stroke the long rainbow hair. “There’s so much that you don’t know about me.”
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 14
