Daddy Darkest

by Ellery Kane

  He had parked at the football field in the spot where they made out sometimes. I wish you were a cheerleader, he’d told her once, fumbling with the buttons on her shirt, oblivious to the cold sting of his words. She’d tossed her bike to the ground nearby, stalking toward his car like a strange creature. He wanted to see her—of course he did—but she didn’t feel like herself anymore. What if he didn’t like her? What if he did? She pressed her hands to her belly, wondering if it knew she’d begun plotting its demise. And then, cruel trick, a girl appeared. A girl she recognized. A freshman. Blonde and long-legged, just like her. The girl opened the door to her passenger seat, and Clare could only watch. That was the real last time she’d seen Rodney Taylor, his head leaning in toward the cherry-stained lips of a San Marin High cheerleader.

  But now, she didn’t have to watch anymore. She didn’t have to wait. She plumbed the depths of her glove box until she found it. Put there just for this. Fifteen days of planning. She had to move fast, but not too fast. Cat-like, she thought. Like Cullen sneaking up on me. There were easier ways. Removing the caps, for one. It had to be this way so she could feel it, so she had to work for it. She crouched down alongside the car wishing she could take her time, savor it. Just a steak knife from her kitchen—but clutched in her hand, it looked as fierce as if it was meant to cut flesh. That thought brought an unexpected excitement. It sliced through the shell of her and awakened the numb parts. It felt good to be bad. So good. Too good. Like I could throw off sparks, she thought. When she plunged the knife through the black rubber, her body shuddered with the release. It wasn’t Mr. Taylor’s face she pictured, but the girl in the red Bimmer.

  “You little hussy,” Lizzie teased between sips of coffee. “A hook-up with Neal and a make-out sesh with a cop. Who’s next, Cutthroat?”

  “Okay, first off, that’s not funny. Second, J. D. is not a cop.” Clare wrapped her hands around the hot mug to quiet their shaking. She tried not to look at them so Lizzie wouldn’t notice. Relax, Clare. You stabbed a tire, not a person.

  “Correctional officer. Same difference. A sergeant no less. And third?”

  “Third, we didn’t make out. It was just a kiss. And fourth, he was drunk.”

  “It must’ve been some kiss.” Clare laughed and shook her head, going along with Lizzie’s banter. “I mean, he called the next day, and he sent flowers. I’ve had boyfriends who didn’t do either, much less both in the same week.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure he sent the flowers.” Clare put her palms against the cold countertop. Was that blood under her fingernails? She curled her fingers in and out again, and it was gone. “Clive told me yellow chrysanthemums mean you have a secret admirer.” Fitzpatrick was her prime suspect, the flowers a sick little experiment he devised to suss out her boundaries.

  “Oh, it’s Clive now, is it? Why is he giving you relationship advice?”

  “It was just a comment. An innocent observation.” The voice in her head cackled at her own idiocy.

  “Right, because he’s so innocent. Pure as the driven snow, that guy.”

  Clare rolled her eyes. “At least he didn’t act jealous. He’s weirdly possessive of me as his therapist.” Not as a therapist. She heard him correct her. As a woman. “I’m surprised he didn’t throw the flowers out himself.”

  “Unless . . . ” Lizzie grinned mischievously. “He’s your secret admirer.”

  November 25, 1996

  Like any other Monday at 9:15 a.m., Clare’s body sat at her desk. But today, it felt empty, an unmanned craft sitting idle, patiently waiting for its driver to return. Her mind remained on the early morning phone call that had jolted her from sleep. It played on an endless loop.

  “Hello?” She was already asking a question, her voice groggy and uncertain.

  “Is this Clare Keely? Marybeth Keely’s daughter?” It’d been so long since she’d heard her mother’s name. And when was the last time she’d talked to her? 1993 maybe. Right after husband number four. Or was it five? “Are you there, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m Clare Keely.”

  “Ms. Keely, this is Officer Hutchins of the Los Angeles Police Department. I’m calling to inform you that your mother was in a car accident early this morning.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. She passed away in the O.R. The driver, Frank De Marco, was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  Clare waited to feel something, but nothing came. Only the tinny sound of her mother’s voice, twittering about her quickie Vegas marriage to someone she called Frank the Tank. “Oh.”

  “The vehicle struck a telephone pole. Alcohol may have been a factor. We don’t know too much yet.”

  “How did you find me? My mother and I . . . well, we weren’t exactly close.”

  “She had a picture of you inside her wallet with an old address. You were the only next of kin we could locate. Is there someone else we should call?”

  “No. It’s just me.” After she laid the receiver to rest, she padded back down the hallway to her bed and buried herself beneath the covers. The ceiling, blank like her, stared back. But she was good at this. She knew what to do. Alanis Morissette, until sleep crept in.

  Anybody else would’ve called in sick. Not Clare. She showed up early as penance for what she’d done. What she’d brought on herself. She was a bad girl, always had been. That’s what Rodney Taylor knew about her. That’s why he liked her. He saw she would go along with him, that she might even enjoy it. That she was the kind of girl who would stick a knife into a man’s tire and get off. And now, someone, somewhere was punishing her for her badness. But it wasn’t God because He didn’t exist. There was a devil though. Of that, she was certain.

  A soft knocking at the door brought her back. “Dr. Keely? Clare?” Cullen and his quicksilver-blue eyes were on the other side. Early again, but she didn’t mind. Not today. Today, she was desperate for a compelling distraction, one strong enough to anchor her to reality. “I know, I know. I’m early, but I couldn’t help it. I had a revelation.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, stepping aside to allow him entry. “I’ll let it slide this time.” Whatever the price, she would pay it later. “Let’s hear this revelation.”

  “I was thinking a little—okay, a lot—about our session last week. And it hit me. The brutality of what I did.”

  Mind and body, Clare hummed again. She moved to the edge of her seat. “Tell me more.”

  “Of course, I knew it was a horrible crime. I intended that. A knife is so intimate and so devastating. Exactly what I wanted. I needed to feel her pain. I needed her to feel mine. But seeing you, the way you looked at me, when I said what I’d done . . . how I’d done it . . . I could hardly bear it.”

  “How did I look at you?”

  “Like I was Cutthroat. The monster everyone thinks I am.”

  “And that disturbed you?”

  “Very much.”

  “Why, do you think?”

  His soft laughter went straight to her spine. In a good way that felt bad. Or a bad way that felt good. Either way, it felt familiar. “Your opinion matters to me. No—more than that. You captivate me.”

  It was Clare’s turn to laugh, and all the things balled tight inside loosened a little. “Captivate. Wow.”

  “I’m not supposed to say that, am I?”

  “Well, let’s see . . . ” She reached for the dictionary on her desk, letting the razor-thin pages slip like silk beneath her eager fingers until she found it. “Captivate. To attract and hold the interest of. I suppose, by this definition, you captivate me as well.”

  Clare had lost the wheel again. She veered toward that same edge, daring herself to fall. Cullen was her own personal telephone pole. And she was about to smash into him. Instead, she swerved. “My mother died.” Saying it out loud made it real. And when it was real, it hurt. She blinked back tears.

  Cullen said nothing. She was grateful for that, because she couldn’t take
it back. “Were you close?” he asked, finally.

  “I’m sorry. It was inappropriate for me to share that. I just found out this morning, and I probably should’ve stayed home. Let’s get back to you and your revelation.” Get your head together, Keely. You didn’t even like your mother.

  He frowned at her, but nodded, compliant. “It’s simple really. I understand now that no woman could ever love me. Not after I tell them the truth. I saw that in your eyes when you looked at me.”

  “So you feel unlovable?”

  “Could you love someone like me? Could anyone?” Cullen’s eyes watered and spilled over. She never expected this. Not from him. “I’m going to hell, you know,” he told her. So am I, she thought. “Actually, I’m already there,” he said, gesturing to the walls around him.

  “You feel doomed.”

  “Wouldn’t you? Seriously, tell me. If you met me under different circumstances, would you be my girlfriend? Would you write me letters? Come and visit me in this shithole?”

  “If you weren’t in here, and we found ourselves face-to-face, who knows?” Clare flipped up her palms. “There are good things about you, Clive. Things someone might find attractive. Things someone could love. After all, finding a woman has never been your problem. Some might even say women can’t resist you.”

  “So you’re telling me I could seduce you if I wanted to.” Probably. Clare ignored the voice in her head. The bad girl who had already done enough.

  “I’m saying your problem is not in the finding. It’s in the letting go.”

  He cocked his head to the side, thinking. “Attachment is the root of suffering, right? Isn’t that what they say? Heck, I even got a little jealous last week seeing you laughing with . . . what’s his name? That string bean that tried to off himself.”

  She tapped her watch. “Maybe we can talk more about this next week.”

  “But we still have thirty minutes.”

  “Exactly.”

  Cullen grinned at her. “I get it. It’s a test, right? An exercise? To see if I can let go.”

  “Can you?”

  She needed him to leave. He was a kind of fire she wanted to touch, already knowing it would burn. Still, she felt a twinge of regret when he rose and walked toward the door. He leaned up against it—coy and casual—in a way that made her wonder if he was testing her too. “It’s not easy. You’re my favorite hour of the week. But if you think it will help me . . . ”

  “I do. I want you to notice how it feels to surrender control.” She stood, ready to dismiss him, but he didn’t move. Clare took another step toward the door, toward him. So close now she could smell the soap he’d showered with that morning. She could see the dark stubble peppering his chin, and she wondered how it would feel underneath her fingers. Her hand lifted without her permission and reached for him, brushing the sleeve of his shirt, resting on his bicep. She looked at her thumb, pressed against the edge of a freckle, and concluded she had lost her mind.

  “It feels like that.” It came out so quiet, she would question whether he’d said it all. Then, he turned the knob and disappeared.

  “You ended your session early?” Fitzpatrick ushered her into his office with a hurried wave of his hand. Clare kept her eyes off his, staring at the coffee stain on his chest instead. Like a Rorschach inkblot, it took the shape of a fist—a baby’s fist—small and brown.

  “Yes. I just . . . my mom died.” It wasn’t a lie. At least she could hold on to that. “She was killed in a car accident early this morning. I thought it would be good for me to come in to get my mind off it.” But instead she’d nearly made good on Lizzie’s preposterous suggestion.

  “Oh, Clare. I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?” Fitzpatrick’s thin lips turned down in pity. “Anything at all.” She could imagine the anything he had in mind.

  “We actually weren’t that close. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. I really didn’t expect it to affect me this way. Maybe it’s something to do with Thanksgiving being right around the corner.”

  “Sometimes it’s those sorts of relationships that wound us the most. There’s no closure. No chance for resolution.” Clare felt the sting of truth. There were so many loose ends unraveling, dangling from her heart, she’d lost count. “Maybe that’s why you cut your hour short. It’s classic displacement, right?” She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “You redirected those feelings of a premature ending onto a substitute target, Mr. Cullen. Perhaps we could examine that during our supervision tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Her agreement sounded hollow, but it was the best she could do. “Would it be alright if I went home now? Took a personal day?”

  “Of course.” Fitzpatrick approached her with his arms outstretched. “You look like you could use a hug.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, wrapping his arms around her the way a child might hold a cat. Clare stopped squirming and gave in, quieting her body until he released her. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell like lavender?”

  “I don’t think so,” Clare answered, while the badness inside her drew a picture in her head, painting Fitzpatrick’s coffee stain red. It was a bloody fist now, an X-marks-the-spot where she’d sunk a knife.

  Dumas waited for her in the hallway. Dammit. She’d completely forgotten. At least he was smiling. “Did you forget about me?” he asked.

  “Of course not. Unfortunately, I have to reschedule our session. I’m not feeling so great.”

  His face darkened with concern. “Oh no. Hope it’s not the bug that’s going around. Snip’s been out to the infirmary for the past two days.”

  “Could you stop by tomorrow instead? How about noon?”

  He nodded. “Works for me. I’ve got nothin’ but time.”

  Clare’s hand pressed hard between her legs. Later, she’d regret this. She hadn’t done it in so long. But now, there were no thoughts of any kind. No room for regret. Everything but her body disappeared. And that’s why she liked it. She moaned Rodney against her pillow. He was with her in her bed, in every bed, even when he wasn’t. It was his hand rubbing her there. His hand inside her. And then, it wasn’t Rodney at all. She realized it mid-shudder, mid-release, when she saw storm-cloud eyes and stubble, hands stronger than Rodney’s, and a taut stomach marked by pain. She laid there afterward bathed in shame, the mid-afternoon sun sneaking past her drawn curtains, until the phone rang.

  Five rings, and the machine picked up. “Hello, you’ve reached Clare Keely. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Then, the beep.

  “Clare . . . uh . . . this is Dr. Fitzpatrick. I’m sorry to bother you at home. I know it’s a bad time. But I need to talk to you. They . . . uh . . . they found James Dumas in his cell this afternoon. Hanging. He’s dead.”

  15

  EYE OF HORUS

  Clare Keely sat behind the wheel of the rental car. She looked like my mother, sounded like her too. The few words she’d said, anyway. But the way she was pushing the 40-miles-per-hour speed limit through Muir Woods, hugging the turns like she knew them, I couldn’t be sure. I snuck a glance at the back of her neck, where a few blonde tendrils escaped from her ponytail. It was still there. Her Eye of Horus tattoo—to ward off evil. When your father died, I felt cursed. That’s what she told me, years ago, rubbing the ink as if it was a talisman. I’d been afraid to ask anything else. It was the most mysterious thing about her, and I didn’t trust it. For the first time, I felt relieved to see it there. Definitive evidence this impostor was my mother.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I asked. “How about what we’re doing here? Why you lied to the police? Rodney Taylor? Anything?” She gripped the wheel so tightly, her knuckles turned white. Her lips pressed together so no words could escape. “Mom?” I gave up. Wherever she was, whatever wall she’d disappeared behind, I couldn’t reach her.

  I pressed my face to the window, leaning my cheek against the cool glass, and searched the redwoods for an answe
r. Bellwether is flat as a sheet in every direction, I’d never seen so many trees. They blocked what remained of the sun, stretching their ancient arms through the fog and toward the sky, in reverie. High, so high I had to crane my neck to find slivers of sunlight peeking through the dense canopy.

  “Was Ginny wearing earrings?” When it came—finally—her voice was throaty, raw. So unexpected, I nearly jumped.

  “Probably her gold stars, the ones her mom gave her for graduation. But I’m not sure.” I shrugged. “Why?”

  “She was missing one in that photo he sent.” I breathed through a wave of nausea. That photo. Ginny’s eyes—red rimmed and desperate—were impossible to unsee. I certainly hadn’t noticed her earrings.

  Quiet again, my mother offered no explanation. She slowed the car and navigated the road’s shoulder, pulling to an abrupt stop. Nothing around us but those thick, grounded sentinels watching, waiting. A silent army, they unnerved me. The things they might have witnessed.

  She opened the door. “Stay here,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

  “Are you kidding?” In the glow of the headlights, the fog was rising up from the ground like steam, but when I stepped into it, it was icy cold. “I’m coming with you.”

  I expected her to argue, but she only sighed as she trudged—no hesitation—into the forest. I could barely hear her soft counting over the crunch of the underbrush beneath my feet. I knew better than to speak. At three hundred, she paused, and so did I. She swallowed hard, then pressed on into the utter stillness. Deeper and darker, until the road was a warm and distant memory. There were no paths, no markers, but she knew the way. The way to what? Three hundred fifty, and she stopped, right at the base of a magnificent redwood. Its trunk had a small hollow, the perfect size for a raccoon or a skunk. My mother crouched low and pawed at the dirt.