“He used it against me.”
“Used . . . ?”
“Our secret.”
“How? What do you mean?” I look back at him. “Jesus Christ, Mom, tell me. I’m just trying to figure this whole thing out.”
He’s waiting, a plea on his face. “I . . . He made me do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Honey, it’s too hard to . . . It was such a long time ago. But when I saw him down there today. When he leaned forward and kissed me . . .”
“Did he molest you or something? Is that what you’re saying?” He waits. “Mom?”
It’s no use. He’s guessed it. I can’t sit here and lie to him. “He said . . . he said that if they found out it was me who dropped Gracie, they’d take me away and put me in jail. And that it would be dark and cold. He said jails had rats in them, and that they’d come out at night and crawl all over me. Bite me.”
“But dropping your sister was an accident, Mom. You said so yourself before: that it was cold, you were both sopping wet. That you got distracted watching them try to rescue your mother. I can see how, yeah, back then you might have been confused. Scared or whatever. But to keep it a secret all these years? Didn’t you ever say, hey, wait a minute—it wasn’t my fault. It was the circumstances. Nobody would have blamed me.”
I nod. “I have told myself that, Andrew. Hundreds of times. But when you’re molested at that age, it leaves you with . . . You get stuck. Emotionally, I mean. So yes, as I got older, I could make that rational argument to myself. But my memories weren’t rational. They were emotional. A part of me has never stopped being that scared little girl who, if I tell, is going to be put in a jail cell with those rats.”
“Yeah, but Mom . . . I mean, what were you? Six? Since when does a six-year-old go to jail?”
“But that was the problem. I was so young that I believed him. My mother was gone, my father wasn’t coming home half the time. My brother was always busy with school. So a lot of the time, it was just the two of us in the house. Just me and him. It started during my bath time. He’d—”
“What do you mean started? It happened more than once?”
Is this real? Am I really telling him? “It went on for almost two years. It didn’t stop until the state pulled me out of the house.”
“Two years,” he says. He gets off the bed, walks around the room repeating it. “Two years?” He comes back and faces me. “When you say he molested you, what . . . What . . . ?”
I hear the sloshing bathwater, see him holding the washcloth. “I didn’t understand what was happening. Not at first anyway. He’d come into the bathroom while I was taking my bath and tell me he needed to show me the right way to wash myself. And it . . . went on from there. He’d get excited. Get into the bathtub with me. Tell me to touch it, kiss it.” He listens blank-faced. Keeps shaking his head from side to side, as if to shake off the ugly things I’m telling him. “I knew that what we were doing was bad, but that if I didn’t keep it a secret, he’d—”
“Mom, don’t say ‘we.’ He’s responsible for what happened, not you.”
I nod. Tell him I understand that now but that I didn’t back then—that “we” was the way he kept putting it. “And then . . . And then, he started sneaking into my room in the middle of the night.” His weight on the mattress wakes me up. I feel his hands under my nightgown. “And then one night, he turned me on my back. Got on top of me and—”
“Mom, stop!” he shouts. “Just . . . stop it.” His face is flushed. He looks dazed. For the next few minutes, neither of us speaks. He just keeps shaking his head, blinking back tears. When I reach over and place my hand on his shoulder, he bats it away. Oh god, I should have spared him. Especially him. Why have I told Andrew of all people? He can’t even look at me now that he knows. Looks, instead, at his right foot, his shoe moving back and forth against the carpet. Oh god, my poor son.
“Did they arrest him at least? After they found out?”
“Honey, they didn’t find out. They took me out of the house because of my father, not him. Kent kept my secret and I kept his. Until right now. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”
His fists are clenched, his shoe keeps moving backward and forward. “It’s just so fucked-up that he got away with it all these years. Did what he did and then never had to pay for it.” He looks up from the floor. Looks right at me. “It must have been a relief, right? When the state did take you away?”
I shake my head. “I was scared to death when that happened. I didn’t trust anyone at that point, especially strangers. What’s that thing they say? Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t?”
He gets up and goes over to the window. Splays his hands on the sill, rests his forehead against the pane. He speaks to me over his shoulder. “So all these years, you just stuffed it? Didn’t even tell Dad?”
“I couldn’t, Andrew. Those secrets became a big part of who I was. I just hope . . . ”
“Hope what? Say it.”
“That now that you know the truth about me, you won’t think I’m a horrible person.”
“Why would I think that?”
I wish he’d turn around. Wish I didn’t have to say it to his broad back.
“Because of what we . . . What he . . . Maybe if I had gone to my father. Or Donald. Or told your father at some point. He’s a psychologist, for Christ’s sake. He deals with this kind of stuff. It’s just that . . .”
“Just what, Mom?”
“I didn’t trust men.”
“What about Viveca? Does she know?”
“No, not yet. But maybe now that I’ve told you, I’ll be able to risk it. I don’t know. I have a lot to think about.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Me, too.”
“Oh, honey. I always thought I’d carry this stuff to the grave. Protect the people I love from all this ugly, dirty . . . And now, of all people, I’ve told you. Burdened you.”
He says it’s okay. He can handle it. “I just can’t believe what a stupid shit I was to bring him here today,” he says. “Thinking you’d be glad to see him.”
I assure him he’s not to blame—that it was just a horrible coincidence.
“But he just shows up out of the blue? Puts on my suit and rides over here with me? What the fuck? Did he think you were going to have forgotten that any of it ever happened? And now, thanks to me and my stupid idea to bring him here, here we are. Your wedding’s going on downstairs, and you’re up here with me playing true confessions.”
Playing? No. Whatever these last few minutes have been—and whatever happens next—it’s not play. . . . I think back to the beginning of this weekend: the ride up here with Minnie and the others, the joy I felt when I heard my kids come in and ran up the basement stairs to see them. And my conversation with Andrew last night, the tenderness I felt for him. Why can’t I rewind this whole weekend and start over again?
“Last night?” I say. “When we were watching that movie you like, and you said that my work was violent? I think that was the only way I could get some of it out was through my art. The fear, the anger . . .”
When he turns back and looks at me, his face is flushed. “No it wasn’t, Mom. That wasn’t the only way you got it out.”
“I don’t . . . Honey, what do you mean?”
“You just said you didn’t trust men. Males. Don’t you remember the way you used to go off on me?”
I nod. Force myself to face his red face, the way he’s glaring at me. “Andrew, I didn’t . . . I would never—”
“Yes you would, Mom. You did.”
Why is he doing this now? Haven’t we been through enough? I look away from him. Look over at the doorway where Marissa has just appeared. She’s looking from one of us to the other. “Hey?” she says. “What’s going on?
He pushes past her, bumping her shoulder and spilling the drink she’s holding out to him. “Jesus Christ, knock me over, why don’t you?” she says. She looks out into the h
allway, then turns back to me. “Where’s he going?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Andrew Oh
I start the car. Back out, almost hitting a Porsche with New York plates. To tell you the truth, Donny and I never got along too much. But Annie and me? We were close. She used to hang all over me. There’s a fire in my head, and I know just exactly how to put it out. I pull onto the road and gun it. He said he came in on the downtown bus, so that must be where he’s . . . Can I kiss the bride? Jesus Christ, no wonder she freaked. Where are you, motherfucker? You think you got away with it? Guess again.
I pass the golf course. I was up there with her for what? Fifteen minutes? He can’t have gotten much farther. He told me to touch it, kiss it. . . . You think you can just show up, you sick fuck? Ruin her big day and then crawl back into whatever sewer you crawled out of? Well, you can’t, scumbag. And when I find you, payback’s gonna be a bitch. . . .
I can feel her hands on my back at the top of the stairs that day. . . . See her in the kitchen, coming at me with that mallet. The blood’s pounding in my head. Slow down, asshole! You get pulled over and that piece of crap’s going to get an even bigger jump on you. Get away again. I relax my grip on the wheel, flex my fingers. Swivel my head back and forth to loosen the muscles in my neck. I’m past the wooded area now, heading into the more residential stretch. How the hell could he have gotten this far? Did I miss him? Did he see me coming and—No! He didn’t head back toward the bus station. He went the other way.
I hit the brakes, pull hard to the left. Just miss a tree making the U-turn. Drive off in the opposite direction.
I shoot past the golf course again, then Bella Linda. They must be eating lunch now. And she’s up there missing her own . . . I can’t stop seeing her face. She wouldn’t stop screaming. I was watching them try to pull my mother onto the roof and then . . . And that sick fuck uses it against her. Makes it their little secret so that he can—Deer!
I slam the brake and the seat belt holds back my forward thrust. In the state I’m in, I’m lucky I remembered to put it on. I catch my breath. Stare after the goddamned deer as it disappears into the woods on the other side of the road. Jesus, it bolted out so fast I didn’t—okay, refocus. Find the fucker.
I drive on, pick up speed again. There’s a curve up ahead. Slow down. Breathe. You wrap this car around a tree and—wait! There’s someone. Up ahead, walking along the side of the road. Is it . . . ? Yeah, that’s him! I stomp on the gas pedal and aim for him, closing the distance between us. But when he looks back and sees it’s me, he takes off into the woods. Yeah, you’d better run, you fucking coward. Because when I catch you . . . I bump onto the side of the road and slam it in park. Jump out and take off after him.
Where is he? Which way did he go? I stop. Look around. Then I hear leaves crunching, up ahead on the right. “Hey!”
He’s fast for his age, but I’m faster, younger. He zigzags around rocks and tree stumps. Runs up a hill. When he reaches the top, he looks back and shouts over his shoulder, “Stay away from me!” He’s scared. I can hear it in his voice. Good. He should be scared, because once I . . .
I take the hill, spot him again, running down the other side. The undergrowth is getting thicker, the ground’s more mucky. Brambles keep pulling at my pant legs. But he’s slowing down, too. Must be getting winded by now. Not me. I’m pumped on pure adrenaline.
I’m maybe fifty feet behind him when my shoe gets hooked on a rock and I flop face-first against the wet ground. But I’m up a second or two later and after him again. He looks back and starts shouting some bullshit about how he didn’t even know what he was doing. “I was just a mixed-up kid!” He was a kid? He was? It pisses me off even more. Turbocharges me. Thirty feet behind him, twenty, ten. When I’m within reach, I fly at him. Grab him by the shoulders. Take him down and fall on top of him.
Motherfucker fights back. Pushes me off of him, gets back on his feet and lunges. When he head-bumps me, I try for a headlock but can’t get the right grip. He goes for my face. Jams a finger inside my mouth, between my cheek and my teeth, and yanks hard. Hurts like a motherfucker! I try to bite his finger but I can’t. His thumb comes at my eye, but I bat it away. Grab him by the wrist. He yanks it back, gets off of me. Tries to take off, but I grab on to his ankle and take him down again. Pin him with an old wrestling move and flip him onto his back. Get on top of him and grab him by the sides of his head. That one eye’s looking up at me, crazy scared. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll press charges, and don’t think I won’t.” Yeah? You think that’s going to stop me? “It was her who started it! Crawling up on my lap and—”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
“No, listen to me! You think these little kids are innocent? They’re not. They want it just as much as—”
That’s what throws me over the edge: him saying that. His head’s in my hands and the jagged rock sticking out of the ground next to him seems like a gift from God. I slam his head against it. Once, twice. How does that feel, motherfucker? Not sure? Here. Have some more. And what I’m doing feels right and good. Feels fucking euphoric. . . .
The next several seconds are a blur, but he’s finally stopped resisting. The fight’s gone out of him. I stumble onto my feet, coughing, trying to catch my breath. When I look down, his head’s flopped to the side of the rock. There’s blood and hair on it. That eye patch is riding up on his forehead. He’s staring up at me with his one bugged-out eye and there’s a hole where the other one’s supposed to be. I look away. Start walking deeper into the woods—slowly at first, then faster. Then I’m running away from him. From what I’ve done.
I don’t know how much time passes. Time enough for my breathing to slow down and the blood to stop pounding in my head. My body’s soaked in sweat. The inside of my mouth where he clawed at it hurts like a son of a bitch. His blood’s on the palms of my hands, my shirt cuffs, the sleeves of my jacket. He wasn’t moving when I got up. He’s probably concussed. Or maybe he was just playing possum. I start back there because I’d better find out.
Except I can’t find him. Did I miss him? Veer too far to the left? Or did he get up? Get away? . . . No, there he is. And there’s the rock. He hasn’t moved. I stand there, about ten feet away from him still, afraid to approach. Afraid that I’ve . . . But I have to. I stare down at my feet, watch them walk toward him.
Without looking at his face, I squat down next to him. Grab his wrist and check for a pulse. It’s faint, but I feel one. At least I think I do. He’s got vitals, needs medical attention. I’m a nurse, aren’t I? Whatever this is going to cost me, I’ve got to get him some help. I grab him under the arms and sit him up. Hoist him over my shoulder and, heaving, teetering, manage to stand up. I wait a couple of seconds and then start lugging him back toward the car.
He feels light at first. Probably doesn’t weigh more than 150. That’s nothing compared to what I lift at the gym. But he gets heavier with every step, and the ground’s uneven and pitchy. I have to keep my knees from buckling. I can feel his head bumping against the small of my back. His blood must be staining my uniform. The woods are quiet. No breeze, no birds. Just my footsteps crunching the dead leaves.
I hear my car before I see it. The engine, the radio. I stand at the clearing when the car comes into view. Can’t just march out there. Someone could see me and stop. Or call the cops. The driver’s side door’s gaping open, and the radio’s playing that Fine Young Cannibals song. She drives me crazy, and I can’t help myself. . . . My mind ricochets back to when I was driving him over to the wedding—when I put on the radio because our conversation had died and the silence was making me uncomfortable. If I hadn’t gone back for those rings, none of this would have ever happened. He would have rung the bell, waited a while, and then left. We wouldn’t have even known he’d been there. But I did go back, and now the bottom’s dropped out of everything. No cars coming either way. It’s just me and him. I step out of the woods and lug him toward the car.
Get the back door open. Slide him off my shoulder and lay him facedown across the seat. God, that gash on the back of his head is ugly. Blunt force trauma. Brain damage, maybe. Jesus.
I get in the front. Close my door, click my seat belt and pull back onto the road. Got to get him to the hospital. I felt a pulse. I’m going to be in big trouble if he dies on me. . . . Rage-fueled temporary insanity. But there were extenuating circumstances. Look what I had just found out. And so what if he ends up with a TBI? After what he did to her? Then he lays low all these years? Shows up out of the blue? He’s lucky he’s got a pulse, for Christ’s sake. . . . For Christ’s sake. I hear Casey-Lee’s voice. Pray, Andrew. Pray to Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I nod. That’s what I’ll do. Driving along, I speak the words out loud. “Have mercy on him, Jesus. Let him survive. And if it’s Your will, have mercy on me, too. Please, Jesus? Forgive me my anger, my trespasses.”
But there must be a part of me that knows he’s dead back there—that that pulse I felt was wishful thinking—because when I see where I am, I realize that I haven’t driven to the hospital after all. I’ve driven home. I take the turn and start up Jailhouse Hill.
When I reach our house, I pull into the driveway. But instead of stopping at the end, I keep going. Drive across the backyard and start down the rutted path out back. Approaching a deep pothole, I brake too hard, too late, and hear the clunk in the back. He’s fallen off the seat and onto the floor. Forgive me, Jesus. Please forgive me.
When I get to the brook on this side of the old cottage, I cut the motor. Get out. Hoist him off the floor and back onto the seat. The blood on the back of his head has clotted. Caked up in his hair. I shift the body. His face is gray. His hand is cold to the touch. Thou shalt not kill. . . .
I leave him there, hop the brook, and walk over to the well. Stare at the granite slab that covers it. What’s my alternative? Turn myself in? Spend the rest of my life stuck in a prison cell when I could be at the hospital helping people? And what about my parents? My sisters? I wouldn’t be the only one suffering if they put me away. Hasn’t Mom been through enough? And hasn’t Dad? A wife who left him, a son in prison. Should I do this? Can I live with myself if I do?