The You I've Never Known

  a relationship that was less

  than fulfilling to begin with.

  With age comes wisdom.

  Wonder If That’s True

  For everyone.

  I cycle through

  the horses, and

  with each, anxiety

  about seeing Maya

  in just a few hours

  grows exponentially.

  We’re meeting at

  the Diamondback

  Grill, best burgers

  in town, which means

  Syrah will be our

  server, at least

  if she gets her way,

  and she will.

  After the last filly

  is put away, I take

  the time to run

  home (how can I

  still think about

  it that way?) and

  shower. No use

  immersing Maya

  in equine drift

  while she picks

  at her salad or

  whatever. I doubt

  her diet includes

  cheeseburgers.

  I Get to the Restaurant

  At six exactly. Maya’s already

  there, and Syrah is, in fact,

  taking care of our table.

  I approach cautiously. Not sure

  why. Not like she’s going to jump

  up and hug me. Oh God, please, no.

  She does stand. But all she does

  is take my cold hand into her warm

  one and stroke it gently.

  She smiles. Casey, sit down.

  I’m so glad you agreed to talk.

  No pressure, I promise.

  We slide into our seats and

  Syrah comes over to take

  our orders, or check up on me.

  Or both. “I’ll have my usual,”

  I tell her, and am surprised

  when Maya nods and says,

  Whatever she’s having, same

  for me. Oh, unless you’re vegan.

  Sorry, but I’m a carnivore.

  Syrah giggles. Vegan? Ha!

  That girl is way into meat.

  The kind you eat, I mean.

  So Syrah, but it’s okay because

  the ice is now broken. “Thanks

  for clarifying. Oh, and in case

  you two haven’t actually met,

  this is my friend, SEER-uh, like

  Sarah, but spelled Syrah.”

  Maya smiles, and her teeth,

  of course, are perfect. I see.

  Great information to know.

  Syrah hesitates, but when

  her manager puts his hands on

  his hips, she hustles off to do her job.

  We sit, sizing each other up, for

  a few long minutes. Finally, I say,

  “This isn’t nearly enough time

  to work through everything

  I’ve learned in the last week.

  I don’t have a clue how to feel

  about you, just to be clear.

  But I do know one thing, and

  that is how important the truth

  has become to me. If we can

  start there, maybe the rest

  will fall into place eventually.”

  Wordlessly

  Maya studies my face,

  feature by feature.

  Finally, she says, I don’t

  have time for lies, Casey.

  Wait, may I please call

  you that? You’ve always

  been Casey to me.

  All I can say back is,

  “I don’t know who I am.

  Call me whatever you want.”

  She looks like I’ve slapped

  her, and maybe I have.

  Okay, listen. I get that

  you’ve been lied to, and

  believe me, I understand

  what an outstanding liar

  you father is. He’s clearly

  a sociopath, not that I knew

  what that was when we met.

  “I don’t want to talk about

  Dad.” Not yet. Maybe never.

  Fine. This is on your terms.

  So, tell me about school. Love

  it? Hate it? Future plans?

  “Future? I have to concentrate

  on the present. My only plan

  right now is to graduate high

  school, apparently a year late.”

  What do you mean?

  “I mean, until last week,

  I believed I was seventeen.

  I had my birthday wrong, too.”

  Oh, right. Monica told me.

  I’m so sorry you were fed

  a steady diet of deceit.

  We let that sit. “Have you

  talked to Monica a lot?”

  Not a lot. But enough

  to know she’s worried

  about you. Everyone is.

  Everyone except

  my goddamn father,

  who apparently

  couldn’t care less.

  But I hold that inside.

  I need to keep my parents

  separated, at least in my mind,

  for a little longer.

  Luckily

  The food arrives.

  Syrah shoots me

  an are you okay?

  look as she delivers

  big platters

  of comfort food.

  Here we go, ladies.

  Can I get you anything

  else right now?

  In answer

  to both the voiced

  and unvoiced

  questions,

  I shrug.

  Smile.

  Ask for ketchup.

  Mustard.

  Pickles.

  Added comfort.

  Allowing

  the dialogue

  to move away

  from Dad.

  For a little while.

  Over Cheeseburgers and Fries

  (Fries!)

  We talk

  about (in no

  certain order,

  and sometimes

  we return to

  various subject

  matter):

  school (finals)

  basketball (winning and losing)

  horses

  Hillary

  Gabe

  Syrah

  Monica

  Monica

  Monica

  Maya suspects—

  probably because

  of how many times

  I turn the conversation

  back to Monica—

  the depth

  of our friendship.

  But I don’t

  confess it.

  Will I ever?

  That Circles Us Around

  To talking about Maya.

  We start with easy stuff,

  some of which I’m aware

  of. Most, I’m clueless about.

  She’s originally from Texas.

  (Yippee! I own a megadose

  of Lone Star genes

  because, as it turns out,

  Dad isn’t from Oklahoma.)

  Both her parents are dead.

  (Awesome. More family

  lost to me forever.)

  She lives near San Francisco.

  (Right on the beach, which,

  by the way, is cool and gray

  more often than not.)

  She enjoys her newsroom job.

  (But prefers sports announcing.

  My mom—did I just think that?—

  is a world-class jock, or jock lover,

  or something like that.)

  She prefers alternative music.

  (When she was young she listened

  to country, but now she can’t stand

  it. It reminds her of Texas, where

  she hopes never to return.)

  We Avoid

  Talking about Dad

  for the longest time.
/>
  The subject hovers,

  just out of reach,

  because neither of us

  wants to touch it.

  Eventually, of course,

  we must, and there’s no

  way around discussing

  that fateful day fifteen

  Decembers ago.

  I was three.

  Not two.

  And my mother

  was just twenty.

  At my age, she already

  had a baby.

  She had one-year-old

  me.

  I’m not sure exactly

  what Jason told you

  about me, but I can say

  that on some level it was

  probably accurate.

  He’s an expert at taking

  basic truths and twisting

  them into distortions

  that suit his purposes.

  So Far, So True

  But I’m not quite ready

  to agree with her philosophy,

  no matter how accurate

  it might be. “What he’s told

  me about you, over and over,

  is that you left your family—

  that would be him and me—

  for your girlfriend. I assume

  he was referring to the person

  I saw you with at the game?”

  Tati—Tatiana—is my wife.

  We’ve been together as partners

  since after your father took off

  with you, but we were friends

  for years before that. However,

  I did not leave you for her.

  She was there to support me

  when he stole you, and make

  no mistake about it, that’s

  exactly what he did. This was

  never about me. It was always

  about him needing to manipulate

  everyone to suit his purposes.

  I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that

  included you. He’s an evil man.

  Evil?

  Don’t think so. Self-centered,

  certainly. Narcissistic, probably.

  But spawn of Satan? Nah.

  “He took good care of me.”

  Define “good.”

  “Okay, he took decent care

  of me. Most of the time.

  Sometimes. Whatever.

  But ‘evil’ is a strong word.”

  Casey, do you know where

  the names Ariel and Mark

  Pearson came from?

  “Yeah. Dad told me he took

  them from a woman we lived

  with. They belonged to her dead

  husband and daughter.”

  Right. Leona Pearson. I did

  a little research last week.

  Turns out Leona died under

  suspicious circumstances.

  Ostensibly, she overdosed.

  But her brother claims she was

  not on the medication the autopsy

  revealed, and that at the time

  of her death she was living happily

  with a man and his little girl,

  both of whom disappeared on

  the day she died, along with her

  deceased husband’s car. It was

  later discovered abandoned.

  “No. He wouldn’t.” But now

  bits and pieces of his story surface:

  . . . tetched in the head.

  . . . tried to off herself.

  . . . why I decided it was time to leave.

  “He needed a way to protect me.”

  That part slips out audibly.

  I can’t speak to motive, Casey,

  and maybe he didn’t go that far.

  There’s no way to prove it

  at this point. But it’s a very

  real possibility. Leona’s brother

  is convinced that it’s true.

  It Can’t Be True

  Can it?

  I know my dad.

  Really?

  He’s not a killer.

  Is he?

  He’s a liar.

  Totally.

  A gaslighter.

  Definitely.

  A narcissist.

  Exceptionally.

  A sociopath?

  Probably.

  But a murderer?

  Please

  don’t

  let

  him

  be.

  My World

  Just tipped, tilted

  so hard on its axis

  every rule of nature

  has just been called

  into question.

  “I . . . uh . . .” I take

  a gulp of water.

  “He left, you know.”

  I suspected he would.

  “Said he was afraid

  you’d call the cops.

  Did you call them?”

  I wasn’t going to. My main

  goal has always been to

  reconnect with you. If you

  only knew . . . She fights

  the lump that has formed

  in her throat. When I finally

  found you, revenge wasn’t

  so important. I might’ve let

  it go. But when I learned about

  Leona, I had to alert the police.

  “But why? Like you said,

  after all this time, it

  would be hard to prove.”

  Some things you can close

  your eyes to. Others demand

  serious consequences, or

  the perpetrator is likely

  to repeat them. I’ve been in

  the news business for a while

  and I can tell you that from

  what I’ve seen, very few killers

  and rapists act only once.

  Besides, on the most intrinsic

  level, Leona deserves justice.

  Justice.

  Right.

  “Don’t you think

  you deserve justice?”

  She sighs heavily. Casey,

  I wanted justice for years.

  Wanted to see Jason locked

  up for what he did to you

  and me for as long as the law

  would allow. That hunger

  for payback has dissipated.

  But I really wouldn’t want

  him to hurt anyone else.

  It’s my moral duty to do what

  I can to see that doesn’t happen.

  As Pissed As I Am

  At Dad, it’s hard to reconcile

  this information with how I’ve

  always pictured him. But I only

  saw what I wanted to, or what

  he let me see. And if I came

  too close, he knew exactly

  how to manipulate me,

  pull the blinders down over

  my eyes. I hate that I’ve been

  so naive. I despise what he’s done.

  To her, yes.

  But mostly to me.

  I can’t blame Maya for

  notifying the authorities.

  “Did Monica tell you what

  he did the night he left?”

  You mean running you off

  the road? Yes, and truthfully,

  it’s also one reason I chose

  to report him. I was afraid

  if I didn’t he might come back

  and hurt you worse than he did.

  The implication is clear:

  finish me off.

  As much as I want to say

  that’s impossible, I really

  can’t. Last Saturday night

  pops into view like a video.

  Dad rode my bumper.

  Passed. Too close. Swerved

  in front of me. I can see

  his profile clearly. I thought

  then that he didn’t look at me,

  but when I jerked my car

  sideways, barely missing

/>   him, his head turned toward

  me and for one instant

  before my head hit

  the steering wheel,

  I caught his expression.

  Satisfied.

  He smiled satisfaction.

  “Do you think they’ll catch

  him? What happens if they do?”

  I don’t know. At the very

  least he’d face a court-martial.

  I don’t believe there’s a statute

  of limitations on desertion.

  But Jason seems to be an expert

  on lying low. And without you

  in tow, he’ll be damn hard to catch.

  God, I Want to Be Angry

  With her.

  Not him.

  But why?

  I think it’s me

  who’s crazy.

  Obviously my brain

  needs rewiring.

  Or, at the very least,

  reprogramming.

  Are you okay?

  Her hand sneaks

  across the table,

  meets mine, and

  I don’t pull away.

  It’s the first time

  I’ve touched my mom

  in fifteen years.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  Except tears

  stream down

  my face, and not

  because of Dad.

  I lift my eyes

  level with hers.

  They’re the color

  of mine and shiny

  with tears, too.

  “So, what now?”

  Oh, Casey! All I want

  is to know you.

  Your childhood is lost

  to me, but your adulthood

  is just beginning. Please

  let me be part of it.

  Maybe I can help you

  realize your dreams.

  “I don’t like to dream.

  Every time I do I get

  royally screwed.”

  Maybe we can change

  that. I’d like to try.

  Her voice is sincere

  and she’s so damn nice

  and I really wish

  I wasn’t starting to like her.

  Okay, with your dad gone,

  where will you live? If you

  need a place, I’ve got room—

  Now I Pull My Hand Away

  “No. I couldn’t.” Too far,

  too soon, Maya McCabe.

  “I don’t want to leave Sonora,

  and besides, I can’t move in

  with a stranger.” Mean, mean,

  and it feels good, and now I’m sure

  I’m crazy. “I’ve got options.”

  Actually, I know where I’m going.

  Gabe’s mom was released from

  the hospital, and he’s moving

  back to Stockton. Zelda’s invited

  me to stay with her for now.

  Maya does her best not to act

  hurt. I understand. Just know

  if you ever need a place to go