What She Left Behind

  Breakfast is Cheerios in plastic bowls, both of which I hate. I can’t stand the taste or smell of milk in a plastic bowl. The morning is occupied by more puzzles. The Statue of Liberty puzzle has been put away unfinished, but we work on the forest puzzle until we fill in all but the pieces that are missing.

  As we work on the puzzle, my mind drifts back to the day Matt died. After I had spent the afternoon making out with Ian and then rehashing the details with Lauren, Jay drove me home like Lauren had told Matt he would. On the ride home, we laughed about how Dan Watkins had fallen into the orchestra pit during the middle of last year’s play and how Matt had managed to cover for him by acting like it was part of the show. Now I wonder if Jay had been in such a good mood because he thought he was going to see Matt.

  We were still laughing when we walked in the front door. I even forgot to worry about Dad being mad if Jay didn’t leave before he got home.

  “I Had a Bad Day” was playing on the stereo.

  “Not that song again, Matt,” I protested. “Turn it off and shoot some hoops with Jay here.”

  Even though the music was loud, the house was quiet.

  “Matt?” That’s when I saw the blood. “What’s on the—”

  Jay tried to cover my eyes, to protect me from seeing what was left of my brother. But it was too late.

  We had stood there together screaming and sobbing in each other’s arms. I thought Jay had been crying from the shock of what we’d just seen. I hadn’t known it was so much more.

  “How about we go for a walk?” suggests Zach. “Remember when we used to go out walking and collect leaves?”

  “No,” says Dad. “I don’t. I don’t think we did.” His eyes narrow. It’s as if someone has ripped a hole in Zach’s Matt mask. Dad picks up the gun and turns it over in his hands.

  “It was pinecones, Matt. Not leaves,” I say.

  The hole patches itself. “Right. Pinecones,” says Dad.

  “Let’s go look for pinecones then,” I say.

  “It’s too cold out.” Dad’s leg twitches nervously. “I know. Reading time!”

  I can feel the blood drain from my face. I tossed the Stephen King book I had “packed” on the front lawn when we left the house. Dad turns toward the direction of the bedroom, where my duffel bag is. My palms start to sweat.

  One step. Two steps. Three. He hesitates in front of an end table, then grabs three books.

  I feel the color return to my cheeks.

  Dad distributes the books at random. I get a Western. Guns again. My mom, a romance. Zach, a nonfiction book on wild animals. Dad’s book is on top of the refrigerator, next to the duct tape. He takes it down and settles onto the couch. Surviving Alaska. It’s the same book he had been reading at home.

  Lunch is two cans of tuna, scooped onto individual plates and served with Saltines. Two pickles each. Tea.

  Just as Dad hands Zach a fork, Zach looks at me and nods. This is it! We were going to make our move. You have to get the gun, Sara. You have to do it! I try not to look at it on the counter. I don’t want to make Dad suspicious. Zach takes his fork and stabs it into Dad’s arm. Dad jerks away and swings at Zach’s face. Zach grabs Dad’s arm and holds on.

  That’s it. That’s my cue. I get up and run, dragging my chair behind me. I reach for the gun.

  The chair I’m cuffed to yanks back and I fall to the floor. The gun, too. I cringe, expecting it to go off. Zach’s also sprawled on the floor and inching toward the gun. But Dad retrieves it in seconds, pulls back the safety, and aims.

  At me.

  I can’t breathe. My whole body trembles. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot. I close my eyes tightly, waiting for the boom. I wonder if I’ll hear the gunshot before it kills me.

  Instead of a bullet, Dad’s voice says, “You try anything and I’ll shoot her.” I open my eyes. Dad is staring coldly at Zach. “And then I’ll shoot your mother.”

  Zach freezes. Dad stares him down for a few more seconds. He puts the gun on the top of the refrigerator, cuffs both of my hands to my chair, and ties my feet. Then Dad cuffs Zach and my mom to their chairs, taking away any freedom we had had.

  And with that, lunch is over. For everyone except Dad, that is. He stands at the counter and watches us as he eats his plate of tuna and crackers. He doesn’t seem angry, just thoughtful, and I wonder if he’s deciding what he’s going to do with us.

  Dad clears the table, our food untouched. He rinses the dishes but doesn’t wash them. Then he dries his hands on the kitchen towel. But when he hangs it on the handle of the oven door, he doesn’t straighten it.

  Dad plays his guitar all afternoon. He plays the same song fifty times, or maybe it’s a hundred. Every so often he picks up the gun which is now on the coffee table in front of him, and flips it over once, twice, three times, then puts it back.

  Dinner is the same. Dad eats tuna and crackers while standing at the counter and watching us. We have nothing.

  Dad goes back to his guitar after dinner.

  When someone finally speaks, it’s my mom.

  “Ray,” she says, in a soothing voice, “the kids need to get back for school tomorrow. Why don’t you give the keys to Matt so he and Sara can drive home? Then you and I can enjoy the rest of our vacation here.”

  What is she doing? Shut up, Mom! There’s no way he’ll let us go. She’s just going to make him angry.

  “This is a family vacation, Michelle. We should all be together. Aren’t you having a good time, Sara?” No mention of how we’d tried to escape.

  I nod and try to smile.

  “What? Speak up!”

  “Yes, of course. It’s great.”

  “Matt?”

  “Sure Dad.”

  “See, Michelle? They want to be here.”

  “But Sara has a history test and Matt has play rehearsal.” Mom’s voice is strong.

  Dad leans his guitar against the coffee table. The strings buzz. Dad glares at me. “Didn’t you tell me that Matt quit the play?” Dad asks. “Huh? Isn’t that what you said, Sara?”

  “I—uh, yes, of course he quit,” I say. “Mom just didn’t know yet.”

  Dad takes the gun from the coffee table and crosses the room to tower over Zach.

  “Did you quit the play or not? Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  “Yeah, I quit. Just like you wanted.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Dad slaps Zach across the face.

  Dad seems especially agitated. A bad feeling spreads through me. Something feels different. Like Dad’s about to snap. I have to do something, and fast.

  “Stop it, Dad!” I shout. “That’s not Matt, it’s Zach! Matt is dead!”

  Dad turns toward me. But the blank look in his eyes tells me that he hasn’t processed what I said. Or that he doesn’t want to.

  “Come on, Sara, let’s go,” Dad says, cold and matter-of-fact. He unties my legs and unlocks my handcuffs.

  “Dad?” My voice sounds shrill to my own ears. “You know that’s not Matt. It’s Zach. Let him go home!”

  “Mr. Peters,” Zach pleads. “I’m sorry I let you think I’m Matt. Can’t we all stay here and figure things out together?”

  “Ray!”

  My dad, his face expressionless, doesn’t answer. Instead he drags me out to the camper, opens the door, and pushes me in the back.

  I try again, pleading in my quiet voice. “It’s Zach, Dad. It’s Zach.”

  “Get under the table,” Dad barks. He cuffs me around the table leg again.

  God, what’s happening? Does Dad understand what I told him? Does he know that it’s Zach inside the cabin and not Matt?

  Dad slams the camper door behind him.

  “Dad!” Panic overwhelms me. Where is he taking me? But Dad doesn’t climb in the front seat of the camper. Is he going to bring Mom and Zach along? Or is he going to hurt them? My blood turns ice-cold.

  I pull at my handcuffs, then stop. A weird feeling crawls through me. Something is different
about the camper. Something smells different. I’m sure of it. I shake my head. God, I’m getting to be just as crazy as my dad. I have to stop imagining things!

  Then a whisper, “Sara!”

  My heart stops. “Alex?”

  The bathroom door creaks open.

  “Oh my God, Alex. Are you really here?” I’m horribly afraid that my mind is playing tricks on me.

  “I’m really here.” Alex crawls to the table and hugs me.

  “I can’t believe you came.” I start crying, both from relief that Alex is here and fear about what is going on inside the cabin.

  “Where’s the key to those?” he says, gesturing at the handcuffs.

  “There’s one in the cabin, but Dad had another one out here. I saw him put it in that top drawer when he took me in—then he came back out for Zach, so he might have moved it.” Or put it in his pocket. “Did you call for help?” I ask hopefully.

  Alex shakes his head as he begins rummaging through the drawer. “No service. And I didn’t tell anyone where I was going because I wasn’t sure what to expect—whether you needed help or you were just running away with Zach.”

  “With Zach?” I’m completely confused. “Didn’t you find the page from Soap Opera Digest?”

  Alex starts tossing things out of the drawer—flashlight, batteries. “The thing about the Julia girl being pregnant?”

  “Pregnant? What?”

  “I thought that was what this whole thing was about. You’ve looked kind of sick and upset lately, and you’ve been meeting Zach every day, like the two of you are sharing some sort of secret—I thought you were pregnant.”

  “No, not pregnant. Definitely not pregnant. But my dad—he’s lost it. He thinks Zach is Matt.”

  “Holy shit. As soon as I find the key and can get you free, I want you to take my car and get out of here as fast as you can. I parked by the end of the driveway, just around the corner. Here are my keys.” He tosses them next to me.

  Bam! A single gunshot.

  I scream, choke, and cry. Alex freezes. I cringe, bracing for a second. Nothing.

  Slam! Alex peers cautiously out of the window. “That’s the cabin door. Your dad has Zach, but he looks okay.” Alex sounds relieved.

  “My mom is in there too,” I whisper. Please, God, no! Please let it just have been a warning shot.

  “Jesus.” Alex’s eyes widen. “Hang in there, Sara. We’ll get to her. Where the hell is that key?” Alex glances out the window again. “Your dad’s taking Zach behind the cabin.”

  My heart pounds. “There’s only one thing behind the cabin. The river.”

  Alex yanks out the next drawer and dumps it out. I hear a tinkling sound as the contents hit the floor.

  “That’s it!” I say.

  Alex pats his hands across the floor. “Where did it go? I lost it!”

  “Over there, by the stove. Hurry!”

  Alex grabs the key. His hands are shaking so hard, it takes several tries to open the lock.

  Finally I’m free. Alex and I scramble down the stairs. “Go help your mom. Here, take the key,” Alex says. “I’ll go after your Dad and Zach.”

  “But—” What if he can’t handle Dad on his own? And what if I can’t handle what I might see in the cabin? Images of the way I had found Matt’s body flash through my mind. No.

  “Go, Sara! See if she needs help, then meet me behind the cabin.”

  I nod and take off running. Please let her be okay.

  On the porch, I yank open the cabin door, my heart thudding in my ears.

  Red. Blood. On the floor.

  It’s Matt all over again. Bleeding. Dying. Dead.

  “Mom!”

  She’s curled up on the floor, eyes closed.

  No! It isn’t supposed to happen like this. We were going to get away. It can’t end like this.

  My knees feel weak, as if I’m about to collapse.

  A soft moan.

  She’s alive.

  I hurry toward Mom. She clutches her right leg on both sides, just above the ankle. Blood seeps between her fingers.

  “I’m here, Mom.”

  “He untied me. I—tried—to—run—”

  “Shh,” I say gently. “Don’t talk.”

  Think! What did my guidebook say about gunshot wounds? I reach for the towel on the oven door. No. Try to find something clean. I yank open the drawer where the clean dish towels are kept.

  “Here, use these,” I say, slipping the towels between her fingers and the wounds, one on each side of her leg. Entrance. Exit. “Try to put pressure on them.”

  “Don’t—run—he—said—don’t—run.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s going to be okay.” Despite my own terror, I know I need to keep her calm. I already lost you once, Mom. I can’t lose you again. “Stay with me, Mom.”

  I need something to keep the towels in place in case my mom passes out. Rope? Duct tape.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get something from the kitchen. You’re doing great.”

  Matt, help me here. Help me save Mom.

  I murmur reassurances as I wrap the duct tape around the towels, securing them.

  Elevate. You’re supposed to elevate, Sara.

  I snatch a pillow from the couch and slide it under Mom’s leg. Then I stroke her face. “You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Bam! A gunshot sounds from outside. No. No. No. Now who has he hurt? I have to go help! But how can I leave Mom?

  “Go,” she murmurs. “Go.”

  Summoning every last ounce of courage, I stagger out of the cabin.

  I need a weapon. Something I can use to stop Dad. I look for a tool, a branch, anything. Do I go back into the cabin to get a knife? If I did, could I use it?

  The storage chest.

  I bound down the cabin stairs and over to the storage chest. Whipping open the cover, I start flinging water toys across the lawn until I find something I can use: a canoe paddle.

  I round the corner. A few yards away near the riverbank, Alex is on the ground. Dad kicks him. Over and over again. I want to scream and make him stop, but I need to catch Dad off guard.

  Where is Zach? And where is the gun? It has to be nearby, but I don’t see it. I charge.

  I swing the paddle back and aim for Dad. I cringe as I do it, not wanting to hurt him, even after all that he’s done. It knocks him to the ground, but only for a second. He pushes himself up and starts in my direction.

  I swing again, but Dad grabs the paddle and wrenches it away from me. He turns it sideways and raises it over his head.

  I’m frozen in terror. At the last second, I move. Instead of smashing into my skull, the paddle slices into my shoulder. I scream and double over in pain.

  Dad kicks me in the side. He raises the paddle again. I roll out of the way just as Alex, crawling up behind Dad, grabs both of his feet and knocks him down next to me. Where the hell is Zach?

  “Gun—over—there,” Alex gasps.

  I scramble toward it. Dad grabs my pants leg. I stumble, but break free of Dad’s hold. There it is, lying in front of me, daring me to pick it up. I want to get up and run, but Alex needs me. And Mom. And Zach, wherever he is.

  I grab the gun.

  The moment I touch it, I see my brother. A thousand images of him flash in an instant, only two of which I can see clearly: him leaning against his convertible—Coming, Sara?—and him lying dead on the dining room floor.

  There’s a grunt behind me. It’s Dad. He’s on top of Alex, his hands around Alex’s neck. Pressing, squeezing, forcing the life out of him. Like he’d done to my family, over and over again.

  “Stop!” I shout. “I have the gun! You have to let him go! He’s choking!” The gun feels cold and heavy. My hands shake. There’s no way I can do this.

  Dad looks at me for a second, but he doesn’t stop. He knows I won’t do anything. I never do.

  There’s a ringing in my ears, blocking out all othe
r sounds.

  I know how to aim a gun. I’m a cop’s daughter, after all. Dad taught me how to shoot way before he ever became the enemy.

  “Stop! I’m counting to three! Please, don’t make me do this,” I beg, tears streaming down my face.

  Stop the shaking. You have to stop your hands from shaking. Alex is going to die if you don’t.

  I remember the first time I jumped into deep water. I had been so terrified, my whole body shook. And then Matt had taken my hand. I need you now, Matt. I really need you.

  “One.” I can hear the difference in my own voice and my trembling subsides.

  “Two. I’m not kidding, Dad.” He must know I mean it. I can see it in his eyes as he looks up at me. For a moment, I see the sweet dad who gave me Sam. But then there’s nothing but coldness.

  “Three.”

  Alex tries to pry Dad’s hands off his neck. Instead of stopping, Dad squeezes harder. Alex’s hands go limp.

  The roar of the river fills my ears.

  “Daddy!” I scream.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  He lets go.

  I sob and fall to my knees, knowing I’ll never have the will to get up again.

  Daddy. Daddy, what have I done?

  Alex, coughing, crawls out from underneath Dad’s body.

  “Zach,” says Alex, his voice barely a whisper. He points to the river.

  There is no way Zach is still alive in that water.

  How can I even find him? Everything is a fog. Besides, I can’t get up. I’m never getting up again.

  Come on, Sara, get up! You have to try.

  “Is he shot?”

  “In the leg,” Alex croaks. It makes sense. Don’t run is what Mom said Dad had told her. I get a lump in my throat as I think about how Dad didn’t want us to leave him, no matter what the cost.

  “Mom’s in the—Mom—cabin.” I’m trembling so much that I can barely get the words out. And my thoughts are swirling so, I’m not sure that the words coming out make any sense. “I’m—Zach—going.”

  I stumble over to the river, ditch my shoes, and jump in.

  God, it’s cold! How long has Zach been in here? I have a horrible feeling that I am way, way too late.

  Where is he, Matt? You’ve got to help me find him, I think frantically.