At least our meetings weren’t so bad. Tonight, I’d kind of looked forward to it. Aly understood my relationship with school. She didn’t expect me to magically turn into a star student. But she wanted me to learn how to survive. More focus, fewer outbursts. And she’d gotten me permission to carry my iPod in summer school, so I could listen to it between classes.
“Music for you is a tool. Use your tools, Telly. That’s what they’re there for.”
So I had eight weeks of summer classes and hallway music to look forward to. Then my senior year. Last year to get my life on track. Last year with the Duvalls.
I wondered if other kids, the kind with real homes, looked forward to graduation. Or if everyone was as terrified as I was.
I didn’t understand the noise at first. I dropped my backpack on the floor of the entryway closet. Kicked off my sneakers. Stuck my iPod in my back pocket. Then it finally registered. Sniffles. Sobs.
Someone crying.
I stilled in the entryway, not knowing what to do.
Sandra. Had to be Sandra. Who else would be crying in the house?
I crept forward, peered into the kitchen. Nothing. Then the family room. Nothing.
Finally down the hall toward her bedroom. Door was cracked open, sound definitely louder there.
I knocked lightly, not sure if I should disturb her. “You . . . um, okay?” I asked at last.
Sniffle. Ragged sob.
Slowly, I pushed the door open. Sandra sat on the edge of the bed. She wore the same summer skirt and frilly blouse I’d seen her in this morning. Now, however, she was surrounded by a pile of used tissues, glass of water in her hand.
She looked up when I walked in. Nose red. Eyes puffy. She didn’t say anything. Just stared at me as I shifted from foot to foot.
“Frank around?” I asked hopefully.
She shook her head.
I kind of knew that, though I’d wanted a different answer. Frank had been gone a lot lately. Going where, doing what, I didn’t know. Sometimes I got the impression Sandra didn’t know either. But she didn’t press him on the subject, and neither did I.
“It’s okay to be sad,” she said abruptly.
“Okay.”
“People like you and me. We understand. For every gain, there’s a loss. Some days, you have to mourn your losses.”
It occurred to me for the first time that she was slurring her words. Sandra, whom I’d never seen touch as much as a drop of wine, definitely had something other than water in that glass. Straight vodka? Tequila? Where’d she even gotten it? The Duvalls were pretty careful about alcohol in the house, fostering a troubled teen and all. Every now and then, Frank would bring home a six-pack of beer. But hard alcohol? No way.
I advanced farther in the room, worried now.
“You, uh, want me to call someone?”
“Do you miss them?” Sandra whispered.
“Who?” But then I knew. I knew exactly who she was talking about. I stilled, hands in my pockets. It finally occurred to me what was going on here. Sandra was having herself a pity party. She was missing her family. Just like some days, every day, I missed mine.
She stared at me now, so hard I had to look away.
“Did you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked.
“No. Just me. Only child. Lucky duck.”
“I miss my sister,” I heard myself say.
“My mother died.”
“Today? I’m sorry—”
“Five years ago. Breast cancer. I heard about it later. Never called her, you know. Never looked back. She died, and I never even got to tell her good-bye.”
“You loved her.”
“I hated her! I hated her for being so weak. For marrying that man. For letting him raise his voice, raise his fist, for letting him do everything he did. I loathed him. But I hated her. Especially toward the end. When I’d turned just as mean as he was, and she didn’t do a thing to stop me.”
I didn’t know what to say anymore. Or maybe I did. “My mom was sad,” I murmured. “That’s what I remember the most. That when she was sad, she was so sad. But then, when she was happy, she was so happy. When I was little, I used to wish she’d be happier more.”
“Your father killed her.”
I didn’t bother to correct her.
“With a knife. I read your story and I picked you, Telly. From all the kids, I picked you. Because I know what it sounds like when a knife slides home. I know what blood feels like, dripping down your hands. Frank doesn’t. He tries to understand. But he’s only gutted animals. And it’s not the same, is it, Telly? Is it?”
“I’m sorry your mother’s dead,” I said.
“I’m sorry your mother is dead, too,” she replied solemnly. Then she started crying again and picked up another tissue.
“You should call your sister,” she said after a while. “Frank has the number, he got all the information. You could have her over for dinner. I’ll make that god-awful boxed mac and cheese.”
“Thank you,” I said, which wasn’t really an answer. Frank had been bugging me about Sharlah, too. Closure, everyone thought I needed closure. I’d shattered my baby sister’s arm. So, like, what? Meeting her now, staring at her scar, would magically make me feel better?
“You’re not going to call,” Sandra said. “You’re scared.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m ashamed,” I said bluntly. Because I could talk to this drunk Sandra. And she could talk to me, too.
“I hit my mom,” she said.
This was interesting. I moved closer.
“Frank, I let him think I left home because my father abused us. But that’s only half the truth—my father was a cold, merciless son of a bitch. But I mostly left home because one day, I shoved my mother down the stairs. And it wasn’t even the first time I’d yelled at her or hit her or slapped her. Probably not even the twentieth. See, by the time I was twelve, I’d figured out I could be the object of my father’s torture or his partner in crime. So I made my choice. I became his daughter. And he was so fucking proud of me.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t want her to stop talking. Even if I couldn’t begin to understand this strange, surreal truth. Happy homemaker Sandra, cook-your-favorite-meal Sandra, a secret abuser.
“My mother didn’t cry when she landed. It was the total silence that scared me. For a minute, I thought she was dead. I found myself looking at my hands. Realizing, for the first time, what I’d done. And knowing that I could do it again and again. Would do it again and again. She’d never stop me.
“Did she love me that much?” Sandra whispered. “Or did she hate me that much? That’s the question I’ve never been able to answer. Who lets their kid turn into such a monster? My father, at least he was honest in his cruelty. It was my mother I could never understand. Eventually, she got up. She limped to the kitchen. She started dinner, never saying a word. And I realized . . . I realized I couldn’t live like that anymore.”
“You ran away.”
“It was my only option. If my father knew I was leaving, he wouldn’t have hit me. He would’ve killed me for sure.”
“Why?”
“Because I belonged to him. Just like my mother. And my father wasn’t the type to share his toys.”
“But . . . you’re crying over them.”
She glanced up at me. “Don’t you still cry for yours?”
She had me. I took a seat on the floor. She held up her glass, but I shook my head.
“I don’t drink much,” she said now, tone apologetic. “And I try not to cry too much either. What’s done is done. And Frank, he’s such a good man. I was so lucky. I am so lucky. I know that.”
“But some days . . . ,” I said.
“Some days . . . ,” she agreed.
“You told me it w
ould get better. When I got a family of my own, I wouldn’t miss my parents so much.”
“I lied.” She took a swig from her glass. “Honestly, do you really want to hear that you will forever have a hole in your heart, feel your parents’ loss like a phantom limb? Does that help you? Make you feel any better?”
“No.”
“Then forget I said anything. You will live happily ever after. Some girl will sweep you off your feet. Then you’ll have two bright shining children and never know struggle and disappointment. Better now?”
“You’re disappointed in Henry?”
“God no. But I do sometimes wish he wasn’t such an arrogant little shit. Computer genius. Bah.”
I really liked drunk Sandra. “Thank you for teaching me how to make chicken Parm.”
“Pissed him off, didn’t it? Well, he has his father. They like to speak geek. It’s only fair I now have a child, too. So there. To you and me, because for all their book smarts, they’ll still never know the kinds of things we know.”
She lifted her glass again. I had to look away. She’d called me her child. Her and me. I was crying. I knew I was crying. I just couldn’t help myself.
“Is your father really evil?” I heard myself ask.
“Yes.”
“Because he drank, did drugs?”
“No, honey. Because God made him that way, and he liked it. Your father had an excuse. My father doesn’t.”
“My father was drunk the night he attacked us,” I said. “But it doesn’t give him an excuse. To put it in your words, God made him an addict and he liked it. He was happier that way.”
“You had to kill him, Telly. Don’t feel guilty about it. You were only a little kid. You did what you had to do.”
“Maybe I should’ve run away. Taken my sister with me.”
“And maybe I should’ve killed my father, saved my mother. See, neither of us will ever know.”
“You still look up your family. That’s how you know your mother died?”
“Yes.”
“And your father?”
“You mean the frail old man now stalking my son at college and scurrying around to secret meetings with my husband?”
My eyes widened. “You know about that?”
“Frank likes to think he’s protecting me. But I’ve never needed his protection. At the end of the day, I am still my father’s daughter.”
“Are you going to see him? Grant . . . forgiveness?”
“If your father was still alive, if he’d only injured you and you had only injured him . . . would you want to see him now? Would you feel better offering forgiveness?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have that option.” Except that wasn’t really true. There was Sharlah, always Sharlah. Would she feel better if she had a chance to forgive me? Would I feel better if I had a chance to forgive her, too?
Sandra knew the sound of a knife snick-snickering against human flesh. But I also knew the sound of a baseball bat, crunching bone.
“My father doesn’t want forgiveness,” Sandra said now. She raised the glass, downed the final gulp. “Even riddled with cancer, he’s not that kind of man.”
“Then what does he want?”
“In my wildest dreams: He wants me to kill him before the cancer does. At least it would be an interesting proposition.”
I didn’t have anything to say.
“My father’s rich,” she said. “Stinking, filthy rich. Offshore-funds, secreted-money kind of rich. Live-in-mansions-all-over-the-world-on-ill-gotten-gains kind of rich. In theory, it could all be mine. Kill the king. Long live the queen, and all that.”
She smiled, but it was grim. And in that moment, she wasn’t drunk Sandra or foster-mom Sandra. She was a woman I didn’t know at all.
“You’re going to kill your father?”
“Well, if he uses his nice voice . . .”
“You spoke to him.”
“No.” Her voice suddenly faltered. “Because that’s the kicker. All these years later, I still don’t trust myself to be around him. I think mostly, he will make me feel small and weak and helpless again. Would you do me a favor, Telly? Would you kill my father for me? I could get you a baseball bat.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I only kill drunk guys chasing my baby sister with knives.”
“It’s funny, isn’t it? All the ways we grow up, promise ourselves we’ll do better. And all the many more ways we never change at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. Declining her offer to murder her father, or recognizing the pain he obviously brought her?
“Thank you for being part of my new family, Telly,” she said. “Frank and Henry love me. But there are things I can’t tell them. Things I think only you can understand. We are kindred spirits of sorts. And for that, I’m sorry for both of us.”
She smiled sadly. But I didn’t return the look. I didn’t mind being her kindred spirit. It felt like an honor to me.
“If worst comes to worst,” I heard myself say, “I’ll help you.”
“He’s going to die,” she told me, voice firmer. “He’s going to die. And then it will all be over and life will return to normal. Unless, of course . . .”
I waited, but she didn’t explain any more. Instead, a look of consternation came over her face.
“Telly, I may need you to keep one more secret for me after all.”
Chapter 36
LUKA IS EXHAUSTED from the day’s adventures. I lead him into the house while Rainie performs a perimeter sweep. Luka slurps down a bowl of water, then collapses on the family room floor, casting a longing glance down the hall toward my bedroom.
I’m too keyed up to sleep. My legs hurt. My chest, my heart. But I can’t shut down as easily as my dog. Instead, I roam the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water, then investigating the refrigerator again and again. I should eat. I should be hungry. But nothing appeals to me.
I keep seeing my brother, disappearing into the woods, rifle held at the ready.
By the time Rainie returns, I’m walking laps around the kitchen table. She doesn’t say anything. Just pours herself a glass of water, too. Outside it’s still hot and muggy. But inside the air-conditioning has done its job. She shivers slightly from the shock of it and I can see the outline of her handgun tucked into the back of her capris.
“You really think Telly’s still a threat to me?”
“I think it never hurts to take precautions.”
“If he wanted to kill me, he could’ve done it when we were alone together this afternoon. No need to wait for this fuss.”
She shrugs but doesn’t put away her gun. Not Telly, I realize abruptly. At least she can’t be that worried about him, given his actions this afternoon. But she is still worried. Because if Telly didn’t shoot those people at the EZ Gas, then who did?
“All clear outside?” I ask now, pretending to only half-care.
She nods. “Are you okay?”
“Right as rain,” I assure her.
Her expression softens. “He’s your brother, Sharlah. It’s okay to worry about him.”
“I feel like something bad is going to happen,” I murmur. “And if I could just think hard enough, be smart enough, I could avoid it. But I’ve never been that smart. Or that lucky.”
Rainie doesn’t say anything. She takes a seat at the table. After a moment, I join her.
“Most people go through life knowing there’s violence out there but cushioned by a certain distance,” she says after a minute. “Bad things happen, but not to them. You don’t have that cushion, Sharlah. Your first five years were a constant exercise in fight or flight, and that was before your father went after you and your brother with a knife. Bad things aren’t an abstract for you. They’re very real events. And having experienced them once,
of course you expect the worst to happen again.”
“Telly’s in trouble.”
“Yes.”
“The way he carried his rifle, the way he spoke . . . He’s gonna do something serious. Or die trying.”
“I’m sorry, Sharlah.”
I twirl my water glass. “I don’t think he killed his foster parents. I mean, we don’t have video or anything from that shooting, but if we did, I bet you it’d be the other guy from the EZ Gas, the one with the mole above his wrist. He did all this.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I find myself continuing: “The way Telly spoke of his fosters. He respected them. He liked them. He wouldn’t just turn on them like that.”
“We don’t always know what makes people kill.”
“But you try to, right? That’s what profiling is all about. Determining why people kill, and using that knowledge to identify the killer.”
Rainie regards me seriously. “Nature versus nurture,” she says abruptly. “That’s the most fundamental question in personality development. Especially when it comes to criminals. Is someone born evil, or did something happen to make him or her that way?”
“Telly wasn’t born bad,” I say stubbornly. “He took care of me.”
“He was born into a household filled with violence. Surrounded by addiction and instability, raised by a father whose idea of conflict resolution was brutality.”
“Maybe our nurture wasn’t so great,” I concede. “But his nature . . . My brother is good. I know that. Even when I saw him today. There’s still some Telly in him. You have to believe me, Rainie. You have to believe.”
“I do, honey. There were many things Telly could’ve done this afternoon, and of all of them, he chose to give you back. I’m grateful to him.”
We fall back into silence.
“I wanted to save him,” I hear myself whisper after a moment. “That’s why I had to leave this afternoon. Why I had to find him. Just once. I wanted to make things right.”