Never Knowing

  We were Christmas shopping and Dad told me to watch her while he went into a store. Melanie wanted to walk around, but I knew Dad would be furious if we moved an inch, so I held on to the back of her coat. The tighter I gripped, the harder she fought, pulling and clawing at me, until she broke away and ran into a crowd of shoppers. The next twenty minutes were the most terrifying of my life. I started screaming her name frantically. Dad came running out of the store, his face white. When we finally found her—playing on a mechanical pony—Dad dragged me to the parking lot and spanked me behind his truck. I still remember trying to break away from him, crying so hard I could barely breathe, his hand coming down again and again.

  Most of my worst childhood memories are of my getting into trouble because of Melanie. One Halloween Lauren and I were dressing up as cheerleaders. Melanie wanted the same costume, but we had only made two, so I told her she could be a princess. She grabbed my pom-poms and ran out of the room, saying she was going to throw them in the fire. I chased her, slipped in the hallway, knocked over a lamp, and broke the shade. When I told Dad, he was furious—not because of the lamp but because I should have included Melanie. I wasn’t allowed to go trick-or-treating, and he let Melanie wear my costume. The worst part was he made me walk with them from house to house. I still remember watching Melanie skip up to the door in the costume I’d spent weeks making, the little skirt swinging with each step, my heart breaking when people told her how cute she looked.

  When we hit our twenties—and neither of us was living at home—we started getting along better. After I had Ally, Melanie would come over sometimes and hang out, watching movies with me, laughing and eating popcorn. It was great, like we were finally sisters. We still argued once in a while, but the only times we really fought were if I tried to give her advice about her friends or some of the guys she was seeing. When she started dating Kyle I told her I was worried he might be using her because she worked at a bar. She flipped out and we didn’t speak for a while. Then I met Evan and Dad began inviting us over for dinner—he only called when Evan was home—and arranging family brunches and barbecues.

  Melanie missed a lot of these dinners because she was working, but when she did make it to one, she started taking shots at me—especially if her boyfriend was there. I didn’t know if she was just pissed off that Dad liked Evan more than Kyle, or because I didn’t like Kyle either, but she was hell-bent on making me look bad. And if I did lose my temper, Dad would come down hard on me and wouldn’t say squat to Melanie. The more I tried not to react, the harder she hit. Now anytime we talked about the wedding it felt like a setup for a fight.

  Lauren always ended up in the middle and I knew she was probably feeling awful about what had happened earlier, which made me feel awful. But guilt still gnawed at me for another reason, and I made a note to remind her not to tell anyone about my birth father.

  The next morning I slept late and ended up rushing around to get Ally off to school. Then a client called and needed an emergency repair on a hall stand that was going into an antique show. I never did get a chance to call Lauren, and I collapsed into bed swearing I’d deal with it the next day. But I didn’t, and as the days turned into a week I slid back into a depression.

  The simplest task seemed insurmountable and my body ached all over. Even the idea of going to therapy was exhausting. So I slept too much, ate too much, and stayed on the couch all afternoon watching movies. I had to force myself out for walks with Moose, steering him away from his preferred path through the woods to the safer, more populated nearby park. Usually I love watching him chasing bunnies all over the fairgrounds, the earthy scent of hay and animals still lingering in the air. But now the buildings just looked old and abandoned as my feet slogged through puddles.

  The only other times I dragged myself out were for Ally, using any energy I had left to hide what I was feeling. But I didn’t do a very good job. One day we were driving home in a downpour, not unusual for March, or any month on the coast, but it added to my already dismal mood. We stopped at a red light and I was staring out the windshield.

  Ally said, “Why are you sad, Mommy?”

  “Mommy’s not feeling well, honey.”

  “I’ll take care of you,” she said. She was so sweet that night, trying to make me soup and telling Moose he had to be quiet. She also spent the night in my bed. We snuggled together as she read me stories, lending me her favorite Barbie for comfort, the rain pattering against the window. The next morning I finally called Lauren to apologize for leaving so fast, but she beat me to it.

  “I’m sorry I said anything to Melanie about Kyle playing at the wedding, Sara. But you two are always fighting and it makes it hard to say anything to either of you.”

  “Melanie drives me nuts.”

  “I wish you two weren’t so jealous of each other.”

  “I’m not jealous of her, I just hate that she gets away with everything.”

  “Dad’s just as hard on her, you know.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “He is—you just don’t see it. He’s always on her case about her job, telling her how well your business is doing and how big your house is and how successful Evan is. I think sometimes you two clash because you’re so alike.”

  “I’m nothing like Melanie.”

  “You’re both really strong people, and—”

  “Nothing, Lauren.”

  She was silent.

  I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just going through a hard time.”

  Her voice was gentle. “I know, hon. Call me anytime you want to talk.” But I didn’t, because as much as I loved my sister, there were some things she couldn’t help with, some things that would always separate us. She knew where she belonged.

  * * *

  When another week slipped by and I was still moping around, I decided it was time to make some changes. I stopped Googling the Campsite Killer ten times a day, stopped reading about genetics and deviant behavior, which only led to nightmares, and bought material for a birdhouse—something Ally had wanted to build for ages. We had so much fun working on it together, Ally giggling while she painted, waving the brush around and splattering paint all over her fingers and the table. And slowly the darkness started to lift. Evan and I even managed to have a nice dinner over at Lauren and Greg’s one weekend. Or at least it was nice until Dad showed up to go over some work stuff with Greg.

  I felt terrible for Greg, listening to Dad berate him downstairs—when he knew we could hear in the kitchen. It was especially bad considering Dad came up after and told everyone he’d just hired a new foreman. Greg has been waiting years for Dad to promote him. Dad stayed for a beer and spent the entire time talking to Evan about fishing. It disgusts me that he plays favorites, but I was also disgusted at myself for feeling proud that he likes my fiancé.

  By the first week of April, I finally felt like my depression was behind me. I was sleeping through the night and staying awake during the day. I was spending hours in my workshop again and getting caught up on projects. I’d been feeling so good I even got up early this morning and went on a shopping bender for Ally. I dropped a ton of money on craft supplies and a Netbook, telling myself it would help her learn. I love buying her things: costumes, books, games, paints, clothes, stuffed animals. If Ally’s happy, I’m happy. As I walked back into my house carrying all the bags, the phone rang.

  “You better come over tonight.” It was my father. And his tone told me I was in trouble—big trouble.

  “What did I do wrong?”

  “I got a call.…”

  Dad paused for an excruciating minute. I held my breath.

  “It says on the Internet that your father’s the Campsite Killer.” His voice was tight with anger, demanding an explanation. I tried to make sense of what he’d just said, but it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

  “Did you know about this? Is it true?” His words hammered into me again, sending my pulse skyrocketing. This was the last w
ay I wanted them to find out. I thought of Mom, of how hurt she was going to be. I dropped onto the hall bench, closed my eyes, and got it over with.

  “I found my birth mother a couple of months ago.” I took a deep breath, then spat out the rest. “And it looks like my birth father is probably the Campsite Killer.”

  Dad was silent.

  I said, “Who called you?”

  “Big Mike.”

  Dad’s head foreman? How did he find out about this? The man is barely literate. Dad answered my questions for me.

  “He said his daughter found it on Nanaimo News for Now.”

  “You mean that gossip Web site?” I was already running upstairs to my computer.

  Dad’s voice was hard. “You found your birth mother two months ago, but you didn’t say anything? Why didn’t you tell us you were looking for her?”

  “I wanted to, but I just … Hang on, Dad.”

  I typed in the Web site address and found the article.

  Karen Christianson found in Victoria …

  “Oh, no.”

  I tried to read the article, but shock made the words jumble. I caught snippets. Karen Christianson … Only survivor of the Campsite Killer … Julia Laroche … Professor at the University of Victoria. Thirty-three-year-old daughter Sara Gallagher … Family-run business Gallagher Logging in Nanaimo …

  It was out, everything was out.

  Dad said, “How did they know she was your mother?”

  “I have no idea.” I stared at the screen as panicked thoughts careened through my head. How many people had seen the article?

  Dad said, “I’ll call Melanie and Lauren. I want everyone here by six. We’ll talk about it then.”

  “I’ll e-mail the site right away and tell them—”

  “I’ve already called my lawyer. We’ll sue their asses off if they don’t take this article down right away.”

  “Dad, I can handle it.”

  “I’m taking care of it.” His tone made it clear he didn’t think I could handle anything.

  After he hung up I realized he’d said, “Your father’s the Campsite Killer.” Not your birth father, just your father.

  * * *

  Now you know why I’m so stressed out, Nadine. After I got off the phone with my dad I read the rest of the article, wanting to throw up the whole time. It had a ton of pictures of Karen Christianson—they even posted her staff photo from the university. I couldn’t believe how much detail was in it about me too, what I do for a living, stuff about Evan’s lodge. The only thing it didn’t mention was that I had a daughter—thank God.

  Even though Dad had called his lawyer, I sent the Web site an e-mail asking them to remove the article and phoned every extension listed on the site, but no one called back. Yet again I was left feeling like an idiot who couldn’t do anything right. I tried to call Evan, but he was out on one of the boats with a group and wouldn’t be in until after dinner. Lauren wasn’t answering her phone, and she’s a stay-at-home mom. She was probably hiding out in her garden. I’m sure she’s dreading tonight’s meeting as much as me—Lauren hates it when people are upset.

  Now I’m wondering if Melanie could’ve heard Lauren and me talking. But bitchy as Melanie can be, I just can’t see her doing something this mean. Of course, if she told Kyle … he looks like the kind of guy who’d sell his kid sister if he thought it would get him ahead. There’s no way Lauren or the PI would have said anything.

  I haven’t been this scared about a family meeting since I had to tell my parents I was pregnant. Dad got up in the middle of that speech and left the room. I took Moose for a walk, hoping to get rid of all the nervous energy humming through my body, but I just ended up rushing back home to my computer. The article was still up when I had to leave for our appointment. I’m trying to calm down by reminding myself this can’t go anywhere if I don’t confirm anything. Dad’s lawyer works at one of the top firms in Nanaimo. He’ll have the article pulled off that site by the end of the day. People might gossip for a while, and then something else will take its place. I just have to wait things out.

  But I have a feeling something worse is waiting for me.

  SESSION FOUR

  Thank God you can fit me in—I know I was here yesterday, but when I panic like this everything in my head just spins around and around. All I could think was that I had to come here. You have to help me calm down because if one more thing happens today I’m going to lose it completely.

  * * *

  By the time I left my house for the family powwow I was in an even worse mood. It didn’t help that I’d had a heated debate with a six-year-old who did not like the change of plans.

  “You said we can make pancakes for dinner. In different shapes like Evan makes them.” Her voice was anxious. Ally has a methodical streak and all decisions require much deliberation, which is adorable when she sticks her little tongue out of her mouth and contemplates what to buy Moose with her birthday money but an absolute nightmare if we have to do anything in a hurry.

  “I don’t have time tonight, Ally Cat. We’re going to have chicken soup.”

  Fists balled on her hips. “You promised.” The second part of Ally’s orderly nature is that she needs to know our plans for each day and what she can expect in every situation. If I deviate off course, or God forbid rush through any step of the process, she’ll come unglued.

  “I know. I’m sorry, but we can’t today.”

  “You promised.” Her high-pitched whine set my teeth on edge.

  I whirled around. “Not today.”

  She ran back to her room with her dark curls bouncing around her head and slammed the door. I heard something thump against it. Moose sat outside her door looking at me reproachfully. I didn’t hear her crying, but Ally rarely cries—she’d throw something before she ever shed a tear. I once saw her stub her toe, then turn around and kick the offending table leg.

  I tried the handle. It turned, but something was against the door. Ah. Evan taught her to brace her chair under the knob if there’s an intruder.

  “Ally, I’d like you to come out so we can talk about this, please.”

  Silence.

  I took a deep breath.

  “When you come out we can pick another night this week to make pancakes—I’ll teach you how to make the batter from scratch. But you have to come out at the count of three.”

  Silence.

  “One … two…”

  Nothing.

  “Ally if you don’t come out here right now you’re not watching Hannah Montana for a week.”

  She opened the door, walked past me with her arms crossed and her head bowed, then tossed a sad look over her shoulder.

  “Evan never yells at me.”

  * * *

  Things didn’t get any better at my parents’. When I pulled in front of their log house on the outskirts of Nanaimo, Melanie’s car and Lauren’s SUV were in the driveway. Ally was already out of the Cherokee, Moose at her heels. I marched up to the front door, armor in place, knowing it wasn’t going to help one bit.

  They were all in the living room. Melanie didn’t look at me, but Lauren gave a tentative smile. Dad’s face was an iron mask. He was in his armchair in the middle of the room, dressed in his usual steel-toed work boots, black T-shirt, and red strap jeans that every self-respecting logger on the island lives in. Barrel-chested and brawny, full head of hair a snow-white crown, with his wife and daughters flanking him, he looked like a king.

  “Nana!” Ally ran toward Mom and hugged her legs, her pink goose-down coat squishing up around her ears.

  For a moment I wished I could run to Mom and hug her too. Everything about her is soft—her dark hair now threaded with silver, the powdery perfume she always wears, her voice, her skin. I searched her face for anger but just saw fatigue. I looked at her, my eyes pleading. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to hurt you.

  She said, “Let’s go in the kitchen, Ally. I have a cinnamon bun for you. The boys are already in the ba
ck.” She took Ally’s hand and led her away.

  As they passed me I said, “Hi, Mom.” She touched my hand and tried for a reassuring smile. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, that this wasn’t about her, but before I could gather the words she was gone.

  I threw myself into a chair facing my father, chin up. We held gazes. I looked away first.

  Finally he said, “You should’ve talked to us before you found your birth parents.”

  Years of working in the sun have emphasized the deep grooves around his mouth, which was set in a hard line. Even though he’s over sixty, it was the first time I’d seen my dad look old, and shame washed over me. He was right. I should have told them. I was trying to avoid hurting their feelings—and this conversation. But I’d made the whole thing worse.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Dad. It made sense at the time.”

  He raised his left eyebrow in the way that always made me feel like a colossal failure. This time was no exception.

  “I want to know how that Web site got this information.”

  “I’d like to know that myself.” I stared at Melanie.

  She said, “What are you looking at me for? I didn’t even know about it until Dad told me.”

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  Melanie twirled her finger by her temple and mouthed, Crazy.

  My blood surged with a hot rush of anger. “You know, Melanie, you can be a real—”