“Enough.” Dad’s voice boomed.
We were all quiet. I met Lauren’s eyes. I could tell by her expression—part guilt, part fear—that she’d told Dad she already knew about my birth parents.
I turned to Dad. “The only other people who know are Evan and the private investigator I hired—but he was a retired cop.”
“Did you check his credentials?”
“He gave me his card and—”
“What do you know about him?”
“I told you, he’s a retired cop.”
“Did you call the police and verify that?”
“No, but—”
“You didn’t check him out.” Dad shook his head and my face burned. “Give me his number.”
I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t the only person capable of doing something, but as usual he had me doubting myself.
“I’ll e-mail it to you.”
From the corner of my eye I noticed Mom standing in the doorway with a plate.
“Does anybody want a cinnamon bun?”
She sat on the couch and set the plate on the coffee table with some napkins. No one reached for a bun. Dad looked hard at Melanie and Lauren, who both took one. I followed suit even though there was no way I could choke anything down. Mom smiled, but her eyes were red-rimmed—she’d been crying. Crap.
She said, “Sara, we understand that you wanted to find your birth family, we’re just disappointed you didn’t tell us. It must have been very upsetting when you found out who your real father was.” Her pale cheeks told me she was still pretty upset herself.
“I’m sorry, Mom. It was just something I needed to do for myself. I was trying to work through it first before I talked to anyone.”
Mom said, “Your mother—the article said she’s a professor?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” I looked away, blinking hard.
“It’s not personal, Sara.” Mom’s voice was gentle. “Any mother would be proud to have you as her daughter.”
Tears filled my eyes. “I’m really sorry, Mom. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful or something. You’re an amazing mother.” It wasn’t lip service. Mom loved every art project we dragged home, every costume she had to make at the last minute, every pair of torn favorite blue jeans only she could fix. Mom loved being a mother. I’d never asked, but I was sure she was the one who wanted to adopt. I’d bet money Dad just did it for her.
I said, “You’ll always be my real parents—you raised me. I was just curious about my history. But when I found out about my biological father, I thought maybe you guys wouldn’t want to know.” I looked at my dad, then back at her. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
Mom said, “We’re worried and scared for you, but it would never change how we feel about you.” I looked at Dad again. He nodded, but his face was distant.
I said, “Evan’s out on the boat, but I’m going to tell him it’s on the Internet as soon as I get home.”
Dad said, “The article’s gone, but we’re still going to sue the bastards.”
I dropped my head to rest against the back of the chair and let out my breath. It was going to be okay. For a moment I felt protected—Dad was actually sticking up for me—but then he said, “The dumbasses never should’ve used my company name,” and I knew what he was really protecting.
I felt another stab of guilt when I saw Mom’s hand press against her belly as she grimaced. Dad also noticed and his eyes turned hard as they locked on to mine. He didn’t have to say the words. He’s said them many times, many ways. But the silent ones always hit the hardest. Look what you did to your mother.
Mom started talking about the wedding, but the conversation felt forced. Melanie and I steadfastly ignored each other.
Finally I said, “I should get Ally home to bed.” When I went outside to call her in, Lauren followed and closed the door behind us.
“Sorry I told Dad, but he asked if I knew and I didn’t want to lie to him.”
“It’s okay. Was he mad at you for keeping it a secret?”
She shook her head. “I think he’s just worried.”
“Is that why you ignored my call today?”
“I didn’t want to get caught in the middle.” She looked miserable. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want her caught in the middle either. I wanted her to take my side, but that was never going to happen. When we were kids and Dad went on a tirade against me, Lauren hid in her room. Later she’d come out and help me with my chores, but somehow I just felt more alone.
“You didn’t tell Melanie about my real father, did you?”
“Of course not!”
So Melanie had overheard and probably told Kyle, and then he told God only knows who. Nothing I could do about it now.
* * *
On the drive home, I was feeling a little calmer but still worried about how many people saw the article before it got pulled off. Then I remembered Mom saying they were worried and scared for me. I stopped at a red light, focusing in on that moment. Dad’s tense face, the concern in Mom’s eyes, something they were both thinking but didn’t say. What had I missed? Then it hit me.
The Campsite Killer could have read the article.
I didn’t know I was still sitting at the light until a car honked behind me and Ally said, “Mommy, go!” I drove the rest of the way in a daze. I’d been so caught up in defending myself, so terrified of my father’s anger, I’d missed the thing I should be most afraid of. If the Campsite Killer found that article, he not only knew I lived in Nanaimo, he knew my name.
As soon as we got home Ally had a bath, then I read her a story, but I kept stumbling over words and losing my spot on the page. I had to talk to Evan. After Ally fell asleep I tried to call him, but he wasn’t answering his cell. I bundled up in a blanket on the couch, watching mindless TV and waiting for Evan to call back. Just as I was about to give up and go to bed, the phone rang. Before he could ask what I’d been up to, I asked him how his day was.
“We found a pod of humpbacks, so the group was happy.” Evan built his lodge on the remote west coast of the island, so it offers guided kayak tours and whale watching not just fishing charters.
“That’s awesome.”
“Sure looking forward to coming home this weekend, though.…” He growled and I tried to join in but couldn’t pull it off. So I took a deep breath and spit it out. First I told him about leaving Julia a message and her awful call back, then about telling Lauren, and finally that it hit the Internet. He took it better than I thought, a lot better than I would—no surprise there.
“It won’t go anywhere,” he said.
“But people are obsessed with serial killers—half the books and movies made are about them. If they find out I’m his daughter…”
“You know where the shotgun is and the key for the trigger lock—”
“The shotgun!”
“You’ll be fine. That site can’t have that many readers.”
“What if he reads it?”
“The Campsite Killer?” He paused for a moment. “Nah, there’s no way he’s reading a Nanaimo blog.”
“You really think it’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, I do. Let your dad’s lawyer handle it.”
“I’m just freaked out.”
He softened his voice. “I’ll be home soon.”
* * *
Before I dove into bed last night I couldn’t help peeking at the Web site and was happy to see the article was still gone. I also did a quick Google search and nothing came up. I went to sleep convinced Evan was right—it wasn’t going to go anywhere. In fact, it was good this happened because it forced things out in the open with my family—keeping things under wraps is not exactly a talent of mine.
This morning Ally sang Moose a song in between bites of toast and peanut butter. Ally and I are both peanut butter fiends, you wouldn’t believe how many jars we go through. After I dropped her off at school I grabb
ed a coffee and headed out to the shop to attack a new armoire. I was in the zone within minutes and didn’t stop for lunch. Finally, in the afternoon, I decided to grab a snack and refill my coffee. Before I headed back out to my shop, I snuck upstairs for another peek at the Nanaimo News for Now site. The article was still down. For peace of mind I did another Google search for Karen Christianson. This time a bunch of new hits popped up.
I set my cup down so fast coffee sloshed over the rim, and clicked on the first link. It was for a serial killer fan club in the States. In the forum someone named “Dahmersdinner” had posted that Karen Christianson was hiding in Victoria and using the name Julia Laroche. Her daughter, a woman named Sara Gallagher, lived in Nanaimo. I stared at the screen, my heart thumping loudly in my ear. There was nothing I could do, no way to delete it. Then I noticed there were comments—lots of them. I clicked on the tab and expanded the page. First they were along the lines of “I wonder if it’s true” and “Can you imagine what his kid looks like?” But then more members joined in.
Someone had gone to the university site and found Julia’s office information. Then they linked to articles she’d written and Web sites that had photos of Karen Christianson. One commenter actually Photoshopped her picture to make it look like the Campsite Killer was standing behind her with a bloody rope in one hand and his other on his penis. They talked about Julia’s looks, complimenting the Campsite Killer’s taste. One jerk said he wondered if I was as twisted as my father. Another compared me to Ted Bundy’s daughter, saying they should hunt these “bitches” down before they could spread the disease. I read every vile comment, sick with shame and fear. I felt ripped open, exposed to the world.
I clicked from site to site as fast as I could—the majority of hits were coming from true crime blogs and a couple of Web sites devoted to serial killers, including the one I’d already found on the Campsite Killer. The more legitimate sites were careful to just say that Karen was “rumored” to have a daughter. It was the commenters, always anonymous, who added my name and that I lived in Nanaimo. Then I noticed a University of Victoria Student Forum was one of the hits. My stomach in knots, I clicked on the link but couldn’t get in without a student ID number.
A wave of panic came over me. What do I do now? How do I stop this? The cordless beside me rang and I jumped.
Lauren said, “I have to tell you something.”
“Is it about the Internet buzz?”
“You’re online?”
I stared at the screen. “It’s everywhere.”
Lauren was quiet for a moment, then said, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t have a clue. But I think I should talk to Julia.”
“Do you really—”
“If she hasn’t heard, I should warn her. And if she has, she’s going to think I told everyone. But if I call to explain, she’ll probably just hang up on me.” I groaned. “I’ve got to go. I need to figure out what to do.”
Lauren’s voice was gentle. “Okay, hon. Call if you need me.”
* * *
After I hung up the phone, I collapsed onto the couch. Moose joined me, grunting and snuffling into my neck. My mind spun in a million panicky directions. The whole world is going to know the truth about my father. The Campsite Killer could find Julia—and me. Evan’s business could be ruined. My business could be ruined. Ally’s going to be teased at school.
The phone rang. I checked the call display. Private number.
Julia?
I answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
A male voice said, “Is this Sara Gallagher?”
“Who’s speaking?”
“I’m your father.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m your real father.” His voice sped up. “I read about it on the Internet.”
A jolt of fear ran through me. Then I realized the voice was too young.
“I don’t know who you really are or what you read, but—”
“Are you hot like your mommy?” I heard laughter in the background, then another young-sounding voice called out, “Ask her if she likes it rough too.”
“Listen, you little—”
He hung up the phone.
* * *
I phoned Evan right away, but his cell went straight to voice mail. I thought about calling Lauren, but she’d be scared for me—hell, I was scared, which made me even angrier. Some teenagers were calling me and pretending to be my father just for kicks. What if Ally had picked up the phone? I was pacing around, fuming, when the phone rang again. I was hoping it was Evan, but it was Ally’s teacher.
“Sara, do you have time to talk when you pick Ally up today?”
“What’s going on?”
“Ally had a … disagreement with a classmate who tried to use some of her paints and I’d like to discuss it with you.” Great, just what I needed right now.
“I’ll talk to her about sharing, but maybe we can meet another time—”
“Ally pushed the girl—hard enough to make her fall.”
* * *
That’s when I called you. There is no way I can meet Ally’s teacher without talking to you first. I need to wrap my head around the fact that everything’s blown wide open. I can’t shake those sick comments, that awful phone call. And I know her teacher’s going to suggest that Ally meet with the school counselor again to learn how to handle her issues. She’s had problems before—yelling at other children, arguing with her teacher—but that’s just when she feels rushed. Her teacher also said Ally has difficulty transitioning from one subject to the next, and that’s when she stresses out the most. I tried to explain there’s nothing wrong with her—she just doesn’t like change. But her teacher kept asking if there were any problems at home. Let’s just hope she hasn’t heard about the Campsite Killer being my father.
I hate it when I get this upset, hate how my body reacts. My throat and chest get so tight I can barely breathe, my heart rate skyrockets, my face feels hot, I start sweating, and my calves ache with unused adrenaline. It feels like a bomb exploded inside my head, and my thoughts are flying everywhere.
We used to talk about how my anxiety was caused from growing up adopted and having a distant father: my subconscious was afraid I’d be abandoned again, so I never felt safe. But I think it’s more than that. When I was pregnant with Ally I read that you need to be calm or your baby will pick up on your negative energy. I spent nine months inside a woman who was constantly terrified. Her anxiety flowed into my blood, into my molecules. I was born in fear.
SESSION FIVE
When I first started therapy and was trying to avoid talking about my childhood you said, “To build up a future you have to know the past.” Then you told me it was a quote from Otto Frank, Anne Frank’s father, and that you’d toured her house in Amsterdam. I remember sitting here—you’d gone to get us a coffee—looking around at the photos on your wall, the art you brought back from your trips, the carvings and statues you collected, the books you wrote, thinking you were the coolest woman I knew.
I’d never met anyone like you before, the way you dressed, all artsy elegance, sort of a bohemian intellectual, a sweater shawl tossed over your shoulders, your hair cut in all those crazy chunks of gray, like you not only embraced your age—you were proud of it. The way you pulled your glasses off when you leaned in to ask me something, your finger tapping on your crooked mug—which you made in pottery class because you were bored and you told me it was important to never stop learning. I studied every move, drank it all in, and thought, This is a woman who isn’t afraid of anything. This is who I want to be.
That’s why I was so surprised when you told me you were also from a dysfunctional family and that your father had been an alcoholic. What I admired most was that you didn’t have any resentment or anger—you’d dealt with your crap and moved on. You’d built up a future. I left here feeling so hopeful that day, like anything was possible. But then later I thought about what you said?
?? about knowing your past—and it hit me that I’d never be able to build a real future because I didn’t know my real past. It was like building a house on no foundation. It might stay up for a while but eventually it would start sinking.
* * *
When I got home Moose snorted and jumped all over me like I’d been gone a million years. After I let him out for a pee—poor guy only made it a foot out the door—I thought about calling the cops to report the prank call but decided to wait and talk things over with Evan. When I scrolled through the call display to see if he’d phoned while I was out, I noticed two private numbers. I checked my voice mail and they were from newspapers.
For the next hour I paced around the house with the cordless gripped in my hand, praying Evan would call soon. The phone rang in my hand once, making me jump, but it was just another reporter. After a while I made myself call Dad and tell him what I found online and about the calls.
He said, “Don’t answer the phone if you don’t know the number. If someone asks about the Campsite Killer, deny everything. You were adopted but your birth mother wasn’t Karen Christianson.”
“You think I should lie?”
“Damn right. I’ll tell Melanie and Lauren the same. And if any punk calls again, just hang up.”
“Should I go to the police?”
“They can’t do anything. I’ll deal with this. Send me the links.”
“Most of them are just forums.”
“Send them.”
* * *
I did as he said, then tortured myself by reading the comments again. There were ten new ones, each sicker than the last. I checked the other Web sites and the comments were just as bad. It shocked me that people could be so mean about someone they didn’t know—and it terrified me that they knew my name. I wanted to monitor the sites, wanted to defend myself and Julia, but it was time to go meet with Ally’s teacher.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Turns out the other little girl had been harassing Ally for a while—messing up her desk, taking paints while Ally was still using them—and Ally finally lost it. Of course, I said I’d explain to her that pushing wasn’t the way to deal with disagreements and she should tell an adult if she’s having problems, but I’d have said anything to get out of there. What Ally did was wrong, and I did talk to her about it, but frankly it didn’t seem like such a big deal compared to the fact that I’d just ruined Julia’s life, not to mention my own. Then I dragged my whole family into it. It was the last one that hurt the most.