I Know You Remember

by Jennifer Donaldson

  This isn’t fair, she’s uprooting me just because she wants a “fresh start.” what does that even mean?

  And a few days later:

  You have to visit soon. You will not believe the trees here. It’s not the Precipice but it could be a cool setting of its own.

  And then, finally:

  Fucking reply already, oathbreaker

  So I had. I’d replied. Sorry been busy with school. Miss you girl. I’d replied that time, and the next time, and every time, and I’d learned how to find the exact balance: how little could I say to her before she’d freak out? How vague could I stay, how long could I stretch the silences, before she threatened me? I hated it, every second of it, but I knew I had to keep her calm. And besides, I deserved to be punished for my part in what’d happened. If this was my punishment, I got off pretty light.

  I stayed away from social media. I kept my head down. I tried to get away, as far away as I could. I tried to become someone else. First I thought maybe Jesus would help. Mom never liked talking about her childhood or her parents, but Grandma and Grandpa had been nice enough to me the few times we were together. It wasn’t until I moved in with them that I understood even a fraction of what she went through. Jesus seemed like a good guy. My grandpa, on the other hand, refused to let me wear a sleeveless shirt to school and referred to my hair as “nappy.” And as much as I wanted to change, to be a better person than I was, I knew I couldn’t do that with him.

  Back home I tore down all my decorations and took box after box of books to the curb. I painted my walls smooth and clean and gray. I threw out all my crumpled art projects, all my half-used glue sticks and my pinking shears and the origami animals that littered every surface in my room. My parents were terrified. I could see it in their eyes. They didn’t understand what was happening. I caught my little brother fishing a bunch of my stuff out of the trash one day. “You still want it, I know you do!” he’d fumed, as I crammed it all back down in the bin.

  But I couldn’t ever change enough to outrun the truth. Images of Ruthie, spattered in blood and brains, would spring up to claw at me out of nowhere. Or worse—images of Bailey. Bailey laughing, scraping the bark off a tree with a rusty penknife. Bailey stealing money off my kitchen counter, never realizing that my mom left it there for her to steal.

  Bailey convulsing on the hard-packed ground, her hair matted with blood.

  Even when I did start coming out of my shell a little, the memories ambushed me. Even when I was lucky beyond belief, making friends. Falling in love with Ben. Learning how much I liked to take pictures. Finding the island my grandpa’s church had abandoned. Everything happy and good got touched, eventually, by my own dirty, bloody memories.

  Then this September she sent a fresh flurry of messages.

  Send me some pics? I’m so homesick.

  What have you been reading lately? Did you see Naomi Novik finally finished Temeraire? I think you’d like the last one.

  Everything okay?

  I didn’t answer fast enough. I knew I was cutting it close. Maybe I was getting complacent. She was in Portland, after all. It’d been three years. How long was I going to have to be her pen pal to keep her happy? I thought, maybe, if I just ignored it a little longer, it’d be over, done, gone.

  Then I’d gotten her last text. And it wasn’t the rage-filled screed I expected. It was far, far worse.

  Arriving in Anchorage this Sunday. Can’t wait to see you.

  I’d gone into a blind panic. I had to run. I had to hide. I never had a good plan but there wasn’t time to slow down and come up with one. First thing was to vanish. I thought disappearing from a party would help to cover my tracks. So I hid my bike in the woods down the street from Tabitha’s house. I was going to slip out when everyone was drunk. Then I could use the bike trails to get to Grandma’s house, where I’d beg her to let me stay.

  But then Ben found out about Seb. And everything went wrong.

  He blew up. He’d never blown up like that before. Ben was endlessly patient with me, with my panic attacks and my mood swings, with all the ways I tested his boundaries, with all the ways I lashed out blindly. But something about that stupid kiss was too much for him to take. He paced the lawn. He called me names I’d never even heard him use. And I just sat there, sobbing—partly because it hurt so badly, but partly because I knew it was the worst possible thing he could be doing. I knew it’d make it look like he had something to do with my disappearance.

  And I still did it. I still did it, knowing full well what it’d mean for Ben—the last person in the world I wanted to see hurt. I went back to the party and pretended to get drunk. I made sure to stay late, as late as I could—I didn’t want anyone to think I’d left with Ben, though they of course thought that anyway. And then, when the party was at its wildest, when people were making out in the corners and breaking vases in the living room and stumbling blindly around, I slipped out the door and headed to the trail where I’d left my bike. It was out there, while I was groping around in the dark woods, that I tripped on a root and broke my phone’s screen, the shattered glass leaving a shallow cut on my palm. And I’m so stupid, I never thought about the blood—I just didn’t want the cops to be able to track me with my phone. So I left it there, next to a tree, hoping it’d be another misdirect to keep anyone from finding me.

  And it was. For a while. Though it scared my parents, my brother, my cousins and aunts and uncle out of their minds.

  Everyone’s been dragged into this now. Because of me, because I couldn’t face my crimes. My parents thought I was dead. Dad can’t even look at me without breaking into tears right now—all morning long he’s been leaving the room whenever I come in. And Mom. The whole thing has broken something inside her. She thinks Grandma and Grandpa did something unspeakable, when all they really did—at least, all Grandma really did—was trust me. I showed up at her doorstep at three in the morning, without warning, and she brought me in, and trusted that I needed to hide. I told her someone wanted to hurt me. I was vague, but I made it sound like maybe I owed someone money, like maybe I’d gotten involved with drugs or something. It made me look sketchy as hell, but it was better than confessing to murder. She told me I could stay as long as I needed. She told me she’d handle Grandpa.

  Now she’s in the hospital. And if I don’t do something to fix things, Grandpa’s going to jail. And it’s all my fault.

  She’s torn through everyone I love on her way to get to me. But then, I should’ve known. Lyr always hated oathbreakers.

  * * *

  —

  “YOU HAVE NO IDEA what I’ve been through,” she says now. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do to get back here to you.”

  I’m trembling, with anger, with terror, with all the adrenaline I’ve been swallowing like poison for the last three years. “It can’t be worse than what you did. To Bailey.”

  “That was an accident,” she says.

  “You beat her with a hammer!” I nod toward the now-empty grave. The place Bailey’d been hidden for so long.

  “You helped,” she says.

  “I helped you bury her,” I say. “I helped you keep the secret. But you were the one that killed her.”

  “Why do you keep saying it like that? She attacked us. She shouldn’t have followed us.” She looks at me, almost exasperated. “I’ve had to fight my way through so much to get here. I had to figure out a way past my mom. I had to retrace your steps, I had to learn who you’d become, I had to get past your grandma . . .”

  “You beat my grandma half to death,” I say.

  “I did it for you, though,” she says. There’s a pleading note in her voice, like she’s trying to reason with me. But there’s something under that—something flat, and cold. I shift my weight a little, onto the balls of my feet. In case I have to move. “I came back for you. I missed you so much, Zahra. And you weren’t wri
ting, or texting, or . . . I felt like I was losing you.”

  Something in what she’s said suddenly hits me. I had to figure out a way past my mom. But her mom had died in a hiking accident—I’d seen it in the newspaper. I’d set up a Google Alert for both of their names after they’d moved away, to keep track of where they were, and I’d seen the obituary. An accident in the Columbia River Gorge.

  “Your mom . . .” I say. “She fell.”

  “She had to fall.” She emphasizes every word. “It was the only way I was ever going to get back here. I don’t know how she knew about Bailey, but she did. Or at least she suspected. She wouldn’t let me come back, even when Dad got married.”

  “You . . .” I feel sick, dizzy. I feel the tug at the bottom of my stomach that usually signals a panic attack. Not now. I can’t afford it—not now. “You killed her?”

  “I did what I had to do,” she says.

  I can picture it. Because I’ve already seen it. The way a switch goes on, and then she moves, faster and stronger than you’d ever expect. The way it comes out of nowhere.

  And the way she can push it back down, after. The way that cold, reptilian thing inside of her takes over and lets her act like everything’s normal, everything’s all right.

  “Why, Ruthie?” I ask. “Why did you come back here?”

  “Because you’re my best friend.” Her voice is soft, not quite calm—I can hear the tremor—but matter-of-fact. Her best friend. After what I saw her do. After what she made me do to hide it.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not, Ruthie. I hate you. You ruined my life.”

  Her lower lip starts to tremble, but she bites down on it hard.

  “You’re my best friend,” she says again, louder this time.

  I can’t help it. I laugh. I laugh hard, right in her face. It comes from the bottom of my stomach, all acid and bile. From all the bitterness of everything I’ve lost and everything I’ve destroyed. I laugh hard and hot and watch as she gets paler and paler.

  She lunges at me across the slide. Her fingers dig sharply into my shoulder. We fall down together, scuffling in the hard-packed dirt. I grab a lock of her hair and twist it hard around my fist, and she screams and lets go. I scrabble away on hands and knees, then jump up onto my feet a few yards away.

  I run.

  My tendons and muscles are tight from a few weeks of disuse. I feel the impact shoot up through my body every time my feet hit the earth. For a second I think I’ve left her far behind, that she’s still back there at the Precipice.

  But then I hear her breath. I risk a glance behind me and see her there, barreling down the trail toward me.

  She will follow me. She’ll follow me anywhere I go, until one of us, or both of us, is dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  IT STARTS TO RAIN.

  I can hear her footsteps. Her furious whimper. And for a second I lose track of the line between memory and the present moment. I’m running away, and she’s behind me, and both of us breathe in panicked heaves, and there’s a body behind us in a pool of blood.

  But no. That was a long time ago. That is a mistake long since made.

  I’m taller and stronger than I used to be. This is part of why I joined cross-country. Not to compete, but to flee. To get hard and lean and fast and to be able to run forever. Her breath is fading behind me and I think, It’s working, I’m getting away . . . but then I turn and look, and my foot snags against the root of a tree. I go tumbling. My lungs go flat as the air is knocked out of me. For a moment I gasp like a landed fish.

  Above me, Ruthie’s face looms in.

  “I thought you understood,” she says. Her face is a mess of tears and blood.

  The rain is coming in hard, stinging darts now. Her hair is plastered to her head, and drops fleck the lenses of her glasses. Her fingers close around my neck and she starts to squeeze. Her hands are freakishly strong. I try to wrench myself away but she tightens her grip.

  My vision is fuzzy and gray. I claw at her hands. My lungs burn.

  I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly I’ve hooked her leg with mine and tugged her off balance. Her hands loosen and I gasp for air; now we’re both on the ground, scrabbling at each other with fingers struggling to find purchase.

  I close my eyes. I argue with my body, this unwieldy thing that has never obeyed me. Get up, I think. Get up and run. But it won’t.

  So I guess I have no choice but to stay and fight.

  I drive my fist into her stomach and she gives a low groan. I sit up and punch her again; it sends pain shooting up through my fist, but I grit my teeth against it. She screams, and it’s a banshee sound, whipped away on the wind.

  A few feet away, my eyes fall on a jagged piece of rock, sitting to the side of the trail. And for one split second I imagine it: picking it up and bringing it down with all my might against her face.

  It’d be over then. Over for good.

  But not really. Not ever. Because even if she died right here, at my hands, she’d never be gone. I’d never be free. We’re tied together. We have been since we killed Bailey. I’ll never be able to look myself in the mirror without seeing what I’ve done—without seeing Ruthie, standing just behind me in my reflection. And killing her? That would only make her stronger.

  I look down at her. Her long hair sprawled across the mud, one lens of her glasses broken. Her face is mottled purple, and she’s crying, a whole-body sob so violent I’m afraid she’ll shake herself to pieces.

  “You were the only person,” she cries.

  I wait for her to finish the thought. But that’s all she says.

  The fight seems to have left her, but I keep her pinned beneath me nonetheless—even though all I really want to do is check the phone in my pocket to make sure it’s still recording. That’s the only reason I came out here, to this awful fucking place. The only reason I forced myself to face her. I wanted her to confess. I wanted to make sure I had it on audio, so I could give it to the police, so I could finally help to put her away where she couldn’t hurt anybody ever again.

  Even if it puts me away in the process.

  I can hear the sirens now. I’d called 911 from the trail. I told them to come to the park, that someone was hurt, and then I hung up. I figured no matter what happened between us, it would be true. Someone would be hurt. Someone had been hurt.

  Underneath me, Ruthie continues to cry. All around us, the rain pummels the earth, making the forest tremble beneath its fury.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “WHO’S A GOOD GIRL? Who’s a big dumb good girl?” Malik holds an end of a knotted old sock, Deshka tugging on the other end with all her might. Her long, shaggy tail sweeps back and forth.

  The dog freezes for a moment, then gives a sudden tug that sends him tumbling. And even though it’s late April, and it’s been almost seven months since everything that happened with Ruthie, my laughter is still so rare that it startles me when I dissolve into giggles, watching.

  I’m sitting on a lawn chair, Yukon curled up next to me. It’s not actually warm yet. But the daylight has started coming back to us, and that means we can’t help but drift outside, out of the cramped little trailer and into the weak sun. The snow has mostly melted, except for a few dirty mounds lingering in the shadows.

  Normally Malik would be out on his bike, racing around the neighborhood with his buddies. They have a track they’ve made in an empty lot at the edge of the trailer court, where they go to do tricks and jumps. He’s good—I’ve seen video of it. I’ve never been over there to watch him, though. I can’t really go far with the house arrest monitor on my leg. But he’s been spending more time at home lately, and even though he doesn’t say it, I’m pretty sure it’s to keep me company.

  “What’s so funny over there?” Malik pulls himself up, trying and failing to brush the crumbling mud off his shorts. “Oh, you think yo
u cute? Deshka, get her. Go on.” He snaps his fingers and points, and suddenly I’m covered in ninety pounds of muddy dog, her feet trampling across my sweatpants.

  I shriek. “No!” But I can’t stop laughing. She keeps trying to give me the wet sock and I finally take it and throw it as hard as I can toward Malik. She takes off running, and Yukon jumps up to chase after her. Their feet tear up the dirt—poor Dad is never going to have a lawn.

  Here we are, normal teenagers playing with their dogs on a raw spring afternoon. Regaining daylight after the dark and the cold start to lift is usually enough to make me feel giddy—but add to that the fact that I haven’t been out of the house all winter except for court dates and therapy appointments, and for a little while, I almost feel weightless. House arrest means I can’t do much of anything. I can’t leave the property, can’t go to work, can’t go to school—though Dad’s making me study for my GRE. In a lot of ways that’s probably a blessing—I’m not exactly Miss Popularity these days. I’m the girl everyone was so worried about who turned out to be a murderer.

  Or, at least, an accessory to murder.

  I’ve been on house arrest since September now, and honestly I’m lucky; Aisha, my lawyer, went to the mat to get that for me. The prosecution wanted me thrown in jail, and most black girls would have been. It took about thirty character witnesses to convince a judge to let me wait at home while the legal proceedings drag on.

  Ruthie, on the other hand, is in jail—adult jail, now, because she turned eighteen a few weeks ago. She’s being charged with Bailey’s murder and with Grandma’s assault. It’s possible she’ll have to go to Oregon to stand trial for her mom’s death, too. Her lawyers are trying hard to get the confession I taped thrown out of the trial. If I have to, I’ll testify—it’s a part of the plea deal Aisha worked out for me—but I really hope they don’t call me to the stand. I don’t want to have to look at her again.