The Secrets We Keep

by Nikki Lee Taylor

  “It’s true what Madelyn-May says,” Melody tried. “We hated it, but he just wouldn’t stop.”

  “Liar,” she spat back. “And don’t go thinking you’ll be getting any of that policy money, or living here off what you’ve done. That money goes to me. While ever I’m breathing, you two won’t see a goddamned cent. That goes for Mercy too. Nothing will be coming your way because of what you’ve done. You hear me? Not a damned cent.”

  Melody finally met my eye, and we exchanged glances.

  “You two are going to pay for this, you hear me? You’ve been trying to take him away from me since you were kids, and you’ve finally gone and done it. Well, we’ll see.”

  “What are you going to do?” I could hear the fear in Melody’s voice.

  “What am I going to do? I’m calling the police, is what I’m going to do. You two aren’t getting away with this. You’ve ruined everything, and now you’re going to pay for it.”

  “You can’t!” Melody shouted. “They’ll make us go to jail.”

  “And finally you’ll be out of my hair. You know, it was always him that wanted kids, not me.” She walked toward the bedroom door, but stopped and looked back. “If was up to me, I would have had an abortion. Now stay put ’til I call the police. They’re going to have a field day with you two and this godforsaken mess.”

  Melody and I looked at each other. She was ringing her hands, and shifting her weight from one foot to other. If Mom called the police, we would both be locked away for murder. I broke her gaze, and looked back to my daddy’s lifeless body sprawled out across the bed.

  “We can’t let her call the police,” Melody whispered, her voice frantic. “Do you know what will happen to us in juvie?”

  I nodded and without meaning to, glanced down at the hammer on the floor. Fragments of bone were stuck to the head, and the handle was spattered in red.

  “You have to, Madelyn-May. You have to, or both our lives are over.” She stopped, glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at me. “You heard what she said. All these years she let him do this to us. All she cares about is herself. Do it, Madelyn-May, you have no choice. You have to.”

  I reached for the hammer. The handle felt cold in my palm. It was different this time. My mind wasn’t fractured. I wasn’t overcome with rage. Instead, I felt strangely numb, almost oblivious to the gravity of what was happening around me.

  “Hurry, Madelyn-May. There’s no time.”

  I stared blankly at Melody as my fingers wrapped tight around the handle. Outside the door, I could hear our mother rummaging through her bag in search of her mobile phone.

  I was only fifteen, but there were times in my life I was afraid. Times when I hadn’t known what to do. In those moments, my internal voice always ran rampant, shouting this and that, in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. But as I stepped out into the tiny hall, and brought the hammer down against the back of my mother’s head, my mind was silent and still. There were no frantic whispers. No chills of terror. My body was quiet and cold. If she screamed, I didn’t hear it. If blood sprayed out, I didn’t see it. One minute she was hunched over her bag, and the next she lay crumpled at my feet. I dropped the hammer, and turned to my sister. “I don’t….”

  “I know, but there’s no time for a meltdown. We have to take care of this, Madelyn-May. We have to get rid of all this… mess.”

  I stared vacantly around the trailer, my eyes purposely skimming over her body.

  “Snap out of it, Madelyn-May, there’s no time,” Melody ordered. “We have to get this cleaned up before someone comes.”

  I could see Melody with her wild eyes. I could see our mother’s body, and there was a part of me that knew my daddy was lying dead in the other room. But none of it was real. A divider had fallen between my eyes and my heart. I could see what was happening, I just couldn’t feel it.

  “Jesus Christ, Madelyn-May. Hello? Are you in there?”

  “What?”

  “We can’t leave things like this. Do. You. Understand. What. I’m. Saying?”

  I squeezed my eyes open and shut, open and shut, open and shut. It had to be a dream. But when I opened them again, Melody was staring straight at me. “Come on Madelyn-May, help me.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Yeah, no shit they’re dead,” she repeated. “And you killed them, so let’s sort this shit out before we both go down for what you did.”

  “What I did?”

  “They’re your fingerprints on the hammer, Madelyn-May, so either you help me sort this shit out, or I’m turning you in. I’m not taking the blame for this. So, what’s it going to be?”

  “Mom’s cigarette….”

  “What about it?”

  “She didn’t put it out properly, back there in the bedroom.” I started to glance back, but remembering my Daddy’s body, stopped myself.

  “Now’s not the time to be worrying about a stupid cigarette, Madelyn-May,” she snapped. “If it started a fire….” She stopped mid-sentence and nodded quickly. “You’re right. We need to set the trailer on fire.”

  I followed Melody’s directions as she barked orders to gather up all of Daddy’s liquor from the cupboard, and any old bottles of nail polish remover. Together we tipped what we had over the kitchen, and onto the bed in their room. When it wasn’t enough, she ran out to the carport, and rummaged through empty plant pots, tools, and tins. Eventually she came back with a half-empty jerry-can of two-stroke fuel Daddy kept for the emergency generator.

  “Get whatever you want to take, Madelyn-May because once I light this up there won’t be anything left. You understand?”

  I nodded, then started shoving clothes into a backpack, glancing back every so often toward my mom’s broken shape lying on the kitchen floor.

  “Don’t look at that,” Melody hissed, as she frantically packed a bag of her own. “It’s over.”

  I thought about Mercy and how she would react to what we had done. Knowing me too well, Melody read my thoughts. “Mercy will be fine. She left for a reason, Madelyn-May. She can take care of herself.”

  When my backpack was so full I feared the zipper was going to burst, I threaded my arms through the loops, and took one last look around the room. This was where it all began. This was the place he hurt me, where he broke me. It was also the place he had loved me.

  “Don’t you feel sorry for him, Madelyn-May,” Melody warned. “Or her. They chose their own fate.”

  I followed my sister out to the kitchen, where she found a lighter in Mom’s purse, and lit the ends of three dishcloths soaked in two-stroke. She threw the first one onto the bed, and I hurried to the front door as she threw another outside our bedroom door, and the third into the tiny kitchenette. The pungent smell of gasoline suffocated the air. It coated the back of my throat, and doused the hope of ever turning back.

  “Go, go!” she shouted, as the dirty lace curtains caught alight. “We have to get out of here.”

  I ran out into the warm night air, the smell of smoke chasing me into the darkened corners of the trailer park.

  When Melody caught up, she took me by the shoulders. “We have to split up now, Madelyn-May, you know that, right? We can’t stay together.”

  I nodded, even though I had no idea where I would go.

  “Here….” She reached into her pocket and handed me a wad of $20 notes. “He gave these to me, one for each time… Well, you know. It’s all I have, but you take half. There’s also a few notes I took out of Mom’s purse.”

  Behind us, flames were already licking at the windows of the trailer.

  “We have to go. I love you, alright? We’ll always be sisters,” Melody promised. “You were really brave back there. I couldn’t have done what you did.”

  I choked back a knot in my throat. “Won’t the police find out?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll be long gone by then, and there’s no proof of who did what or anything. It will all be burned up by the time anyone gets inside.�
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  I nodded, and hugged her quickly. “I love you, too.”

  “Be careful out there, Madelyn-May, and don’t ever look back. You hear me? Not ever.”

  I took one last look at the trailer, a cauldron of all our sins. They say fire is supposed to be cleansing, but as I watched it burn, I felt anything but clean. I had committed an atrocity. I murdered my parents. I would never be clean again.

  I reluctantly let go of Melody’s hand and started to walk away. And that’s when I heard it.

  Inside the trailer, my mother was screaming.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sophie

  Under normal circumstances, had I donated or sold my eggs to Jane, the child could legally request my identity when he or she turned 18. If I’d checked the box that allowed them to, that is. In other countries, like the UK, donor anonymity has been abolished, but here in the US, technically it would be my choice. Then again, DNA testing, online registries, and ancestry websites make it easier than ever for a child to track down their donor, and perhaps someday when he or she was older, Jane’s child could’ve looked for me. But the veil of secrecy the three of us had agreed to meant the only medical records in existence are for Jane and her husband Ian. Records show only that a couple had undergone IVF treatment under the care of Doctor Gerard Thomas, one of Philadelphia’s up-and-coming fertility specialists. I do not exist. The child will never be able to find me. That was the promise, and the price tag for my silence was $60,000.

  I clip Miss Molly’s lead to her collar, and we head out the front gate. Walking her helps me think, and thinking distracts me from the fact I am venturing away from the safety of home base. It’s a win-win, especially for Miss Molly.

  As we stroll, I wonder again whether Jane gave birth to a boy or a girl. Would there be any resemblance to Josh if it was a boy? Would there be any resemblance to me?

  Egg donors are not technically considered biological parents. While it’s true I donated genetic material, in the culture dish Ian’s sperm and my egg had been transformed into a beautiful and miraculous tangle, splitting and duplicating over and over. Two had become one, and one had become three, for him and Jane. Once the transfer was successful, Jane’s body would have taken over, the fetus relying on her body’s proteins, sugars, vitamins, and vital fluids. It was her body that allowed the baby to grow. Not only had she given birth, she had also created life.

  We turn the corner, and I wave to Joe through the shopfront window. He was there for every stage of my pregnancy. He knows I was a mother. He witnessed the miracle that was Josh. Deep down, I know it would be best to find contentment in that, to leave this whole thing alone, but as we walk on, counting off the regular markers so I don’t stray too far, my thoughts pull back to Josh, and to the child I have never seen.

  How similar would they be? Is there a child out in the world whose face could give me one last glimpse of my son? Would they have the same eyes, the same dimples? Would the splash of their laughter sound the same?

  Tears burn, and sensing the change in me, Miss Molly glances up mid-trot.

  “I’m okay, sweet girl,” I reassure her. “I’m just being silly, and a little bit selfish.”

  We finish our walk, and head back inside the house. The idea of seeing the child is tearing me in two, and I silently curse Bastian for giving me that stupid manuscript in the first place. It has planted a seed. A seed that is growing and sprouting. A seed that is taking on a life of its own.

  I let Miss Molly off her leash, and she runs ahead to her water bowl.

  Gerard will have Jane’s details in his files. Contact numbers, emails, and most importantly, an address. So long has passed since the last time I saw her. Perhaps the details have changed. Then again, perhaps they haven’t.

  I flop down on the couch, and close my eyes. I can’t possibly ask Gerard to give me her address. To even bring it up after all this time would be like kicking a hornet’s nest. We’ve all moved on with our lives since then. Gerard and Samara turned their engagement into a wedding, and a wedding into a life. They have a beautiful, sassy, and way-too-smart daughter. Their life is everything they wanted it to be. And I had moved on too, hadn’t I? James and I met just a year after my first encounter with Jane. We fell into each other, and I found out quickly what she meant about the power of love, and how it can transform you. From the moment we kissed, James became my world, and I would have moved heaven and earth if it meant making him happy. I came to understand Jane a lot better after meeting James, and despite the moral questions that forever linger over what we did, I learned it was possible to love someone more than you love yourself. And that devotion can make someone do unimaginable things, without ever questioning why.

  For the past five years, I have lived in a cage, too afraid to drive my car, or go beyond a four-block radius, and while it might seem like a small feat, cooking dinner for Bastian marked a major milestone. It proved that in small doses I can administer my own form of therapy.

  So, instead of tying myself up in knots again, I busy myself cooking dinner for Miss Molly and I. Grilled chicken, rice, and vegetables. Nothing flashy, but it’s something we can both enjoy, and it makes me feel better to cook for a reason other than just myself. She’s my dog, but it provides a sense of purpose to cook for her. That night with Bastian, I realized that with the right incentives, I could make great strides forward. That by doing something for someone else, it automatically made me the one in control, and I liked the way it felt.

  The dinner table was always for family time, and I need to do this step by step. When dinner is ready, I fill Miss Molly’s bowl, then take my own plate into the living room. One reach too far and I will sink all the way back into the dark depths.

  As I eat, I scribble notes in my diary for how I might start making my way forward. I write things like: adding an extra street to our walk each day; not taking my phone on our walks, though I always keep it close in case I have a meltdown; cooking three times per week; researching natural remedies that might eventually take the place of my medication; and generally taking better care of myself. When I’m done, I consider what I’ve written, and realize it has been on purpose that I let myself fall this far. I have intentionally failed to practice self-love. Even thinking about the enjoyment of things like facials, yoga, meditation, and eating well creates a pang of guilt inside my heart. How can I spoil myself, knowing I’m here and they are dead? How can I possibly make peace with anything resembling happiness, or hope, let alone yoga?

  Visions of a car crash I didn’t see flash through my mind. Mangled, angry slices of metal. Bashed-in panels, and crumpled-up doors. I hear the screeching of breaks and the smashing of glass. Screaming, and the heavy silence that comes before the sirens. I should have been there. I should have been able to do something; anything. Why am I still here, and they are gone? Every thought and plan they ever had ceased to exist the moment that drunk driver lost control and slammed into James’ car. Every future embrace, kiss, touch, and flutter of their hearts, gone in an instant.

  I carry my half-eaten plate of food out to the kitchen. James would not want this for me. He would want me to be healthy, safe, and happy, even if I must do it without him. But how do I justify creating a future when they are forever trapped in the past? How do I ever find a way to let go?

  Without thinking, I reach down and let my fingers trace the caesarean scar across my belly. My body has created two children, neither able to reach for me. One was taken, and the other lives unaware that I even exist. An author once described grief as being “love with no place to go,” and in my heart I know that’s true. My love remains unrequited, my children carried away on the wind.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lacy

  Their weekly routine is like clockwork.

  Every morning at 8.40am, the husband leaves, drops the kids at school by 9am, then heads into the city. Meanwhile, the Queen of Sheba herself is always at the office by 8am. Afternoons are the same. He’s outside their s
chool by 2.55pm, they come out, and he brings them right home. She usually gets back to the house around 7pm, sometimes later. Every day is the same, with one exception: Thursdays.

  On Thursdays, the boy stays late at school for soccer practice, and the girl plays tennis. He finishes a half-hour before her, then walks around to the courts where he opens his backpack, pulls out a piece of fruit and waits. When she’s done, together they stroll to the bus stop. It’s the only afternoon they don’t get picked up. Instead they catch a bus that drops them two blocks from home at exactly 5.42pm.

  It’s been two weeks now, and the routine’s stayed the same.

  From the safety of my car, I watch students filing into school like a herd of mindless sheep. None of them have any idea what’s waiting out here, out in the real world. In school they are placated and treated like they matter, but, in a few years, they’ll graduate, and that’s when life will hit them like a smack in the face. Because guess what, kids – the world doesn’t give a shit about you and all your plans. It takes what it wants, and there’s no bell that rings at 3pm when it’s time to go home and put your feet up.

  I take a bite of my breakfast burrito, a treat I gave myself this morning, since we’re getting so close to the end. Soon everything we’ve been planning will rain down on Madelyn-May’s head like a shit storm.

  When the twins finally come into view, I screw up the burrito wrapper and throw it onto the dash. The girl is a few steps behind and has her arm linked with a friend, a tall wiry thing with hair like a field of electric strawberries. The boy is alone, walking off to her left, his hands shoved inside his pockets and his head so far down it’s like the entire world is pushing against the back of his neck.

  “Give it a rest, kid,” I sigh. “You haven’t got anything to be miserable about… yet.”

  When the girls drop arms and Harlow steps away, I grab my phone and click a few pictures, a pretty portrait of what’s to come.

  When they disappear into the school, I flick through the images and choose one I like best. “That’s nice,” I whisper. “Perfect.”