“Happily,” she agrees, already headed down the hallway.
We move out the exit doors and around to the back of the school. The assignment for my photography class is to capture a mood, and Jeannie has insisted on coming along.
I lead her to the trail behind the field house—the one that leads to Juniper Hill. It’s narrow and rocky, making me wish I’d opted for boots over ballet flats.
“Does the mood you’re trying to capture have something to do with misery?” Jeannie asks, picking a cobweb out of her hair.
“Is hiking really that bad?”
“In a word: yes.”
From the very peak of the hill, the ocean is like the background of a canvas. “I’m thinking of getting a shot of a lone tree, with the ocean peeking through the branches, under a late-afternoon sky.”
“And what mood would that capture?”
“Good question.”
“You should’ve taken a picture of me getting my calc test back today. It would’ve conveyed pure loathing. I’ll bet you anything that Mr. Bedrosian has devil horns hiding in that mass of 1960s curls on his head.”
“And the devil tail?”
“Down his pant leg, naturally.”
“You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.”
The smell of burning charcoal hangs in the air, making me miss summer. We continue up the hill, finally reaching the peak. The clouds look like cotton candy that’s been pulled apart and dipped into salmon-pink paint. I take a bunch of shots—some of the sky and the ocean alone, a lot more of the sky and the ocean as a backdrop to an evergreen tree.
Jeannie sits down on a rock. She takes off her glasses and closes her eyes. Her hair blows back in the breeze, away from her face. I take the shot. My shutter clicks. “Anything mood-worthy yet?”
I squat down to take her picture, able to capture the pursing of her lips and the furrowing of her brow. I scoot down even lower, stretching out on the ground, eager to get an upward angle, noticing a tear running down her cheek. She looks sad and beautiful at the same time.
I take the shot. My shutter clicks again.
Jeannie opens her eyes and glares at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Capturing a mood, remember?”
“And which mood do you think I am?”
“Only you can say for sure.”
“Dark, frustrated, gloomy, depressed. Take your pick.”
“I’ll take ‘Gloomy for a thousand, Alex,’” I say, trying to cheer her up by playing Jeopardy!
“Today’s the anniversary.”
I move to sit beside her, racking my brain, wondering what she’s referring to. “Josh’s death,” I say. The answer hits me like a truck.
Josh was Jeannie’s older brother. He died three years ago while walking along the side of the road, hit by a car that had lost control during a rainstorm. It was thirty-five minutes before the Jaws of Life were able to pry him out from beneath the car. By that time he was dead.
“It’s supposed to get easier, right?” she asks.
I wrap my arms around her, remembering summer four years ago, when Josh tried to teach us how to surf, and the winter after that when we all went snowboarding.
“I miss him,” she says, breaking the embrace, voicing my very thoughts. “And what makes things worse…Josh was the wonder boy—good at everything, loved by everyone, turning whatever he touched into gold. And I know it sounds totally whiny—and I actually hate myself for saying it—but it’s kind of hard to live in the shadow of your perfect dead brother.” She looks at me again. Tears slide down her face.
My mind immediately flashes to my superhero parents. “You know, you’re pretty wonder-girl yourself.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes.
“I mean it. You’re one of the smartest people I know, with an Aretha Franklin voice, not to mention you’re stylish, beautiful, fun—”
“Even if part of me wanted to believe those things were true, my heart tells another story.” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve.
“Well, then I’ll keep telling your heart…until the words finally stick.”
“But they’ll just be words. How can I ever make myself believe them when Josh is gone, when I keep trying to live up to his memory?”
“Okay, seriously? You could become the first female president and find the cure for cancer. You could end world hunger and stop global warming…but that still won’t change the fact that Josh is gone and that you have to go on living.”
“I know.” She nods. “Logically, anyway.”
I wrap my arms around her again, wishing I could take my own advice about living in other people’s shadows. But I haven’t figured that out yet either. For now—for her—I’ll just pretend that I have.
When I get home from school, the house is overwhelmingly desolate. I switch on some lights and click on the TV, trying to trick myself into believing that I’m not really alone. I also send out a couple of texts—one to Jeannie, including a picture of the two of us with Josh, standing at the top of Mount Snow during our ski trip. My other text is to Tori, looking for more details about the party this weekend (not that I even want to go).
I just want to feel less alone.
In the kitchen, I heat up some dinner for Julian, feeling anxiety bubble up in my gut, unable to help thinking about that one classmate who said that Julian used to talk about getting rid of his dad.
Of course there was also the teacher who stated that Julian had a gentle soul, and the friend who said that Julian had been his first go-to. But does either of those last two testimonials help ease the wad of tension burning beneath my ribs?
Unfortunately, no.
Still, I head out to the barn with my tape recorder, my list of questions, and my cell phone and pepper spray. Julian comes to the door. The waist of his pants has been gathered on one side, the slack wrapped with a rubber band.
“Hungry?” I ask, handing him a container filled with mac ’n’ cheese, along with a plastic fork.
He tears off the lid, stabs the noodles, and shovels them into his mouth as if he hasn’t eaten in days.
“I probably should’ve brought more.”
“You don’t have to bring me anything at all. I’m not some caged bird that you need to feed.”
The comment feels like a slap across my face, heating up my cheeks. “You’re free to leave whenever you want. Caged birds can’t.”
“You’re right. Past tense: I was a caged bird.” He turns to clean off a couple of bales of hay and then sits down on one of them.
I sit down beside him, catching another glimpse of the pickax tattoo on his wrist. “And did that help you unlock the cage?”
He yanks down his sleeve. “It’s not what you think.”
“How do you know what I think? Are you having a bad day?”
“Every day for me is bad.”
“If you want I could come back another time.”
“No. It’s fine.” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
I press the RECORD button and place the tape player between us.
ME: When you went to the beach on the weekend of May 4th and 5th, you mentioned that one of the surveillance cameras had been broken.
JULIAN: Right, one of the cameras in the parking lot.
ME: You said that the surveillance cameras picked you up on Sunday. Where did they spot you and when?
JULIAN: Coming back from my spot on the rocks.
ME: What time was that?
JULIAN: Around 4:40 maybe.
ME: Did you walk by the shower area?
JULIAN: No, I think I must’ve gone the other way—along the deck side, where people eat—because that’s where the camera caught me.
ME: Do you always take two different routes to and from the rocks?
JULIAN: Which route I take depends on where my car is parked.
ME: Where did you park on Saturday versus Sunday?
JULIAN: On Saturday, I got a spot on the right side,
by the entrance. On Sunday, I was way over on the opposite end of the lot, by the boardwalk.
ME: What time did you get to the beach on Sunday?
JULIAN: Maybe around ten or eleven in the morning.
ME: The morning after the bodies were found, correct?
JULIAN: Yes.
ME: Had the police come by then?
JULIAN: Yeah. I called them the night I found the bodies.
ME: And where did you stay that night?
JULIAN: Protective Services came for me, but since I don’t have any relatives in this area, my friend Barry’s mother convinced them to let me spend the night at her house. The following morning, Barry’s mom made breakfast and was trying to get me to talk about stuff, but I just wanted to get away, so I went to the beach.
ME: Stuff, meaning your parents? And the details of what happened?
JULIAN: Yes.
ME: And did you talk to her about either?
JULIAN: No. I didn’t want to. I was still too shocked about everything.
ME: What was your relationship like with your father?
JULIAN: Let’s just say he wasn’t the nicest guy to be around.
ME: Not nice because he…
JULIAN: Drank, had a temper, made my mom feel like crap most of the time.
ME: Why did he make her feel that way?
JULIAN: Because he resented her.
ME: Because…
JULIAN: It’s a long story.
ME: We have plenty of time.
JULIAN:…
ME: Julian?
JULIAN: I used to have a brother—a twin. His name was Steven, and he died at five years old.
ME: Julian…I’m so sorry. I had no idea.
JULIAN: Yeah.
ME: How did he die?
JULIAN: Car accident.
ME: Did he get hit by a car?
JULIAN: No. He was in the car. I was too. Our mom was driving.
ME: And what happened?
JULIAN: She was angry. My dad hadn’t come home when he said he would, so she had to bring us on her errands. The car lost control and slammed into a tree, on Steven’s side.
ME: Did she hit a patch of ice?
JULIAN: No. Mostly she was just driving too fast. She’d swerved to avoid slamming into another car, but instead she slammed into a tree.
ME: Did help come right away?
JULIAN: It did. An ambulance, the police, people on the street…But it was all too late. Steven’s death was instant.
ME: I’m so sorry.
JULIAN: I am too. It should’ve been me.
ME: How can you say that?
JULIAN: Steven and I’d been fighting about car seats. I liked the blue one, but he wanted it too. In the end, I won out, and Steven…
ME: Do you want to take a break?
JULIAN: No, it’s okay.
ME: Did you and your mom get hurt?
JULIAN: Not physically.
ME: But emotionally.
JULIAN: Emotionally, everything just fell apart. I blamed myself. My parents blamed themselves. They both blamed each other for not making different choices.
ME: Do you remember what life was like after Steven’s death—how you all dealt with the loss?
JULIAN: My mom sunk into depression and my dad started drinking.
ME: And you?
JULIAN: I cried every night. I hated myself after that. I think my dad hated me too.
ME: I can’t even imagine how hard that must’ve been.
JULIAN: Yeah, not exactly an ideal upbringing. Aside from my friend Barry, I never had any close friends—never wanted anyone to see what was going on inside my house.
ME: I’d almost think your parents would’ve been extra protective of you after something like that happened—that they’d have been afraid of losing you too.
JULIAN: My mom shut down. Maybe she didn’t want to get too close in case she somehow lost me too. My dad resented me for insisting on the blue car seat and then walking away without a scratch.
ME: How did you deal with his resentment?
JULIAN: I’m here, aren’t I?
ME: Yes, but for what reason?
JULIAN: Because people think I killed my father—that I got so mad after finding my mother’s body in the tub…
ME: Julian?
JULIAN:…
ME: The people that think you killed your father…what’s their theory? How do they say the details of the crime went down?
JULIAN: Most of them think that I became so enraged, blaming my father for my mother’s death—for driving her to suicide—that I killed him.
ME: What is that theory based on? Where is the proof?
JULIAN: I used to talk a lot of shit, telling friends that I wanted to kill him. I didn’t mean any of it for real. But imagine seeing your mom so depressed all of the time. Imagine hearing your father whittle her down—until she no longer spoke above a whisper or got out of bed, until she barely weighed ninety pounds and had razor marks on her wrists. I wish I could say that I didn’t hate my father. But I did. I do. And I’ll tell anyone who asks me the same.
ME: Still, talking about killing people isn’t exactly proof.
JULIAN: Having a crappy alibi doesn’t help the situation.
ME: I’m almost surprised your parents didn’t get a divorce.
JULIAN: Why divorce when there’s so much torture to be had?
ME: You said before that you think your mother is responsible for your father’s death.
JULIAN: That’s right. I think she’d probably been planning it for a while.
ME: What makes you say that?
JULIAN: She hated him more than anything. She hated the way he treated us, but she was always too broken to do anything about it. So, I think that finally, yeah…this was her way of making up for lost time.
ME: And then after she supposedly killed him?
JULIAN: I think she took a shitload of pills and drowned herself in the bath. I think she…
ME: Julian? Maybe we should take a break.
I press STOP, trying to imagine what this must be like for him—having lost his parents, being accused of an unspeakable crime, unable to see his friends….“Is there anything I can do?” I ask him.
He peeks up at me. His face is red. His eyes look swollen. “You can tell me something about you now.”
“About me?” I shift uneasily against the bale. A blade of hay pokes through my jeans, into my thigh, sending a hot, prickly sensation straight down my leg. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Okay, well, my real name is Sandra Day, rather than just Day. Our family name is Connor, which my parents took as an opportunity.”
“To name you after a Supreme Court justice?”
“Not just any justice—the first female.”
“Except your last names aren’t exactly the same, right?”
“No.” I sigh. “I’m missing the O.”
“Pretty rough.” He grimaces. “Missing vowels right out of the gate.”
“Seriously.” I smirk. “Being named after someone like that…it pretty much puts a curse on your whole life—like, there are all these expectations right out of the womb.”
“Is that why you go by Day?”
I nod. “It adds a layer of distance.”
“And how about all of that stuff you threw into the trash? Did it have anything to do with living up to those expectations?”
I grin, impressed that he gets it. “It was some meeting materials for a club at school—a social justice club, basically. My meager attempt to make a difference.”
“Well, you’ve made a big difference to me.” His gaze makes a zigzag line from my eyes to my cheeks, landing on my mouth, causing my heart to stir.
“I should probably go,” I say, feeling my face flash hot.
“Yeah,” he says, getting up, averting his eyes, taking a couple of steps back. He replaces the lid on the mac ’n’ cheese. “Thanks for the food and for listening to what I have to say.”
I muster a polite smile, and then go for the door, part of me wanting to listen more, another part scared out of my mind that I’ve already heard too much, that I’ve gotten involved at all.
It’s three in the morning and I’ve yet to fall asleep. My heart is racing. My skin won’t stop sweating. The ceiling is like a giant movie screen, replaying the images inside my head: Julian and his brother in the backseat of a car; Julian crying; his mother screaming; her body floating in a tub.
It’s all too much.
I’m sleeping too little.
Finally, around four, I grab a notebook and write stuff down.
FACTS SO FAR
1. It’s unclear whether Mrs. Roman’s death occurred before or after Mr. Roman’s.
2. Her body was found in the bathtub, with the water still running, assumed to have been a suicide because she’d taken a lot of pills. (Though it’s also possible her overdose could’ve been accidental; i.e., perhaps Mrs. Roman didn’t realize how many pills she was taking.)
3. According to Julian, Mrs. Roman had suicide scars on her wrists.
4. Mr. Roman was last seen in front of his house not long before his death.
5. It didn’t appear as though anyone had broken into the family home on the day of Mr. Roman’s murder.
6. According to Julian, he’s the one who called the police when he found the bodies.
QUESTIONS
1. Had Mr. Roman just arrived home? Or was he home already? If the first is true, why didn’t he call for help when he discovered his wife’s body in the tub? If the second is true, why didn’t he notice the running water? Surely there must’ve been water spilling onto the floor, seeping beneath the door crack (unless Mr. Roman was already dead by the time the water was an issue).
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