Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  Suddenly, I was tiny again and huddled on the car’s floor, hidden behind the tall vinyl seats, waiting for my mother to motion to me, to tell me when to act. The smell of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke filled my nose. The skin on my legs stung, rubbed raw from the scratchy floor mats. The memory of creaking leather and the cut of my father’s belt on my palms made me reel. I wanted to throw the tablet from my lap.

  “You know, don’t you?” Nerd asked. His voice was thin, like a breath, a whisper. A sense of paranoia came over me, wondering if he’d discovered my secrets. Maybe he had. Maybe he’d followed Steve’s lead and finished putting the puzzle together. “You know what your husband is looking for.”

  “I do,” I answered sadly, searching his eyes.

  He put his hand on mine, touched my finger to the glass, made it press on the picture of my parents’ station wagon. The screen flashed, zooming out to show a list of dates and addresses. My mother’s address was listed first, right next to my father’s name as the owner.

  “That was your father’s car,” Nerd confirmed.

  “My mother drove it,” I corrected him. “My father had a small red coupe . . . but I can’t remember the make.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he told me. “It’s the station wagon your husband is interested in. Amy, this isn’t the only thing he’s been trying to track down.”

  “What else?” I asked, finding I couldn’t bring myself to look away from the station wagon. I hadn’t been inside the car since I was a child but I remembered every detail, every scratch, every dent.

  How many men?

  “What else does Steve know?”

  Brian leaned back and dug out his phone, tapped the screen to bring up a list of notes. “I’ve been following his online activity—spying so to speak. He’s been digging through a collection of unsolved murder cases: dates, times, locations, autopsy reports. Everything. They’re all connected.” He tapped and swiped and opened another note, turning the phone sideways to show me a picture of a corporate identification badge. And at the center of the laminated badge I saw a grainy photo of my father.

  “My father?” I asked, confused. I knew the picture: it was his work ID, it’d hung inside a plastic pocket protector for as long as I could remember. “How in the world did you find that?”

  “You’d be surprised what companies keep. They don’t delete anything . . . and I mean nothing,” he answered. His voice lifted—he was proud of his latest hack. When he saw my face, though, he quieted down. “The police investigation includes your father’s records, all the traveling he did, all the sales he made.”

  “Travel records?” I asked, still confused. Images spun into motion, making it hard to focus. I saw my father’s luggage at our front door. I saw him leaving for the airport, going to some faraway place where he’d pick up a new teddy bear or a T-shirt for me. “My dad? He traveled for work . . . traveled a lot. Computers or something like that.”

  “Yeah, you might say that,” Nerd began.

  “What do you mean?”

  Nerd belched a short guffaw, “Don’t you know?” he asked. I shook my head. Confused. “Your father helped to build the mainframe industry. He’s responsible for putting them in over half the banks across the country.”

  “Oh,” I whispered. “I knew he traveled a lot.” I was repeating myself. I was fading, my fever rising.

  “Amy?” Nerd asked, but I couldn’t answer while staring at the tablet. “This can wait till later.”

  “No!” I barked. “Sorry. No. Please, tell me everything.”

  He swiped the screen and showed me the picture of a church. Dilapidated and abandoned, the windows gone, leaving black holes like empty eyes, the wood slats beneath rotted and creased into a crooked frown.

  “That’s where it is.”

  “That place looks abandoned.”

  “Abandoned a long time now, but it was an active congregation when your father donated the station wagon to it.” Nerd flipped back and ran his finger down the screen, stopping on the mileage and the year. “Not sure why he wouldn’t have sold the car. It wasn’t that old.”

  “With the church abandoned, the car has got to be gone by now.”

  Another hand swipe and pictures of men flew across the screen. They wore the same death-filled faces I’d seen spill out of Steve’s case file.

  “Your husband has something that links the station wagon to these unsolved murders. Something more than just tire tracks. Maybe motor oil—maybe a sort of DNA test for oil brand. Whatever he’s found, it’s enough to lead him to your parent’s station wagon.”

  “Are you’re saying the car is still around?” I asked, disbelieving. He nodded. “Impossible.”

  “I thought so too, so I decided to make a call and find out for myself. It’s there. See, behind there?” he asked, pointing to a corner of the photo. Beneath his finger, I saw a barn. “The son of the pastor told me that the church’s station wagon was parked inside there. Been there for as long as he could remember. His father kept it clean and covered, but stopped driving when a stroke took his driver’s license.”

  “And it is still there . . .” I said again, sliding my finger over the image, sounding more convinced. “After all this time.”

  “Amy?” Nerd said, dipping his chin low enough to meet my eyes. “Amy, what’s your husband going to find inside?”

  I considered his question, considered who we were and whether I could trust him enough to tell the truth. I bit my lip, casting my gaze from the tablet to Nerd and back. “I don’t know,” I finally answered, deciding there was little to gain in telling him more than he already knew. “Best to let this play out. I guess he’s going to find what he’s going to find.”

  “I can go to the car and search it,” he offered. “Just a few hours from here.”

  It was a kind offer, but he’d never be able to remove all the traces of DNA that must have still been in there. I shook my head and asked, “Would you do something else?”

  “What?”

  “Burn it, Brian. Burn it!” I answered, raising my chin and meeting him with a hard stare.

  He moved back quickly, leaning far enough away to lose hold of the tablet. I gripped the metal and glass, holding it while keeping my eyes fixed with his. I could tell he was thinking it through, thinking about it as though he was working a problem in his code.

  “There is something about the car, something to hide.”

  “Brian,” I said flatly, annoyed by his response. I pressed. “Will you do it?”

  He gave me a reluctant nod. “I will,” he answered. “Whatever you need buried will be buried.”

  “When?” I asked, pressing again. I swiped the tablet’s surface, taking it back to the screen with the identification numbers and motor vehicle records. “Steve said he’d be working late and wouldn’t be in the office. He might be headed to the car today.”

  “I’ll leave right away,” Nerd began. “I’ve got something I can use.”

  “Burn it until there’s nothing left.”

  “I will,” he said as he handed me a phone. “Wasn’t sure what happened to the other burner. Use this one. I’ll text a shot of the fire.”

  I took the new burner and immediately tested our security code. It brought the screen alive. I tapped out a short message to him. His phone vibrated. “It’s working,” I confirmed. “And fully charged too.” I stuffed the burner into my pillowcase, hiding it.

  “I’ll text when it’s done.”

  And as he stood to leave, I extended my hand and took hold of his arm. “Thank you, Brian.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WHEN I WAS ALONE again, when Nerd had gone to set fire to the memories of my past, I waited. The late-afternoon sun dipped from the highest point in the sky, reflected harshly off the building across from the hospital. The nurse offered to draw the window’s shade, but I insisted she leave it open. She asked about the television too, offering me the remote, knowing another episode of Fantasy Island would air soon. I kept
the television off and glanced at my phone every few minutes, waiting for a message. There was no word from Nerd. I dozed.

  The buzzing phone woke me in a room that had become dark. The sun was nearly behind the buildings, leaving behind a crisp line of fire where sky met earth. I heard a low rumble roll in and remembered the nurse saying the humidity was going to break with some storms. I blinked the sleep from my eyes. I was awake now. I was ready to hear the news.

  At the church, Nerd texted.

  Okay, I thumbed, and waited to see a picture of the barn engulfed in flames.

  Surrounded. Can’t get to it.

  Surrounded? I texted back, confused by what he meant.

  He texted a single word: Cops.

  Steve?

  Sorta, he replied.

  A picture showed up next, a picture of the barn and police cars. And in the middle of it all, I saw Charlie and a younger woman I didn’t recognize.

  Shit! Unsure of what else to say, I wanted to let him know I had received the image.

  Think they’ve got something.

  He sent another photo. The woman held up a bag, showing it to Charlie. I zoomed in on the phone’s screen, but only saw a pixely blob hanging from her hand.

  Too late.

  My gut soured knowing the police had beat us to the station wagon. I thought I’d die if Steve were there, inside the car, learning the truth about what my mother and I had done.

  Heading back, Nerd replied. Will be at the office.

  I’ll text you later, I typed, then hit Send for the last time.

  I knew what I had to do next.

  I dialed a familiar number on the burner phone. The earpiece rang only once before I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Amy?” she asked. I froze. I tried moving my lips, but nothing happened. I hadn’t talked to her since Katie’s funeral, when she had said Snacks was just like us, that my baby girl was a killer. I’d slapped her across the face and turned to run, sworn never to speak to her again. It was a promise I guess I wouldn’t keep. “Steve told me about the baby. I stopped by while you were in recovery—”

  “Never mind that,” I said, cutting her off.

  “Amy, I’m so sorry about the . . . about everything.”

  “Mom, listen to me!” Silence. “Mom, you there?”

  “I’m listening,”

  “It’s about the station wagon,” I continued. I heard her shuffle the phone. She let out short, rapid breaths, filling the speaker with noise.

  “Gone,” she answered in the same tone she’d use when talking down to my father. “Your father took my car. He just took it, without asking me!”

  “Mom, the police have the car,” I told her. The earpiece went silent. “Mom?”

  “I’m here,” she said.

  “Mom, those men—all those men—Steve’s been working the case without realizing he was investigating us, and he has Dad’s belt, and now they have the station wagon—”

  “Lies!” she screamed into the phone. “Impossible lies!”

  “Why would I lie about this?” I said, nearly yelling.

  “Oh my God,” she said, her voice becoming a whisper. I heard a soft cry next.

  “Mom, what’s in the car?

  “Your father took the car before I could get them, before I could take them back,” she answered, speaking more clearly. “I know how I can fix this.”

  “Fix what?” I pleaded, but the phone went dead. She was gone.

  For hours, I shivered with both fever and fear. I’d tried a hundred phone calls, a hundred text messages. I’d nearly killed the phone’s battery, whittling it down until it showed only 25 percent remained. I shoved the phone back into the pillowcase, knowing I’d need it.

  I had terrible thoughts of Steve confronting my mother if she showed up at our house, but then he walked into the hospital room.

  “Steve?” I asked, sensing concern. “Steve, what is it? The kids?”

  “They’re fine. They’re with my mom.” He pressed his lips thin, until they went white. “Amy, there’s going to be some mention on the news about the case I’ve been working. About the case involving the belt buckle you found.”

  “So that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I asked, playing along. My insides were on fire, and I shoved my shaking hands deep into my lap. I was shaking all over, though, the fever making me flush and woozy.

  “Amy, are you feeling okay?” Steve asked. I shook my head, pushing my hand into his. “You’re warm, babe. I shouldn’t be talking work. Just didn’t want you to hear about the case on the news.”

  Could I go to prison? That was what I wanted to ask, but I bit my lip. I shook again as another cramp from my incisions set in. Whatever they found would lead to my father and then to my mother. My mother would tell them everything.

  “Oh Steve,” I said. My voice sounded sloppy. My throat filled. Whatever I had managed to hold down that day came back up in a hot gush. It was all over my front in a single wretch. “I’m not feeling very good.”

  Steve jumped back and out of the way, but then grabbed hold of my head and held me up. “Amy?” he asked without more to the question. He pressed the palm of his hand onto my arm and then touched his lips to my head. “Babe, you’re burning up!”

  “Stupid flu,” I told him. “I’m sorry I threw up.”

  “No. No, this isn’t flu,” he said and rushed from my side, his cane hitting the bed and walls as he left the room for help.

  I stung my face with a slap, trying to focus and shake the dizziness. I needed to be alert and convincing so that he’d finish telling me about the news. When he was gone and I was alone for the night, I could use the burner phone. Nerd might be able to do some of his hacking magic to tell me what the police had found. My head spun and another vile gush spilled from my mouth; this time the nurse caught it in a bedpan.

  “I got that one,” she told me as she began to lift my hospital gown. “We’ll need to change your gown. The sheets too.”

  “Is this from the flu?” I heard Steve ask. I reached out to take his hand.

  “Well, it might have started out that way, but we’ll get the doctor to look at her,” she answered as she yanked my gown back to reveal my legs. I shook uncontrollably.

  “Cold,” I said, and pawed at the vomit-stained sheets, trying to pull them back over my legs.

  “Oh my,” the nurse said. “Look at that.”

  “Look at what?” I asked.

  “Does this hurt, honey?”

  The nurse’s dry fingers touch my belly. I shook my head. She pressed again, and a sharp pain knifed my side. I reeled back and let out a yell, shoving at her hands. My belly spasmed like I was having a contraction.

  “Don’t!” I screamed, trying to turn away from her.

  “You might want to leave,” she told Steve. He pinched my fingers and struggled to kneel by my side so his face could be level with mine. I longed to be at home, to be lost in the crook of his body, his arm around me as we slept.

  “It’s okay, babe,” I told him. “I’ll feel better soon.”

  “I can stay,” he insisted, standing with a cringe.

  I shook my head and draped my hand across his cheek, touching my finger to his mouth. “I’m good. See the kids. Tell them I love them.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I DOZED TO THE sound of voices, to the last of the daylight, and to the moon lifting into the sky. Steve decided to stay after all and discuss my course of recovery, having caught the unease buried in the doctor’s voice. I thought it was sweet, but was too tired to tell him to leave the doctor alone. By the end of the exchange, I could only half listen—I only half-cared. The sedatives and painkillers numbed my mind and turned the conversations into audible oatmeal. One of the last things I remembered, though, was feeling Steve’s lips brush against my cheek and his warm breath in my ear whispering “I love you.” I mumbled something incoherent and heard the dreamy sound of laughter. I might have smil
ed briefly and even joined in the gaiety. Painkillers make everything better.

  ***

  Hours wore away, and so did the painkillers. A bloom of heat grew around the infection. I was sweaty again. I wiped at my face while trying to sit up. The bandages slipped from my skin, coming loose from the dampness. I hesitated before pulling the tape, but then dared a peek beneath them. The gauze had become stiff with ooze, but I forced a look. In the dim light, I could make out swelling and redness. I laid my fingers where my baby had been and gently pressed. A short, jagged rupture came with a burst of heat. I threw my head against the pillow and covered my mouth, stifling a scream in my throat. I tried to puzzle the bandage back into place by lining up the corners. The antibiotics clearly weren’t working. Not yet, anyway.

  The evening made the room seem unfamiliar. The fever played with my head, setting my mind racing. Pale light flashed through the window, promising a storm, and a thumping percussion shook the glass.

  “A stormy night,” a nurse had forecast earlier in the day.

  I focused on the rain—focused on anything that I thought might help lull me to sleep. I even counted the lightning flashes as if they were sheep. The storm sent hail next; it ticked recklessly against the glass like unwary bugs. I counted them too, and finally found my way back to where I needed to be. I found sleep.

  ***

  “Amy!” I heard.

  It jarred me, wrenching me from a light sleep. I instinctively pulled the sheets up to cover my arms.

  “Amy, I know how to fix this.”

  “Mom?” I asked, recognizing her voice and wondering if I was dreaming.

  A dull ache told me this was no dream. It told me I was awake. I found my mother standing in the doorway, the hallway lights pitting her face in black.