Then I saw my mother’s finger. The light hairs of the gypsy moth vibrating as it climbed onto my young hand.
I could be free.
The thought invaded. It came uncalled-for and unexpected. I pushed it back, unwilling to believe it. But it came back with each slap of a wave breaking, with each hiss of the ocean returning into itself.
Could I?
I hung my head, resting it in my sandy hands. As my eyes closed, the sound flashed through the murmur of the waves. My brother’s voice.
It’s not right.
You shouldn’t be treated like that.
You shouldn’t just take it.
I have your back, bro.
The surf reached my feet. In an instant, the water soaked through shoes and socks. It had to be frigid but I felt nothing. The waves rolled in, crashed, and hissed up and down the sand. But I heard nothing. The salty air stuck to the heat of my cheeks, but I smelled nothing.
Mom.
That word might as well have been some primordial gear, grinding and pushing one foot forward, and then the other. I walked slowly, purposefully, out into the Atlantic. Muscles fought the push of the ocean. My heart raced and the blood pumped harder and harder. Yet the last shreds of myself, the core of me, that damaged pit hidden so deeply and darkly inside of my being, did nothing. It succumbed to the weight of it all, and my feet moved ever forward.
I did not scream out in rage. I did not pull at my hair in pain. I simply moved slowly forward, deeper and deeper into the ocean. Everything I had done in this life came back to me, and my decision—if you could call it that—made more and more sense. I was not meant for this existence of balance and order. I was chaos, like the storming ocean. I was chaos like the swirling waters. I needed to be stopped. It needed to be stopped.
The water rose above my waist and my chest seized. A wave hit my face and I staggered back, almost losing my footing. A sound pulled out of me, a keening that rose above the surf. I dug through the water with my arms, needing to keep going forever.
I don’t know if I wanted to die. That desire seems simplistic. What I wanted to do was escape the truth. But that can’t be done. It follows you like a dormant virus, lying in ambush. It remains inside you, waiting, watching. You can’t run from yourself. There’s only one way to kill that kind of virus. You have to kill the host.
The water reached my face. My feet floated off the sand. I held my breath, frustrated, paddling against the force of the water. It should have been easy. I should have been able to simply walk away and never come back. But something pulled my body to the surface every time I tried to stay under the water.
So I dove. I put my hands out in front of me and cut through the water. I reached the ocean floor. My fingers dug into the sand. I tried to hold on. All I had to do was breathe. Take water into me. Then I would sink.
I opened my mouth, ready to drown myself.
Mom!
I so wanted to be with her again. Just to sit beside her. Touch her hand. Listen to her voice as she spoke softly, sweetly to me. Her absence continued to be such a gaping wound inside me that, in the moment, only the ocean seemed to have the power to fill.
I closed my eyes. Through the briny water, I swear I felt her fingertips brush across my face, run through my hair. My hands opened and I reached for her. Willing myself to drift away from this world and find her in another.
The icy water quieted time. I found peace in that moment, a peace so foreign to me that I would never have been able to call it that. I just felt so close to her. Like I was floating slowly, gently into a future that never could have been.
My lungs burned. I opened my mouth as if the sea might douse the raging fires inside me. One breath, and it would have been over. One breath, and I would have joined my mother forever.
Then I saw her. Not Mom, but Patsy. And I saw her finger brushing away a stray wisp of hair. Her hand slipping across her stomach protectively.
No . . .
My eyes shot open. The realization pierced the cold and my fleeting peace. My brother was going to be a father.
Suddenly, I knew why I had walked out into the ocean. Why I had tried to end it all. It wasn’t the anger I saw on Patsy’s face in the bar. It was not the thought of her enduring my nightmare. I had so many chances to stop that, to turn her away from my brother, but I never had the strength. This time, though I tried not to accept it when I first saw it, was different.
I knew she was pregnant. I knew the second I saw her hand move. I just couldn’t let it be true. I couldn’t stand up to the thought of the cycle continuing. Of an innocent life stepping into my childhood shoes.
My mind had blocked Patsy’s truth. It wouldn’t let me face it. Yet a sliver of courage that could not be extinguished completely sent me shooting to the surface, sputtering and coughing. The cold hit me then like a stab through my lungs. My arms flailed, sending water splashing out in wild arcs.
A wave picked me up. The break caught me, pulling me under, throwing me against the ground. I took in more water when my shoulder slammed into the sand. Then I was in shallower water. I found my footing and staggered toward the shore, falling twice before a wave hit me from behind, throwing me forward onto the beach.
I crawled. Pain shot up my neck. Water poured out of my lungs. When I felt dry sand, I fell to my side. Everything left me then. I felt empty and alone. And worst of all, I was still alive. But I knew what I had to do. And I finally had the courage to do it. The next day, I would tell Patsy everything.
17
I lay on the beach until the sun came up. Then I drove the two hours home. As I neared Wilmington, though, I stopped at a traffic light and noticed a large art and crafts store across the intersection. I didn’t think about it, really. It was more like I found myself pulling into the parking lot and walking through the doors. In a daze, I wandered around, ending up in the section with acrylic paints, easels, and pre-stretched canvases. I stared for a time, unmoving. Then something inside me snapped. I stuffed my hands with everything I could. Then I checked out without making eye contact with the woman behind the counter.
When I got back to my trailer, I set up the easel and the canvas. I laid out all the paints. Then I closed my eyes, picturing Patsy as she looked when I first saw her, before everything else happened. I thought of her the night before, the anger on her face as my brother bored into her soul. The way her hand instinctively moved to protect her unborn child.
I mixed burnt umber with water, swirling the paint with my brush until the wash thinned. I closed my eyes the second the bristles touched the canvas. The lines sprang from my heart. Sketching the contour of her neck, the angle of her cheek. The fire in her eye.
As my brush made that first mark on the white, blank surface, I thought about her life. My life that had passed. I thought about love and protection, fear and crushing truth. I painted and painted, tears running down my cheeks, mixing with the paints on my palette. I couldn’t stop. The pain coursed through me, out my fingertips and onto that canvas in brushstrokes so real and firm that in the end, I swore they must have come from someone else, someone with far more strength than I had.
It took me ten hours to finish the painting. Once I was done, once I had spent the years of anger and pain, I left my trailer and found Patsy. I sat her down and told her everything. For the first time in my life, I set the story free. The truth, as I knew it would, opened her eyes. It buffered her against my brother’s words.
“Is this true?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I said, the word burning my throat.
Patsy searched my face. Then she nodded.
“I’m pregnant, Liam.”
“I know.”
“Is that why you finally told me?”
I thought about all the times we’d spoken in the past. All the times I’d sensed her unspoken questions. I felt small, weak, but I nodded.
Of all things, she smiled. It didn’t come from sadness. Or repression. It was something else altogether. Resolve, maybe. But I don’t know. I will never know. But the sight of it has stuck with me. It will until this is finally over.
“He needs to be stopped,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I asked, trying to hide the hope that surged through my body.
“You know, don’t you?” she asked.
“What?”
“What he does . . . How he does it. I think I lost myself in it. I believed him. The things he did . . . He needs to be stopped.”
“What about the baby?”
She touched her stomach. “That’s why, Liam. It can’t happen again.”
* * *
—
HER PLAN TRULY started that day. Maybe Drew sensed something. I know Patsy felt it. Whatever it was, his attention shifted off of her. It returned to the person whose strings he’d held for decades.
In a way, his plan started that day, too. My brother called me as I knew he would. He asked me to meet him at a large sports bar on the river. Neither of us ever hung out there. In fact, no one I knew did, either. I called Patsy right away and she told me to go and meet him.
When I got there, he was already sitting at a high-top in the corner. The music was loud and the place had a good crowd, but somehow there was space around us. I sat down and he bought me a Rolling Rock. As I sipped it, he watched me. I swore he could see it on my face, that I had finally let our secret out.
He acted nice for a while, talking about work. About how much help I was. I nodded and smiled. I felt good, but I knew what he was doing. I could see the familiar patterns now, how he filled me with pride before breaking me apart. How he broke me down and used me. Regardless, his words just seemed to be heavier than anyone else’s. He was going to test me. And somehow, I already knew the stakes would be life or death.
“I went by Mom’s grave the other day,” he said, slipping that fact into the conversation like it was the next logical step.
I flinched, and he saw me. Drew leaned forward, his face blank but his eyes hungry.
“We wouldn’t have made it if we didn’t stick together.” He took a slow drink and then stared at the alcohol in his glass. “It’s a shame, really. Her disease. I guess it was just too much.”
I said nothing, yet his words cut straight through me. I knew what he was talking about, and he knew I knew. He was reminding me of our past and the sway he held over me. He was, as always, pulling the strings. Playing his game by his rules.
As he looked into my eyes, Drew placed a folded-up piece of paper on the tabletop, slowly sliding it across to me. Hesitating only a second, I picked it up, straightening the sheet. I looked down to see a photocopy of a Delaware driver’s license. Lauren Branch. 3509 Clayton Street, Wilmington, Delaware. Five four. One hundred twenty-two.
“What the hell, Drew?” I asked.
“She’s trying to blackmail me.”
“What?”
“She’s claiming that we had an affair. It’s all bullshit. You know that.”
I nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“She wants me to pay her a hundred grand to stay quiet. Or she’ll blow up the campaign. I don’t have that kind of . . .”
“Fuck that,” I said, but it was an act. I had to play along, no matter how far it went.
His smile grew. “Yeah. Who the hell does she think she is, messing with us.”
“She’s fucking crazy,” I said.
He took a big drink this time. He looked so damn proud of himself.
“Look, can you take care of her?”
I paused, just long enough. I knew that if I agreed too quickly, he would know something was up. At the same time, my options melted away. Patsy knew the truth. That, more than anything, meant there was no turning back. His eyes narrowed and that grin dropped off his face.
“Seriously, bro. You owe me. You want me to . . . ?”
“No,” I interrupted him. “It’s cool. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to grab her. Either late at night or early in the morning. Somewhere no one will see. I’ll meet you back at your trailer. I figure I can leave my car there and no one will notice. You pick me up and we’ll go to the hotel on the river, the fancy one. I have her credit card number already, so I’ll make a reservation. I also have a staff pass that can get us in a side entrance, one without any cameras. I know a guy there in security, too. He’ll kill the ones on the floor once we get there. We’ll have to take care of him afterwards, but that’s no problem. No big deal. Right?”
“Sure,” I say, looking at my drink.
“What’s one more, right?” He laughs. “Anyway. I’ll get some pills. And liquor. We’ll have some fun. Why not, right? Then it’ll look like a suicide. I already have some notes from her that will paint her as crazy, obsessed with me. The story will be huge, you know. Philly media will pick it up. Huge!”
I meant to stay quiet, but the question slipped out. “Won’t that look bad . . . on you?”
“Of course not. I’ll play the victim. I’ll act like I had no idea. The devoted married man. We’ll add a platform to the campaign. Something on mental health. I’ll talk about Mom. It’ll be perfect.”
He added bits and pieces, but I had stopped listening. I had enough, and all I could think about was calling Patsy. Once our meeting ended and I drove back to my house by the water, that’s what I did.
“We can’t hurt her,” she said.
Her response surprised me. She was the first of the three of us to be concerned with Lauren’s well-being. And she, of all people, had a right to feel otherwise.
“Maybe this is our chance,” I said.
Reluctant at first, Patsy finally understood. Once she did, the conversation changed. She took control, devising the steps of her plan.
“Your trailer?” she said. “What if you got one of those surveillance systems? Could you set it up there?”
“Sure,” I said.
“That’s it, then,” she said.
I agreed and she laid out the rest. It involved cameras and the police. Catching Drew just as he was about to hurt Lauren. Recording his orders to kill her. The authorities swooping in before someone got hurt. I could tell she put a lot of thought into it.
“It sounds good,” I said, looking out my window at the black water of the river.
“Do you think it’ll work? Is it too dangerous?”
“It’ll work,” I said.
I realized something in that moment as I stared out at the night. Patsy didn’t know Drew like I did. Just like Lauren didn’t, either. He was too dangerous. The truth was, anything we planned would be too dangerous. Yet every day we walked a tightrope with my brother. Maybe it would work. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, I knew one thing for sure. Patsy, Lauren, and I were locked in. There was no turning back. Either we did something, or one of us would end up dead.
PART FOUR
MY PLAN
1
We did have a plan, Patsy and I. And I didn’t lie to her. Not outright. I just let her think that we were on the same page. Although she knows my brother all too well, she doesn’t understand him like I do. She never can. See, her idea might have worked with someone else. But if we gave Drew even an inch, he would have wiggled free. Somehow. And in doing so, he would have destroyed us all. This time, I wouldn’t let that happen.
“Why didn’t you follow the plan?” Patsy asks softly. “You were supposed to go to the trailer. Get him to admit what he was going to do with her on camera. It would have worked, Liam.”
“You know him,” I say softly.
That’s all I have. I feel Patsy searching my thoughts. I blink but meet her gaze this time.
“I thought I did, once. And I thought I knew you, too.” She shakes her head. “It’s crazy. All my lif
e, people have told me how smart I am. How strong. That I had everything going for me. Great education. Great job. Great family. But I let this happen. And I did nothing to stop it.”
My heart breaks for her, but I also know that’s not what she wants. Not right now. And not ever.
“My mom said something to me once. She said that love makes us weak. Because we stop caring about ourselves.”
Patsy nods. “She’s right. I knew. Not right away, but I had a feeling. It would come and go. And I would convince myself I was wrong. That I could change him. It would get worse, but I would tell myself that it wasn’t so bad. That I was exaggerating. I would try harder. And he would change. He’d be different. Perfect. For a time . . . he’d be the Drew I fell in love with again.”
Her head shakes and her eyes grow distant. It is as if I know what she will say next. Because, in a way, we are two sides of the same story.
“I feel so stupid,” she says. “When we were dating, up until we got married, he was so different then.”
“Like that lacrosse party,” I say without thinking.
She looks at me like I am crazy for a second. Then Patsy nods.
“I remember that day. When we got there, I walked away from him . . . and he let me. He trusted me. He let me be myself, not just his girlfriend. So few men can do that, Liam. They want to control everything. Who we talk to. Where we go. He wasn’t like that. He was so confident. So . . . different.”
“When did it change?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t really know. It happened so slowly. Even that night, when we got home, he started in on me. Started to pick me apart, little by little. One day, I just found myself wondering how I let it happen. I knew I should get out. But . . . I guess . . . I was so embarrassed. So ashamed that I’d gotten myself in so deep. With someone like . . . I thought I was so strong. So independent. So smart.”
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