Thirty Sunsets

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  My family is waiting outside while the officer and I sit behind the glass. The five guys standing in front of me all have similar features, but one face—the fourth one—is unmistakable. I’d know that asshole anywhere.

  “He looks like he’s staring at me,” I tell the officer, who nods and assures me he hears that a lot.

  But there’s more to it than that. Yes, Scott’s eyes are still soulless, but his gaze is smug and cocky. He holds his head high and throws his shoulders back. His good looks, his confidence, his swagger … they’ve clearly served him well in the past. And he seems to instinctively know where to level his eyes. Even though he can’t see me, he knows I’m on the other side. His gaze is a clearly a dare, a challenge, a threat: Bring it, bitch.

  But rather than cowering, I stand taller. Yes, he’s a sociopath, but he’s just a guy … a pathetic, flesh-and-blood guy who I’m guessing has skated through life without so much as glancing backward at his victims. But I’m not in his past; I’m right here, right in front of him, facing him, and maybe for the first time forcing him to face himself.

  I have no delusions; his conscience is probably irredeemably AWOL. But I spoke up, and he’s having to deal with me whether he wants to or not. I’m so grateful Mom and Dad insisted that I speak up. I feel twelve feet tall.

  “That’s him,” I say simply. “Blue polo shirt, fourth guy from the left.”

  This is for you too, Mom, I think, then stand taller still.

  The officer searches my eyes. “You’re sure?”

  I nod. “One hundred percent.”

  Yes. Twelve feet tall.

  thirty-two

  “No way !”

  I squeal and leap into the air before throwing my arms around Shelley.

  I was already peering at her mom’s car in our driveway, confused at first, wondering what was up, and then …

  Then I saw Shelley come bounding out my front door, her strawberry-blonde hair blowing in the sea breeze.

  Dad grins broadly. “Surprised?” he asks.

  But I’ve already jumped out of the car and swept Shelley into my arms.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her, still squealing. Just for the record, squealing is so unlike me.

  “My mom drove me,” Shelley says. “She’s inside.”

  “She’s a rock star,” I say, then notice my family beaming as they approach us. This is the first time I’ve seen Mom and Dad look happy in a week.

  Shelley offers hugs all around, then we go inside and join her mom.

  I’d waited a few days before telling Shelley about the attempted rape. I wanted to talk to her, and I knew she’d be there for me, but I somehow wanted to keep as much of my world as pure as possible. Maybe if I could contain this filthy stain, then I could ease back into my real life without any seepage.

  But then I thought about Olivia, feeling unworthy all those years because her mother ditched her. And I thought about Mom, too ashamed after her rape to tell a single soul, then slogging through the next few weeks feeling utterly alone. She probably never would have told anyone if she hadn’t gotten pregnant—just carried that horrible secret all her life.

  It’s not fair to feel shame for something you can’t control. Scott carries the filthy stain, not me. So I called Shelley last night and told her everything.

  Little did I know that she’d spend the next hour working the phones with my parents to arrange a surprise weeklong visit. And now here she is. Mom had left a key under the mat when we left for the police station.

  Mom hugs Shelley’s mom, then scurries to the kitchen and pulls a huge bowl of fresh fruit and a plastic container of chicken salad out of the fridge.

  “I can’t stay, Maureen,” Shelley’s mom is saying from the family room.

  “You’ve got to eat!” Mom says cheerily, and I think, This is the mom I know.

  In no time, she’s set the table and put a vase of fresh flowers in the center. The table seats only six, so Shelley and I squeeze into a chair together, wolf down a few bites, and beg off so we can hit the beach.

  The moms offer fluttery waves and tell us to be careful.

  “Hey, Liv, you and Bri come too,” I say.

  They hop up from the table and we duck into the bedrooms to change. Soon we’re all emerging in bathing suits, surfboards tucked under our arms.

  “See ya,” we call as we head to the deck, the surging waves of high tide beckoning.

  The sea breeze brushes against my cheek as we run onto the beach. I can own all the parts of my life; I know this now. Things can suck one day and be cool the next, and I can claim it all, can absorb it all without feeling defined by any specific circumstances. Brian learned that a year ago. I’m learning it now.

  And I’ve never felt lighter on my feet.

  “Scythe?” Olivia asks incredulously, pronouncing the C.

  I laugh lightly. “I promise it’s a real word,” I say as I tally my Scrabble score.

  “This is my last Scrabble game with you,” Olivia says, fake pouting. “You and your dad are, like, wordaholics.”

  “That’s not a word,” I say, and Liv playfully throws a tile at me.

  It’s after midnight, and considering we spent hours today on the beach, you’d think we’d be dead to the world right now. But I’m still on a Shelley high, so she and Liv and I are playing Scrabble in the family room.

  Well … kinda playing. We’re too punch-drunk for our hearts to be in it, so it’s a lot of gabbing interspersed with a smattering of scything.

  “I hope my baby’s brilliant like you guys,” Olivia says, and Shelley sucks in her breath.

  Olivia gives me a startled look. “She doesn’t know?”

  I shrug. “She knows now.”

  “You’re pregnant?” Shelley asks, then squeals when Olivia nods.

  Then she casts an indignant look at me. “You didn’t tell me?” Shelley says. “I thought I was your BFF!”

  “I’m not only brilliant, I’m discreet,” I say, collecting more tiles for my next turn.

  “Are you and Brian getting married?” Shelley asks.

  Olivia smiles and nods. “I know we’ve got a lot to figure out, but I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

  “Do you know what the rumor was?” Shelley asks her conspiratorially. “That you were bulimic.”

  I roll my eyes. “You don’t tell the people being gossiped about what the gossip is.”

  But Olivia is giggling. “I’ve heard that one for two years,” she says. “I think I had cancer at one point too. Oh, and I was a drug addict. But bulimia … that one had legs.”

  We laugh so hard that Liv starts patting her hand in the air to shush us. “Everybody’s asleep,” she reminds us. “Hey, why am I such a gossip magnet, by the way?”

  “Because you’re drop-dead beautiful,” Shelley answers matter-of-factly.

  “Then why aren’t you and I gossip magnets?” I ask Shelley, and we explode into a fresh burst of laughter.

  “You two are drop-dead beautiful,” Liv assures us. “But you gotta get that whole diva vibe going. That’s what cranks up the rumor mill, I think.”

  “Oooohh, will you teach us?” Shelley asks, folding her hands under her chin.

  “I’d teach you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Shelley smiles. “Who knew you were so cool?” she asks Olivia.

  I smile.

  My sentiments exactly: Who knew?

  thirty-three

  “I’m not saying it’s hopeless.”

  Mom, Dad, and I cast anxious glances around our kitchen table. Two more weeks have passed; we’ll be heading home on Sunday. We’d heard that Scott was out on bail, but until this meeting with the assistant district attorney, the details had been sketchy.

  “Our best bet may be getting him to plead down to sexual assault,”
the lawyer continues, her voice crisp with brisk efficiency.

  “What’s the difference between attempted rape and sexual assault?” Mom asks her.

  She frowns. “About twenty years.”

  “No!” Mom says. “I’m sorry, Ms. Pickett, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but I can’t stand the thought of Scott getting a slap on the wrist. The thought of him doing this to someone else … ”

  Ms. Pickett leans into the table. “His story,” she says, “is that Forrest invented the rape charge because she was mad he’d stood her up that night.”

  I guffaw indignantly.

  “He hurt her!” Mom responds. “They have pictures …

  evidence … ”

  “And that’s good,” Ms. Pickett continues, “but he said Forrest told him she ‘liked it rough.’” She looks at me apologetically. “He said he has witnesses that you two were well into your relationship before the rape charge came up. Sorry to have to burden you with this, but that’s what you’ll be facing if this goes to trial. Not that I’m not perfectly willing—”

  “So Forrest will be dragged through the mud?” Dad asks in a tight voice.

  “I don’t care,” I say. “Let him say whatever he likes. I have the truth on my side.”

  Ms. Pickett takes a deep breath. “That’s easy to say … ”

  “I’m not just saying it. I mean it. I can handle whatever I need to handle.”

  “What about Scott’s past?” Mom asks. “Certainly Forrest isn’t the first girl he’s taken advantage of.”

  “Oh, he’s got quite a past,” Ms. Pickett says. “Drugs, DUIs, even a couple of thefts. But none of that will be admissible, and his family has had enough pull to cushion him from any real consequences. At least so far … ”

  “I don’t want to label anybody,” Dad says, “but the way Forrest described him, he sounds like a sociopath—cold and calculating, manipulative … I’m terrified for any other girls who find themselves in his path.”

  Ms. Pickett nods. “I understand. But I saw his videotaped police interview. He’s very persuasive … very charismatic. I’m sure he’s had a lot of practice talking his way out of jams.”

  “Not this one,” I say through gritted teeth.

  The lawyer considers my words, then nods smartly. “Then we’ll move forward. Of course, a grand jury will make the determination of whether the case will proceed, but I can give it our best shot. I just want to make sure you’re prepared for what lies ahead.”

  I lock eyes with Mom: This is for you too.

  Then I turn back toward Ms. Pickett. “I’m ready.”

  thirty-four

  “Mimosas for everybody!”

  Olivia Senior is considerably more perky than the last time she tornadoed through our lives.

  She’s breezed back into town for our last weekend at the beach. We’re sitting on the deck as Dad grills chicken for dinner, and out she prances in a skimpy purple sundress with a pitcher full of yellow-orange beverage, ice cubes tinkling with every flouncy step she takes.

  “I bought champagne at the grocery store, and Maureen had orange juice,” she prattles. “And I thought, Hey, we need to celebrate !”

  Dad smiles gamely while Brian and Olivia Junior exchange nervous glances.

  “Celebrate what?” I ask, wondering if she has any other deep dark family secrets up her sleeve.

  “My grandchild, of course!” Olivia Senior coos at me. “Oh, I know I was a little agitated last time I was here, but now that everything’s straightened out … well, we have a baby to celebrate!”

  She begins plucking red Solo cups off a stack on the table and pouring mimosas from the pitcher.

  “Mom,” Olivia says nervously, “you’ve already had a couple of cocktails … ”

  Brian, standing behind her but out of Olivia Senior’s line of sight, holds up four fingers and mouths the word for emphasis.

  Oh. That explains her good cheer. She’s drunk.

  “If it’s a girl, I want Olivia the Third!” she gushes, handing me a cup only to have it intercepted by Dad.

  “Oh, she’s a big girl!” Olivia Senior scolds Dad, presumably referring to me. “We’re celebrating!”

  “She’s sixteen,” Dad says, trying to sound friendly.

  “Well, who the hell is counting?”

  But Olivia Senior has lost interest in me and is now handing a cup to her daughter.

  “I’m pregnant,” Olivia tells her in a clipped voice.

  “Oh my god, you people are uptight,” her mother responds, swooping toward Dad and handing him the cup instead. “You’ll help me celebrate, won’t you?” she asks, batting her lashes.

  “Sure.” He takes a swig and seems to be grateful to have it.

  “Will you name her Olivia?” Olivia Senior asks her daughter. “I love our name. I want us to have, like, our own cheerleading squad: the Olivias.”

  Olivia doesn’t even bother to respond as her mother falls into a chair, sloshing a bit of her drink en route.

  “Careful,” Dad says genially.

  “Hey, you are an excellent grill guy,” Olivia Senior tells him. “That chicken smells mmmmm, it just smells omigod, it smells so … ”

  “Good?” Dad ventures.

  “Yes! Good! And you are so sweet to have me, especially considering what a loon I was last time I was here. I mean, no big surprise, right, considering my daughter was bawling her eyes out telling me your wife was about to steal her baby, but still, I’m sure I was a little intense when I—”

  “Mom,” Olivia says softly.

  “Hey, it’s all good now, baby!” her mother responds, now slurring her words. She gulps the last of her mimosa, then reaches for the pitcher and pours herself another drink.

  “Mom,” Olivia repeats, but Olivia Senior ignores her.

  “Now that we’ve got all the nasty stuff behind us, we can all be one big happy family, right, Grill Guy? What was your name again? Fred?”

  Dad flashes a reluctant smile. “Michael.”

  “Michael,” Olivia Senior repeats, as if it’s the most fascinating word that’s ever spilled from her gooey-pink lips. “You are a very nice guy, Michael. And, you know what, three cheers for you, because from what I can tell, you have been, like, an excellent father figure to Brian.”

  Dad bristles. “I’m Brian’s father.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll go with that.”

  “Mother! ”

  Olivia’s voice is so shrill now that her mother can’t ignore her. “What, baby?” she asks thickly.

  “Shut up,” Olivia tells her in a clipped voice.

  “Hey, the chicken’s almost ready,” Dad says. “And those Braves … did anyone else catch the last inning of that game? Unbeliev—”

  “Michael, can I see you and Forrest for a moment?”

  We glance at the door leading to the family room. Mom’s face looks ashen.

  “Sure … ” Dad says, signaling Brian to man the grill.

  Dad and I walk inside and he closes the door behind us. Mom works her fingers together nervously.

  “Diane Pickett just called,” she says, staring at her hands.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The assistant district attorney,” she reminds me.

  “Oh.” I take a deep breath. “News about Scott?”

  Mom looks at me, then stares back down at her hands.

  “Yes,” she says.

  Dad and I exchange glances.

  “What is it, Maureen?” he asks.

  Mom swallows hard. “Scott was killed in a motorcycle accident last night.”

  I gasp. “What?”

  Mom purses her lips. “He crashed into a pole … no helmet, smelled of liquor … ”

  “Wow.” I lean numbly against the wall.

  “That’s
… it,” Mom says after a long pause. “That’s it.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. I don’t know how to feel. Relieved that I don’t have to face him in court? Ecstatic that he’ll never hurt another girl? Sad for a family that just lost a son? I’m … speechless.

  Dad puts an arm around me and squeezes me against his side. “That’s it,” he repeats softly.

  We stand there for a few long moments, the wind chimes tinkling on the deck. The sun is just starting to set, an almost crimson sunset tonight. A still, cloudless sunset.

  Without even forming the words in my head, I find myself echoing Mom’s and Dad’s words.

  “That’s it.”

  Yes.

  That’s it.

  six months later

  “His head, his head, watch his head !”

  Olivia winks at me from her hospital bed.

  “Whew,” I say. “I’d have been tempted to roll his head on the floor like a bowling ball if Mom hadn’t been here to set me straight.”

  Mom tsk s as I settle into a rocking chair with my beautiful nephew, Michael Brian Shepherd III (whose head, just for the record, is still intact), tightening the blanket around his teeny little toes.

  He wraps his teeny fingers around my pinkie and stares into my eyes. “He looks just like me,” I say dreamily as I examine his exquisitely perfect face.

  “He looks like his father,” Mom says, and Brian beams from across the room.

  “Noooo, you look just like your Aunt Forrest,” I say, falling into Michael Brian’s gaze as if his eyes were warm ponds. “Lucky little man.”

  “I should probably take him … ” Mom murmurs, but I swat her away with my free hand.

  Oh my god, this baby loves me so much. “He’s smiling at me!” I say, and truly, he’s either smiling or wincing, or he was for a second there until he scrunched up his perfect little face to try on a new expression.

  I make an O with my mouth, and Michael Brian studies me with the intensity of an astronomer discovering a new planet. “Yes, I’m the coolest aunt ever,” I coo to him.

  Did I mention how alert he is? I know that’s, like, the most clichéd thing anybody can say about a newborn, but, OMG, he is off-the-charts alert. I get it now, that whole “he’s so alert” observation. And as I hold him, I know one thing for sure: if there is anything on earth I can do to make the world a safer place for him, anything at all, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.