What She Left Behind

by Tracy Bilen

  “I know. He might try to convince the police that your mom left on her own.”

  “Take me home, Zach. I need to get some things.”

  “Sara—”

  “Please, Zach. Just please take me home.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Wednesday

  What if your dad’s home?” Zach asks, unbuckling his seat belt.

  “He’s not. It’s only twelve thirty. He doesn’t believe in leaving work early, even when he’s sick.” Just to be sure, once we’re out of the car, I peer into the garage. No truck. Safe, for the moment.

  Zach takes my hand and we go inside. “I just want to get a few things,” I say. Mainly my mom’s necklace. And Sam—as stupid and messed up as that is. “Come with me?” I ask, gripping his hand a little tighter.

  “Of course,” says Zach. We cross through the living room, where something smells fruity. An orange. “Do you smell that?” I ask Zach.

  He nods.

  I look around. It isn’t like my dad to leave out a plate or a peel after a snack. Nothing. Then I freeze.

  Dad is sitting at the dining room table, eating orange slices. My heart beats furiously. No one goes into the dining room. It’s off-limits because of Matt. We all know that. We all respect the unspoken rule. Yet there he is, sitting and eating as if nothing has changed.

  Every instinct tells me to run. Instead I approach the dining room, but I don’t go in. Zach stands next to me.

  “Your school called. Said you had skipped out. Again,” Dad says nonchalantly.

  “We found Mom’s car,” I say accusingly.

  My dad pushes his chair back and stands up, walking toward me with measured steps.

  Zach makes a fist.

  A glint of silver in Dad’s hand. Just seeing it starts my whole body trembling. A gun.

  The gun Matt used to kill himself.

  Zach hesitates. My dad does not. He smacks the gun against Zach’s head, and Zach crumples to the floor.

  I swing my backpack at Dad. He blocks it, grabbing my wrist and forcing me to my knees next to Zach.

  Zach’s body is still, his face expressionless, his skin smooth and flawless. He looks how I wished my brother would have looked when he died. Serene. Peaceful. Beautiful.

  I kiss the tops of his eyelids, like I had wanted to do to Matt. Please, God, let him still be alive. I press my face against his and feel his soft, cool cheek. His warm breath tickles my ear. Thank you, God.

  Dad yanks me to my feet. My head hits the wall and a picture frame falls to the floor and cracks. “Go pack his bag,” he says. “Now that Matt doesn’t have play rehearsal anymore we can finally go on vacation.” He gestures toward Matt’s room.

  “We need to call an ambulance.” I can barely hear my own voice over the roaring in my ears.

  “He’ll be fine.”

  Dad waves me along with the gun and follows me into Matt’s room.

  This can’t be happening. This is my dad, the same dad who gave me Sam. Who used to call me “angel,” who took me biking, fishing, train-watching, horseback riding, and to see the Statue of Liberty.

  “Pack.”

  Why hadn’t I left the day my mom didn’t show up at the Dairy Dream? I kept believing she was alive long after it made any sense. I’m sorry, Zach. Sorry for getting you into this mess.

  Dad sits on Matt’s bed, patiently watching me. Who is this person?

  I open Matt’s dresser drawers. They’re all neatly organized—too organized. I want to cry, but instead I choose the same kind of stuff I’d packed for myself last Monday night: underwear, socks, jeans, a few T-shirts, and a sweatshirt for good measure. Only one, because wherever we’re going, whatever we’re doing, it can’t last for very long.

  Then I go into my bathroom, the one Matt and I used to share, and I find a new toothbrush. There’s one in the drawer that Mom had bought before Matt died. It’s red. Matt’s color.

  I take Matt’s duffel into the living room and set it down.

  “Go ahead, pack yours, too,” my dad says encouragingly. He seems to be in a great mood, despite the gun in his hand. He follows me into my room.

  I’d already repacked most of my duffel in preparation for Mom’s return. I slide it out from under the bed and toss in the rest on autopilot. Including Sam. Dad doesn’t seem to remember that Sam is supposed to be in a Dumpster. I reach for a pen on my desk.

  “Nope. This is a no-homework vacation.”

  “Great. Then I’ll take a pen for crossword puzzles. What else should I bring? Where are we going?”

  Dad laughs and shakes his head, as if I’ve just told him the world’s best joke.

  “You hate crosswords.” Then his face loses its color and he stops laughing. Matt was the one who liked crosswords.

  “I can bring it along for—”

  “I said no!”

  “Then I’ll just bring something to read.”

  My dad nods, jaw clenched, as I tear out a page from Soap Opera Digest and slip it into Alex’s Stephen King book.

  Dad escorts me to the living room and nods for me to pick up Matt’s—Zach’s—bag too. “Ladies first.”

  With a bag over each arm and the Stephen King book in one hand, I cross through the kitchen. I sway to the left, pretending my balance is off, and drop one of the bags. I lurch toward the phone, knocking a chair over on the way. Then I grab the receiver and hit talk. My dad doesn’t try to stop me.

  No dial tone.

  Dad looks at me like when I was five and I’d say, “Can I have another cookie, please?” And he’d say, “There aren’t any more.” I’d check anyhow. He’d let me, and he wouldn’t get mad. His eyes would just say, See? I told you, when I saw the cookie jar was empty.

  And, like when I was five, Dad now says, “Come on, Sara. Let’s get going.”

  I pick up the bag and take long, quick steps—fast enough to make it outside a few seconds before my dad, but not so fast that it looks as if I’m trying to run away.

  Outside, the birds sing and the sun shines, and the car going by at the end of our quarter-mile-long driveway seems as far away from me and my voice as stars in the night sky.

  I toss Alex’s book across the lawn like a Frisbee. I’m sure that once he learns that I walked out on Robertson’s class and never came back, he’ll come by the house to try to find out what happened. Beyond that, I can only hope he’ll find the book he loaned me and realize that something’s wrong. That he’ll notice the Soap Opera Digest page and remember Zach teasing me about keeping my magazines in pristine condition. Hopefully he doesn’t think I’m incredibly careless or that I’ve taken to reading on the front lawn. But even if he figures out something is wrong, how will Alex know where to find me when I don’t even know, myself?

  Although in my mind it seems about as discreet as a billboard, Dad doesn’t notice the abandoned book. He simply gestures toward the camper, parked as it always is next to the barn. As we pass the side door of the barn, I see that Dad’s parked his truck inside it.

  Brilliant, Sara. You checked the garage but not the barn. In my defense, Dad never parks in the barn. Which means he planned all of this and knew I wasn’t going to go with him willingly.

  I hesitate at the stairs to the camper. This is absurd. Run, Sara, run! This is your last chance! But where do I run? We’re in the middle of a twenty-acre field and our only neighbor won’t even open the door for me.

  My dad is behind me. He prods me forward with the gun and my heart nearly stops beating. I force my feet up the steps and into the camper. It smells of tuna fish and Cheerios, my dad’s favorite camping foods. Now that I’m inside, will I ever come back out?

  My dad takes the duffel bags and finds a place for them, then pushes me onto the bench next to the table. The walls seem to close in and the space becomes even smaller than I remembered it. I have to get out! There has to be something I can use to smash the window.

  Dad opens a drawer calmly and deliberately and pulls something out. Handcuffs. He toss
es them to me. “Put one on.”

  Seriously?

  He points the gun at me. What if I refuse? Will he really shoot me? He must have shot Mom. Which means he’ll shoot me and Zach. If not now, then later. Maybe I should just let it be now.

  I hesitate, but only for a moment. As much as I hate my life right now, I don’t want it to end. Even if I can see Matt. And Mom. I click a handcuff onto one wrist.

  “Sit on the floor.”

  I don’t want to. I want to stay on the bench where I can try to pretend that things are normal. I don’t want to sit on the floor where I won’t even be able to see where we’re going.

  “Move, Sara!” my dad barks.

  I slide to the floor.

  “Hands behind your back.” It sounds so absurd that I want to laugh and say, Geez, Dad, you’ve been watching too much Law & Order. Although, in Dad’s case, I guess he had just lived too much Law & Order.

  Dad cuffs my hands together around the giant table leg, which is attached to the floor of the camper. He has to set down the gun to do it. This is my chance!

  I try to stand up and I scream, even though I know the rest of the world is too far away to hear me.

  I’m not fast enough. The handcuffs are secured. I keep screaming. My dad picks up the gun again and points it at me. He looks angrier, like the next time he points the gun at me he’s going to use it. He’s going to pull the trigger.

  I stop screaming. He picks up a roll of duct tape, cuts off a strip, and comes toward me. My heart beats wildly.

  “Hold still,” he says, and covers my mouth with the strip.

  Dad leaves and a few minutes later comes back carrying Zach. He props him up and handcuffs him to the table leg too. “I was hoping I wouldn’t need these.” He ruffles Zach’s hair.

  I like to imagine that Zach is my brother, too. At least I know it’s just pretend.

  I want to cry.

  Dad takes another strip of duct tape and covers Zach’s mouth, even though he’s still unconscious. Then Dad gets out a plastic tablecloth that my mom always clips onto picnic tables. He shakes it over the table so that it drapes down and covers us, and even uses the plastic clips to hold it in place. My world is darker still.

  Dad’s shoes squeak on the steps of the camper and then the back door slams. The camper shifts ever so slightly as Dad gets in the front. He closes the door, turns on the engine, and starts to whistle.

  The camper bumps and rattles and turns corners. Each bump spills a tear that I’m trying to will back into my eyes. I know if I really let myself cry I won’t be able to stop. I feel like I’m going to be carsick. Please don’t let me throw up. The handcuffs dig into my wrists, and I ache all over.

  Then I hear the most beautiful sound: a siren! Please let it be for us.

  The camper slows. I feel us veer to the side, and the slight drop as we edge onto the shoulder. We stop. There’s a slight shake as a vehicle whooshes past us. Then we start rolling again.

  I don’t remember anything in my Worst-Case Scenario guidebook about escaping handcuffs. I curse myself for not having bought the second book in the series. I’m on my own.

  Mom, I’m so scared. I really thought you were coming back. I miss you.

  You and Matt have to help me figure out how to get Zach away from here. He’s been so good to us. We have to make it up to him.

  I close my eyes and try to think about something else. I imagine that Alex is next to me, rubbing my shoulders. What time is it? School will surely be over soon. I wonder what Alex thought when he got back to history and I wasn’t there. Did he go to the Dairy Dream? What did he think when I wasn’t at the Dairy Dream, when I wasn’t in math? Or maybe he skipped math. Would he try to find me? I think about kissing him before he got sent to Altman’s office.

  The ride gets more and more bumpy, and after a while, I don’t even hear the whoosh of other passing cars. We’re going a lot slower, but the potholes are horrific and I keep whacking my head on the top of the table. We’ve made so many turns that there’s no way I could have kept track of how to get home.

  Finally, we stop. The engine noise fades into a bubbling sound. We must be near a river. My stomach bottoms out as I process what that means. Is Dad going to drown us? Is that what he did to my mom? Between that thought and the duct tape over my mouth it becomes doubly hard to breathe.

  Calm down, Sara! Think this through! What did Dad say when he told me to pack the bags? “Now that Matt doesn’t have play rehearsal, we can finally go on vacation.”

  Vacation. It’s starting to make sense. What if this isn’t just any river? What if it’s the Au Sable? Dad said vacation. What if he brought us back to Ramona’s Retreat, where we spent all those summers? We stopped going there after Matt died, but Dad has been acting as if Zach is Matt and Matt is still alive.

  The back door opens, Dad pulls back the tablecloth, and I see that I’m right. There’s the wooden eagle statue mounted on a stump that’s been here as long as I can remember. We’re at Ramona’s Retreat.

  The next-closest cabin isn’t within screaming distance, which I’m sure is why Dad pulls the duct tape off my mouth. My lips sting and I cry out in pain. Zach is starting to come to and Dad rips his duct tape off too.

  Dad opens a drawer, takes out a key, and unlocks my left handcuff. Once he takes it off I realize how tight it had been and I rub my wrist.

  “Move,” Dad says, dropping the key back into the drawer. He gestures toward the door with the gun.

  The air smells woodsy and is cool by the river. It’s hard to look at the cabin. If I focus on the front window, I see Matt chasing Mom with a water gun. If I look toward the river, I see Matt filling up a bucket of water to dump on me. If I look up, Matt’s sitting in a tree, smiling down at me. But I know that I’ve gone completely mad, just like my dad, when I walk inside the cabin.

  “Mom!”

  My mom sits in a kitchen chair, duct tape over her mouth, covered with a blanket. I start to cry. Whatever madness this is, I don’t want to get better.

  I run to her and throw my arms around her. Her face is red and bruised. I touch the tears running down her cheeks, and reassure myself that she’s real.

  For a moment, I feel a rush of joy. She’s alive! My mom’s alive!

  Dad peels the duct tape from her mouth. I hug her again but she isn’t hugging me back because she’s handcuffed to the chair. Her feet are tied at a horrible angle, so she can’t use them to stand. The joy I felt just moments ago is sucked right out of me. My mom is alive, but after this will she ever be the same? And if she’s been a prisoner here all week, how will any of us escape?

  Dad yanks me away to the opposite side of the kitchen. He attaches my other handcuff to the refrigerator door. Then he straightens the towel on the oven door and lines up three tuna cans along the back of the counter. So this is what happened to the fifty dollars’ worth of groceries on the credit card statement.

  “I’ll just go get Matt,” my dad says, all cheery. Mom’s face jerks as if she’s been slapped.

  “He thinks Zach is Matt,” I say as soon as he’s back outside.

  “No, Sara. No, you can’t be here,” Mom says frantically. She’s shaking and her words run together. “You’ve got to get away. I’m sorry that I waited so long. I’d hoped you had run away. And now Zach—I love you, baby.”

  “I love you too, Mom. It’s not your fault. We’ll find a way out of here.” I try to mask the waver in my voice. The truth is, I’m utterly terrified and without a plan. I instinctively reach for my ponytail and turn it round and round. “Have you been alone here all this time?”

  She shakes her head. “No, your dad’s been here most of every day.”

  Dad, who’s never late for work and never leaves early, has been coming here? I feel stupid as I realize that’s the reason he had Bruce working extra hours.

  I look around the kitchen. “Where’s the phone?”

  “Your dad cut the line, then he took the phone with him.”

>   Just like he did at home.

  Zach stumbles into the room. He looks up, sees my mom, and almost smiles. “Mrs.—”

  “Matt!” I shout over him. “Mom was just asking about the field trip you went on today.”

  Zach’s expression deflates. “Fine,” he says. “The field trip was fine.”

  Dad pushes Zach into a kitchen chair and fastens his handcuffs through the rungs. Dad grabs a coil of rope from the kitchen counter. Zach kicks, but my dad grabs his foot and twists until Zach screams. Then he makes a few quick, tight knots, just like when he ties up the trash, and Zach’s legs are as useless as my mom’s. Dad: 3. Us: 0.

  I try to stay calm by looking around the cabin for a weapon or a way out. I wonder if my dad went to the trouble of renting the cabin or whether he just broke in. Either way, since it isn’t summer, it seems unlikely that anyone else will drop by to visit.

  “All right, then, I’ll make us some dinner.” Dad usually does the cooking, if you can call it that, when we go camping.

  Next to me in the kitchen, Dad opens a can of tuna, mixes it with some mayonnaise that he gets out of the refrigerator I’m attached to, and pops bread into the toaster. Then he puts a kettle on the stove for tea. When it’s all ready, he brings our plates to the table.

  Dad slides Mom’s chair over to the table. Next to a pair of antlers, there’s a hook on the wall. Dad grabs a small key from it. A key to the handcuffs? He must have two copies, since he didn’t hang anything there when he came in from the camper with Zach. Dad frees a hand for Mom and Zach each to eat with. He moves me to a kitchen chair, only he doesn’t tie my legs like everyone else’s. I guess there are some advantages to being known as She Who Has No Voice When It Matters.

  The tea is good. It always is when Dad makes it. I put my nose close to the cup to warm up. Then I take a sip—perfectly sweet.

  The tuna sandwich is another story. It has the crunchy things in it that I hate. I want to pick them out, but I don’t dare. So I bite and chew and swallow and try to drown the taste and the texture with the tea.

  Dad’s eyes are bright and shiny. Unlike most nights, he carries the conversation.