THE
GUILT
WE
CARRY
Also by Samuel W. Gailey
Deep Winter
THE
GUILT
WE
CARRY
A NOVEL
SAMUEL W. GAILEY
Copyright © 2019 Samuel W. Gailey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60809-320-5
Cover Design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For my two girls—Ayn and Gray
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE
GUILT
WE
CARRY
Sinclair had asked her what the sound was like, but she declined to answer.
Nobody—not her parents, her therapist, not even the police—had ever posed that question before.
But what would she have told them if they had?
The reverberation would prove to haunt Alice for the rest of her days. Nothing unusual in the sound in and of itself—it wasn’t a chilling scream, or a wrenching cry, or the wail of a passing ambulance siren—no, nothing like that. Rather, it was a simple, repetitive noise echoing from far below; something seemingly innocuous. Like the pitter-patter of that night’s rain, or the whirl of an air conditioner, or the hum of tires rolling upon asphalt. While this particular sound would merely be white noise to many, or a blip of irritation to some, Alice would never be able to block out the din and its fatal stamp on her memory …
CHAPTER ONE
MAY 2005
THERE WAS SOMETHING about how water changed the very essence of sound. Everything muffled and distorted and far away. When submerged, Alice felt a deep, soothing comfort that gave her a sense of purpose and awareness. In the embrace of the water, nothing else mattered. The weightlessness allowed all distractions—the anchor of family, friends, school, boys—to disperse like tiny bubbles of water popping to the surface. It was home to Alice—a tiny sliver of the universe that was hers and hers alone, and there was no place she’d rather be.
Alice craned her head to the right, drew air into her lungs, then immersed her face once again into the warm, crystal blue liquid. She heard the beat of twenty feet and twenty sinewy arms cutting through the water behind her. Pounding, churning, thrashing. Getting closer. Her nearest opponent two, maybe three lengths back. The cacophony of sounds urged Alice to pull herself harder, faster, to keep ahead of the encroaching pack.
She focused on each stroke, exerting just enough energy to maintain her pace, but not too much as to deplete what little reserve she had left. The final burst would come soon, very soon.
Alice turned her head again. Exhaled. Inhaled. It was time to make her move, and her mind beat with the words faster, faster, faster. Her body responded, legs kicking more urgently, arms torquing with more force. Water beaded off her pale, freckled skin. The racerback swimsuit, a second set of flesh, pulled tight over her athletic build—a perfect fifteen-year-old swimmer’s physique. Her molasses-colored hair tucked under a latex cap; mirrored goggles cupped over her green eyes, everything an amber hue above, below, and everywhere around her.
Alice prepared for her final flip turn, spinning under the chlorinated surface, knees pulling tight to her chest, then a perfect kick-out against the concrete wall. She rushed forward, breaking the plane of water once again for another take of air. Then, as she always did, she closed her eyes for the final lap, trusting not only her instincts, but more importantly, her ears. She heard the muffled thrashing all around her. The swimmer in lane five, two lengths behind. Her opponent in lane three, four lengths back. Everyone else yet to make their turns.
Faster.
Her heart machine-gunned in her chest. Lungs burned. Arms and legs started to tighten and cramp to an almost unbearable threshold.
Alice dropped a curtain over the pain, pushed herself harder, not only wanting to win, but willing herself to shave off a few more precious fractions of a second. Winning wasn’t enough—beating her personal best was.
Eyes pressed closed, swimming in utter darkness, nearing the finish line but not wanting to break stride just yet, Alice knew the exact number of strokes it would take to reach the wall.
Not yet, not yet.
Lane five closed in. One length behind her now. Alice came up for one final draw of air, eyes cinched tight. She could hear the frantic cheers and screams coming from the stands, could feel the repercussion in the water from thunderous clapping and stomping of feet on the fiberglass bleachers. Everything crescendoing to a frenzied climax—the kicks, the grunts of effort, the desperate sucking of air from the other swimmers.
Lane five pulled even closer. Half of a length.
Alice snatched at the fear of losing.
Faster.
She found the last bit of untapped energy, arms and legs working in unison for the final surge.
Faster.
At the last possible moment, she reached out, fingertips extended, until they grazed the dimpled concrete wall. She erupted through the surface of the water, pulled her arms up and over the edge of the pool, let her head fall back and took in air as if it could be her last.
Cheering and shrill whistles surrounded her from every side, echoing off walls and from the turbulent surface of the water. Alice didn’t need to glance at the clock to know that she had eclipsed her personal best.
A smile creased her face, her eyes remaining shut as she savored the sounds of celebration and soaked in the fleeting moment of triumph.
CHAPTER TWO
SEPTEMBER 2005
IT SEEMED AS if her parents would never leave the house. Alice’s mother kept finding things to do—she
washed the dishes, sorted through the mail, changed her coat two different times. Anything to delay them from going out on their date night.
We’ll be fine, Alice kept saying to her mother.
The cab outside honked its horn—for the fourth time.
“Go, already,” Alice urged.
Her mother stared toward the door and chewed at her lip. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Mom. Seriously.”
Finally, mercifully, Alice and her father exchanged a silent look of understanding as her mother slipped on yet another coat, grabbed an umbrella, picked up her purse, and was ushered out the door. This was only the second time they were leaving Alice at home alone with Jason, her four-year-old brother.
Standing at the window, she watched her parents’ cab pull out of the driveway and cruise down the street, and she let out a sigh.
Finally.
Her parents were going out to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary. They took a cab so that they could enjoy a few drinks at a blues bar after dinner—the same blues bar down on the Wilmington waterfront where they met twenty-one years ago.
A few months back, Alice had pleaded with her parents to not get a babysitter for the two of them. She was fifteen—way too old for a sitter. None of her friends had babysitters anymore and they had started to give her a hard time, calling her Little Baby Alice. She finally managed to convince her parents that she was responsible enough to take care of Jason and herself for a few hours. Besides that, they could give her half the money they paid to a babysitter—she could use the extra spending money. It was a win-win.
Alice proved herself reliable on the first date night, although her mom called her cell phone a half dozen times to check up on how things were going: Was the front door locked? No scary movies for Jason. Make sure he eats his dinner. Don’t forget it’s bath night. To which Alice had responded: Yes. Okay. Jason had macaroni and cheese. No bath, but I’ll use a hot washcloth. Alice even managed to get him in bed by seven thirty after coaxing him with his favorite book, The Gas We Pass. Her parents arrived home to find Jason safely tucked in bed and Alice doing homework. Her mom and dad were impressed, even paid her ten dollars extra for the night. Total score.
Alice had successively babysat once. What could go wrong this time?
She swung open the refrigerator door and poured her first Coke of the night.
* * *
One hour in and Alice was already wishing her parents were back home. Jason had gotten into her fingernail polish by minute twenty and decided to decorate her wallpaper with candy-apple red doodles. A Jason Pollock is what her parents would call it. Whether it was with crayons or ink pens scribbled on the walls or kitchen counters, somehow Jason’s artwork proved to be nothing short of adorable or impressive to both her parents. Oh, look at Jason’s masterpiece, her mom would say, hands on her hips, shaking her head and smiling like his doodles were the greatest thing ever. He’s going to be an artist when he grows up. A painter. Something creative, I just know it.
Not only did Jason smear the fingernail polish all over her walls, he managed to splatter it on her shag carpeting, and on her new bedspread—a brand-new bedspread she had just gotten for her birthday. Alice’s room was supposed to be off-limits to Jason because he always messed everything up and ripped through all her stuff. His last little exploit got him banned from her bedroom for good. Supposedly. In what her psychology teacher would call a Freudian move, Jason had collected all of her swimming ribbons and medals and flushed them down the toilet one by one.
When she had walked in and caught Jason painting her wallpaper, Alice completely lost it. She yelled at him. Grabbed him by the arm. Called him a little brat. Said a few other things that she regretted, and Jason had stared up at her with his big green eyes. For a second, she thought he might cry, but instead, his tiny face twisted in defiance. He glared at Alice, stuck out his tongue, then dropped the fingernail polish to the floor and stomped out of the room.
But despite everything—the tantrums, the constant need for attention, all his superhero toys scattered everywhere, and the inherited responsibility of watching over a little brother—Alice loved Jason. Alice was the one who taught him to swim, and like his big sister, Jason took to the water like a fish. Sure, there was an eleven-year gap between their ages, and their interests were night and day, but he brought an energy into the house that proved contagious. And, as much as she might hate to admit it sometimes, Jason broke up the monotony and generally made life around the house more unpredictable, which wasn’t always a bad thing.
Alice was only halfway done scrubbing the doodles off the walls with rubbing alcohol—her hands raw and burning—when she heard a thumping from downstairs.
KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK.
The steady drum of rain pounded against the shingles overhead, but when Alice listened more closely, she heard a dull thumping noise that echoed throughout the house. The banging seemed to be coming from somewhere downstairs. Probably Jason lying on his back, kicking at the walls with his Keds—either pitching a little tantrum because she’d tossed him out of her room, or pretending to do karate. Whichever one, it didn’t matter—he was being a brat, and the noise was annoying. Alice had never gotten away with behavior like that when she was four years old. Not that she had been an angel, but if she threw a fit, she’d get a time-out or a firm whack to the backside. But Jason always got away with temper tantrums. Little Jason, the miracle baby.
After Alice’s birth, the doctors informed her mother that she would never be able to conceive again. Something about a scarred uterus from a difficult delivery made another pregnancy impossible. Her parents eventually came to embrace having an only child, heaping all their love and energy and focus solely on Alice for ten years. For those ten years, she was the center of their universe. Then, the impossible happened—her mother got pregnant again.
KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK.
The pounding was nonstop and almost defiant-sounding. Yes, Alice decided, her little brother was pitching a fit. Anything to get attention.
She stared at the spots of fingernail polish on the carpet and bedspread and knew that they would never come out. The bedspread was ruined.
KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK.
“Jason! Knock it off!” Alice hollered at the top of her lungs.
Almost seven fifteen, time to get Jason into his pajamas. The thumping kept on echoing through the house, and now Baxter started to bark like crazy. “Jason, I’m going to tell Mom and Dad if you don’t stop it.”
He didn’t stop it. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. And Baxter barked even more frantically. Alice walked down the steps into the living room where the thumping and barking sounded louder.
“Jason?” She ducked her head into the kitchen, but he wasn’t in there. Next, she checked the dining room and her dad’s office—another room that was supposed to be off-limits, but only seemed to entice Jason that much more. Nothing broken or messed up in either room. No sign of Jason tampering.
She checked the living room again, then the downstairs bathroom. Still no Jason.
Then Alice noticed that the door to the basement was cracked open. Just an inch, but the sight of it made her heart skip a beat. The door was supposed to be latched so that Jason wouldn’t venture down the steep steps and fool around with her dad’s workbench. Sharp tools, chemicals, all sorts of stuff that Jason could use to hurt himself. She’d been the recipient of the safety lecture so many times she could recite it in her sleep by now.
Alice had gone down into the basement earlier to find the rubbing alcohol and must have forgotten to lock the door, and now Jason was playing in the one room in the house that she would get in the most trouble for letting him sneak into.
“Jason, if Mom and Dad find out that you’re down there, they’re going to go nuts.”
Jason ignored the warning and kept banging away. Alice half-expected to hear him giggle, excited that his game had finally gotten her attention. Part of hi
m thought that getting into trouble with his big sister or parents was all fun and games. Much like his other favorite activity: hiding from Mom and Dad when they were looking for him. He was a lousy hider. Couldn’t keep quiet, giggling from his chosen spot in the closet or under a bed or behind the living room curtains. Except for now. No giggling or the excited pitter-patter of feet.
Alice spotted Baxter at the bottom of the stairs, the twelve-pound Jack Russell all worked up, running around in circles and issuing a constant barrage of high-pitched yelps. “Where’s Jason, Baxter? Where’s he hiding?”
Baxter kept barking and darted across the floor.
Alice came to the bottom of the stairs and searched the basement, partially hidden in shadows. To the left side of the room, her dad’s work area. A six-foot-long workbench lined the far wall, neatly organized with all sorts of tools that Alice couldn’t care less about, but that Jason found irresistible. A juice box perched on its side at the edge of the workbench, slowly dripping a steady flow of purple grape juice onto the floor.
“Jason. Dad’s going to freak out if you stained the floor.”
KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK. KA-THUNK.
Alice looked to the other side of the basement. Mom’s domain. The laundry area. Boxes of detergent, bottles of bleach and stain remover lined up on a shelf out of reach of Jason’s curious hands. An ironing board had a pile of her dad’s work shirts stacked up, waiting to be pressed. Baskets of dirty clothes, carefully separated into darks and whites, sat in front of the washer and dryer. Baxter hopped into a laundry basket, then onto the top of the dryer. He clawed at the metal—whining and barking—then jumped back to the concrete floor. The dryer rattled and pitched side to side as its contents rocked the entire machine. It sounded like a pair of her dad’s work boots were clunking around inside, but Alice didn’t remember her mom putting any laundry in before they left.
Baxter continued barking and jumped up at the front of the churning machine, and Alice noticed that the dog’s brown and white tail curled up and trembled between his hind legs.
The Guilt We Carry Page 1