Deception So Dark

by Clara Kensie

  I held my breath and leaned forward. Despite his racing heart and shallow breathing, he stared vacantly back at me. Blank. Empty. Dull, lifeless. No panic, no fear, no grief or despair. No hatred or rage. No love, either. Just…nothing.

  Before the nurse closed his lids, I double, then triple-checked.

  Hazel. My father’s eyes were definitely hazel. Vacant, but hazel. Not lucid and black.

  It had just been my imagination.

  Mr. Milbourne swept Tristan and me back out to the hall. As my father’s door swung shut, the monitors beeped slower again.

  ❀

  Tristan insisted on accompanying me inside the visiting room to see my mother. I blocked his entrance, arms crossed awkwardly with my cast. “You’ll just upset her.” And me.

  “But—”

  “You need to keep me safe. I get it,” I said. “But I will be safe. There’s no way she can hurt me.”

  Mr. Milbourne flipped through some papers on a clipboard. “Doesn’t matter anyway, Connelly. You’re on her do-not-allow list.”

  “I can’t go in there?” Tristan glowered. “What right does she have to keep a list like that?”

  The warden chomped away on his gum. “I hear ya, but even inmates have rights. That list helps keep the peace around here. And I don’t want to rile her up. She’s a hard one to calm down.”

  “Don’t talk about her that way,” I said. They may be right, but I was feeling very defensive about my mother today. She had grown up alone and abused. She deserved a little compassion, even if I was the only one who was willing to give it. “Who else is on her list?”

  “Everyone. The only visitors she’ll consent to are Andrew Carson, Jillian Carson, Tessa Carson, and Logan Carson.”

  Of the four people on my mother’s list of approved visitors, one was in a coma and two were missing. The only person left was me, and I had refused to see her until today.

  I tried not to feel guilty about that, but I did.

  “It’s fine,” I told Mr. Milbourne. “I’ll go in alone.”

  “With a guard,” Tristan said. “Two guards. And I want them armed with tranq guns.”

  “Tristan, that’s a little extreme,” I said.

  “Do it, Milbourne,” Tristan said. “Two armed guards. Her own father broke her wrist on your watch. You think the board will let you keep your job if she gets attacked again?”

  The warden shrugged. “Not a problem. I’ll go in there myself,” he said, then called for three more guards.

  Ridiculous, I flashed to Tristan. He stared straight ahead and did not move.

  “Keep your eyes on the inmate at all times,” Mr. Milbourne growled to the guards. “Stay alert. Do not hesitate to shoot if she does anything out of line.”

  Tristan had his own orders for me. “Do not touch her,” he said. “I will be right here, outside this door. If you get a warning from me, listen. I mean it, Tessa. Do what I say, as soon as I say it.”

  Without acknowledging him, I stepped into the visitor’s room with the guards. I glanced behind me to see Tristan pulling his hands through his hair, watching me until the door shut.

  The four armed guards took their place, one in each corner of the small gray room. The air was thicker in here. I sat on a hard metal chair at the stainless steel table, placed squarely in the center of the room, and waited. No one spoke.

  The door leading to the prison opened, and the guards stiffened. I mimicked them as a shot of nerves and fear ricocheted through me, then forced myself to relax. My mother, a crumpled form of gray, was brought in by another guard, who forced her to sit in the chair across the table, chained her to it, and joined the posse along the wall.

  All these guards, all these precautions, for such a shattered, broken woman.

  Shackled at wrist and ankles, as she had been on my last visit when I confronted her about her crimes. Hair short, as if it was cut without a mirror and with dull scissors. Pasty. Thin. Vulnerable and defeated, like she had been when she was a little girl. I made a point to study her eyes. They were anxious. Miserable. Grateful. Gray.

  Her lips trembled, and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “Babydoll,” she quivered. “I’m so glad you came. They told me you had finally come, but I can’t believe anything they tell me. But you’re here. You’re here.”

  I could barely speak. “Hi, Mom.”

  I waited for her to ask why I hadn’t come sooner, but she didn’t. Perhaps she already knew.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I miss everyone. I miss my PK. They…they lie to me.” She shrugged as much as she could in her restraints. “But I’m seeing a therapist. I’ve got a job in the kitchen, cooking for the other inmates. I like that. I do a lot of crossword puzzles.”

  “That’s good.” The therapist was probably the best thing for her, and I was glad they allowed her to cook and do her puzzles. “I’ll bring you some crossword puzzle magazines. I can bring you some cookbooks too. Would that be okay?”

  “Thank you, Babydoll. That’s so nice of you,” she said, eyes downcast. “How are you?”

  I wanted to tell her, “The kids at school hate me.”

  I wanted to tell her, “I have bad dreams every night. My Nightmare Eyes follow me around and I can’t get rid of them.”

  I wanted to tell her, “You made me Killers’ Spawn.”

  I opened my mouth to tell her everything, about my shame and grief and burning blood, about how I couldn’t find Jillian and Logan, about how I couldn’t leave Lilybrook because of a dream about a little house with silver walls.

  But she spoke first. “Have you grown?” she asked, lips trembling. “You look taller.”

  So. She wanted to stick to neutral topics. Maybe she wasn’t ready to hear about the hard stuff. She looked too fragile to hear it, anyway.

  “I’m still four foot ten, Mom,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, and tried again. “Your hair’s gotten longer.”

  That observation was correct; my hair had grown an inch or two, because I hadn’t thought about trimming it. I raised my arm to smooth it.

  The movement pulled the sleeve of Tristan’s hoodie back and exposed my cast. She gestured to it with her chin. “What happened?”

  Quickly, I lowered my arm under the table. “A stupid accident. I’m fine.”

  “Have you seen Daddy?” she asked.

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Is he…still resting?”

  That’s what I’d told her last time. But she knew what resting really meant. “Yes.”

  She sighed heavily.

  “I’m getting better at using my retrocognition,” I blurted, to change the subject. “Sometimes, anyway. And I’m painting now, too. I’m painting a mural. It’s in the cafeteria at school.”

  “Painting!” she exclaimed. “I remember you used to be a talented little artist. Do you have pictures of your mural?”

  That would have been a good idea. “No, sorry.”

  “You’ll bring them next time, then.”

  She was a killer, yes, but at this moment, I didn’t see it. She was so frail and meek. She was resigned to her incarceration, to going to therapy, to healing. It was so easy to see her as she used to be, as my mother, and not as a crazed murderer. The mother who sat at the kitchen table, contentedly doing a crossword puzzle while batter mixed itself in a bowl and the vacuum cleaner moved itself around the living room. The mother who called me Babydoll.

  Mom.

  I would never forgive her for the things she’d done, but I didn’t want to hate her anymore. I wanted her back in my life.

  “And Jillian and Logan?” she asked. “Are they still mad at me? Or are they so busy with their music and dancing that they couldn’t come with you today?”

  She didn’t know? “Mom, they’re still missing.”

  Her smile faded. “What?”

  “We can’t find them. They’re still running.”

  “Wh—wh—” she huffed as her eyes filled with tears.
“But I thought you were all together. I assumed...”

  “We’ll find them,” I said. “Soon. Any day now.”

  Mom put her chin to her chest and cried. She couldn’t even wipe her own tears. I leaned over the table to wipe her cheek.

  Mr. Milbourne, hand firmly on my shoulder, pressed me back into my chair. “Hands off.”

  “Wherever they are, they’re together. They’re safe,” I assured her. “They were in Tennessee recently. We missed them by minutes. Do you have any idea where they could have gone? Any clue where we could look next?”

  She sniffled. “The only place I can think of is Nebraska,” she said, her lip quivering. “To see Jillian’s boyfriend. But when they get there, they’ll find out…” Her face contorted with grief.

  “They were already there,” I said. “They know Gavin’s dead.”

  She broke out in fresh tears.

  “Mom,” I said, “how come you didn’t know that they’re still missing? Don’t you ever ask about us?” I glanced at Mr. Milbourne, who shook his head.

  My mother shook hers as well. “I did at first,” she admitted, “but not anymore.”

  How could she not ask about us, her own children, every single day? “Why not?”

  She leaned to me and whispered, “I told you. They lie to me, Tessa. I can’t believe anything they say. They told me the most awful—” Her eyes slid to Mr. Milbourne and she sat back. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

  What horrible lies could he have told her? I looked at him with suspicion. He looked back with innocence.

  “If you’re not living with Jillian and Logan, then where are you living?” she asked.

  “I’m living with Tristan and his family.”

  “You’re what?” Her voice rose, just a little, but enough to make the guards tense and reach for their guns. My mother, cowed, sank into her chair. She turned her head to Mr. Milbourne. “It’s all true?” she whimpered. “You weren’t lying to me?”

  “We have never lied to you, Mrs. Carson,” he said solemnly.

  She inhaled, steeling herself. “So it’s true that Tristan is really Dennis Connelly’s son?” she asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re living with Dennis Connelly,” she said. “In his house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like you’re part of his family.”

  “Mom, yes.”

  She flinched, and the guards tightened their grip on their guns.

  I gripped the table, bracing myself for my mother’s uncontrolled screams of fury, for the table to vibrate, for the guards to crumple to the floor. Braced myself to be flown across the room and into the cinder-block wall. Braced myself for my stomach to be sliced open again.

  But the table did not vibrate. I remained in the chair. My mother wasn’t capable of doing those things anymore.

  “All those years,” Mom whispered. “All the running and hiding. Leaving our home, leaving our lives behind. And now you’re living with the man who started it all.” Her eyes were closed, her body stiff, her hands in fists at her side.

  I’d rather she scream and lose control. She was doing this so the guards wouldn’t take her away, I knew that, but anything was better than this forced calm.

  “Are you happy there?” she asked, forcing the words out in a little squeak. “Are you happy living with Dennis Connelly and his son Tristan?”

  “Yes,” I said, realizing it for the first time. “Dennis and Deirdre are doing everything they can to make me feel welcome. I’m friends with his sister. I even have a kitten. And Tristan is helping me find Jillian and Logan. He’s doing great, Mom. He’s working so hard.”

  My mother closed her eyes, deep lines forming around her lips as she pressed them tight. She drew a breath, held it, and let it out. “Get out.”

  “W-what?”

  She rocked back and forth, her fists so tight that her knuckles were white. “I said get out.”

  “Mom, no. Please.”

  She finally opened her eyes. I half expected to see her eyes had turned Nightmare black. They were filled with anguish and anger and grief and pain, but they were still gray. She looked up at Mr. Milbourne. “Sir, please take this girl out of here. Put her on my do-not-allow list.”

  “Mom,” I cried. “You can’t mean that.”

  “Get out, Tessa!” she screamed, then whispered, “And don’t ever come back.”

  She watched from her chair as Mr. Milbourne pulled me from the room.

  I stumbled into Tristan’s arms, but I barely realized where we were. Tristan was frantic, furious, asking why I was so upset. But I could hear nothing but my mother telling me to go away and never come back. My own mother never wanted to see me again.

  My mother.

  Instead of heading back home after visiting my mother, Tristan and I cut through the forest surrounding the APR to take a walk down Lilybrook’s quaint Main Street. Next to a wrought-iron bench was a wooden sign: Welcome to Lilybrook - A Friendly Place to Live. The February day was warmer than average and the sun shone, but I was frozen all the way to my core as we strolled under the leafless trees and past the bus stop and pharmacy. “All these weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to see my parents.” I took his arm and put it around my shoulders, the way I felt safest. “And once I did, my father broke my wrist and my mother told me to go away and never come back.”

  “Your dad didn’t know what he was doing,” he replied, “and your mother didn’t mean what she said.” He kissed the top of my head.

  “Yes, she did.” My father may not have been in his right mind when he broke my wrist, but my mother had been aware of every word she said. She blamed me for everything. She would never forgive me for telling our secrets to Tristan, or for living with the Connellys. My father had crushed my wrist in a fit of crazed panic. My mother had crushed my heart in a fit of whispered anguish.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Milbourne,” Tristan said. “He won’t put you on her do-not-allow list if I tell him not to. I’ll talk to the board of directors if I have to.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I’m not going to force her to see me if she doesn’t want to.”

  I wasn’t sure about visiting my father again, either. The nurse said I was “disturbing” him. What did that mean? Was my mere presence in his cell this afternoon enough to disturb his peaceful sleep?

  The whole time I lived here in Lilybrook, I’d avoided seeing my parents, telling myself I wasn’t ready. But now that I couldn’t see them, it hurt. My mother rejected me, and it hurt.

  We passed the police station and post office and dance studio, then came to Hawthorne’s, the local diner popular for its blueberry pie. “You’re cold,” Tristan said. “Let’s get some hot chocolate for the walk home.”

  Tristan was right this morning. I never should have gone to visit my mother. He warned me not to see her, he warned that she would hurt me. He knew it would happen, this morning at his house, and he didn’t even need a premonition. He just knew.

  At the counter, he ordered two hot chocolates to go, looking back over his shoulder to make sure I was okay.

  Taking care of me. Being the hero. Being my hero.

  His winter coat stretched across his broad shoulders as he handed me one of the hot chocolates.

  Even his hands were big and strong.

  Outside, we left Main Street and headed back through the forest. The heat from my hot chocolate seeped through the foam cup. Tristan’s arm was around me. I was toasty now, warm to the core.

  The snow-frosted trees reached to the sky, hiding the APR, hiding Lilybrook, and the world became just Tristan and me, a few chirping birds, a few snowbanks, and a wooden bridge over a frozen brook. My steps slowed as we crossed the bridge.

  Tristan stopped too, looking past the bridge’s railing. “In the summertime,” he murmured, “this brook is covered with hundreds of pink water lilies. That’s how the town got its name. Lilybrook.”

  His eyes seemed extra blue, out here in the sun.

>   His tousled brown hair sparkled with gold.

  I licked my lips. “Tristan,” I whispered.

  He shifted his gaze to meet mine. Our breath came out in little clouds.

  “Tristan, I need you.”

  One at a time, not taking my eyes from his, I placed our drinks on the bridge’s railing, out of the way. Then I stepped closer, one step, two steps, until I was only an inch from him. I pressed into him, wishing I could disappear inside of him, where I would always be warm and safe and loved.

  His chest moved up and down as he breathed. His heart beat through his jacket, and the stubble on his jaw glistened like gold in the sun. I inhaled his fresh, clean, masculine scent.

  God, I loved him. I loved every ounce of him. All of him. Inside and out.

  I was hungry now, ravenous. Ravenous for him. I stood on tiptoe and snaked my arms around his neck, my left arm heavy with the cast, and pulled him down so I could kiss his lips. He kissed me back, tenderly. But I did not return his gentle kisses, oh, no. I was too hungry for him to be tender. I ravished him with passionate and greedy kisses. He responded; his kisses became less comforting and more urgent and gluttonous. We stumbled off the bridge and sank down behind the trees, against a snowbank.

  My hands roamed his body, unzipped his jacket, then slipped under his shirt. I needed to touch him. My cast, my stupid cast, prevented me from feeling him fully, making me clumsy and awkward, but he understood. With shallow breath, he shed his jacket and spread it on the ground, then rolled us over on top of it. I was finally able to run one hand over his chest, his stomach, his waist, and then his chest again.

  He kissed me, then stopped and pulled back a little, just far enough to slide his hand behind my head and stroke my cheek with his thumb. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  No, he was the one who was beautiful. He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted me to be happy. He wanted to be my hero.

  I slid off my coat, then pulled my hoodie—his hoodie, I loved wearing his hoodies but now I needed it off, I needed to have as much of me touching as much of him as possible—over my head, and the air must have been cold but I was desert-hot as he kissed my stomach, ignoring my five twisted, ugly scars. He worked his way up, kissing every inch of me, my belly, my breasts, my collarbone, my neck, until he was back up at my lips.