Sam cocks his head to the side, his dreadlocks falling over his shoulder. “Why is it so important to you that she didn’t do it—kill herself? You’re acting like she let you down or something.”
“She didn’t let me down,” I insist. “She didn’t owe me anything.”
“Then why do you sound like you’re disappointed in her?”
I run my fingers roughly through my wet hair. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
Depressed girls don’t sit in the meadow painting their nails and gossiping with their friends. They don’t swim laps in the pool, winning medal after medal for their school.
Do they?
Just because she didn’t seem depressed doesn’t mean she wasn’t. She was an expert at keeping secrets: Erin and Arden didn’t know the truth about her secret boyfriend, didn’t know about Eliza’s part in butchering the trees. And no one at school knew the real reason she hated me.
Not even me.
The picture I stole from her closet feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my pocket. She looks sad in that photograph. Broken.
I take a deep breath and tell Sam what I remembered. I don’t leave anything out: I tell him about the blood on the floor and the curtains that trapped me.
“Maybe that’s why you feel like you’re drowning,” Sam suggests when I tell him about wanting to throw up, about the shower Eliza forced on me.
“Maybe,” I agree. I take a deep breath. My hands are still shaking, but the feverish feeling is fading. “So that’s why she hated me? Because I saw something she didn’t want me to see?”
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t you remember what Mack said? She didn’t hate you. She was scared of you. She must’ve been scared you were going to tell everyone about her father. About what happened that day.”
“But I didn’t remember what happened that day until about five minutes ago.”
“She didn’t know that.”
I press one of my trembling hands to my forehead.
Eliza wasn’t a mean girl. She was a frightened girl.
“I promised her I wouldn’t tell. Why didn’t she believe me?”
A decade of therapy and no one ever unearthed this memory. That’s how deep I buried it. How much I wanted to keep my promise to Eliza.
Sam shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t think she could count on a promise you made when you were seven years old.”
“Maybe,” I agree, but there’s a lump rising in my throat. Things could’ve been so different. We could’ve been friends. If only I’d remembered sooner, reached out to her, renewed my promise.
“You have every right to cry,” Sam says, noticing that I’m blinking my tears away. “She was your friend, and you miss her.”
Oh my God, he’s right. I miss her. I’ve been missing her since I was seven years old. Sam holds out his arms and I put my head against his chest. And I cry. I cry for the little girl who kept her promise and the sixteen-year-old who didn’t understand why her old friend rejected her. I cry for the sophomore who got locked in the bathroom and the ten-year-old who didn’t get invited to any sleepover parties.
And I cry for the girl who grew up in this house. The girl who is still a mystery, but who’s becoming clearer to me now than she ever was while she was alive. The girl I still wish I were friends with. The girl who didn’t know that I would always keep my promise to her.
“Listen,” Sam says suddenly, lifting his chin off the top of my head.
Outside, cars are pulling into the driveway. Voices are filling the hallway, footsteps sliding across the carpeted and hardwood floors.
The funeral must be over. The mourners are here.
I wipe my eyes. “We better leave.”
“Let’s go,” Sam agrees. “We found what we were looking for, right?”
I follow Sam down the hall. I want to get out of here before any of our classmates see us and make a scene like they did at the memorial on campus.
“When are they going to bury her?” I ask suddenly. “Don’t they usually bury the body right after the funeral?”
“The email from the dean said the burial was going to be private. Maybe the family is going to do it later.”
But then, where is she now? Did they leave her in the church? Is her casket en route to the cemetery as we speak, where it—she—will wait until her parents get there to be buried?
The thought of Eliza alone in a box somewhere makes me shiver.
“Come on, Elizabeth.” There’s urgency in Sam’s voice. He’s heading for the front door, still hoping we can get out without being seen. “You’ve been through enough today.”
The foyer is ahead of us, just before the family room. The hum of voices speaking in quiet, respectful tones grows louder as we get closer. I look at the tile floor and focus on Sam’s feet, the same way I did when we were on Hiking Trail Y.
Which is why I almost walk into him when he stops abruptly.
“Look,” he breathes.
I follow his gaze, and my heart starts to pound when I see what—who—Sam’s looking at. At the end of the hallway near the front door, Mack is leaning against the wall. He looks into the family room, then drops his eyes, like he can’t decide whether or not to step inside. He’s wearing what must be the closest thing he has to a suit: dark jeans and a wrinkled sport coat. The clothes look unnatural against his tan. He should be wearing board shorts on the beach. There’s a bandage around the knuckles of his right hand, not yet healed from when he punched the wall the other day.
“I can’t believe he’d come here when the police are investigating him,” I whisper.
“We don’t know if he’s actually a suspect, remember?”
I peek into the family room and see Erin and Arden sitting together on the couch. Erin reaches into her purse and hands Arden a tissue; Arden doesn’t even have to ask. But for once, I’m not jealous of how close they are. It takes me a second to realize it, to identify the absence of a longing tug in their direction.
I don’t have to be jealous that they have each other and I have no one. I have Sam. I reach out and squeeze his hand.
Before Sam can lead the way out the front door, someone else walks into the foyer, her heels clicking against the hardwood. We linger in the hallway, just out of sight.
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Hart hisses angrily. I spin around. Is she talking to me?
No. Mrs. Hart is talking to Mack.
Wait a second—Mrs. Hart recognizes Mack?
“I’m saying good-bye,” Mack answers. “Just like everyone else here.”
“I told you that you weren’t welcome in this house.” Eliza’s mother is wearing a black suit. The color is harsh against her pale skin. Her straw-colored hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. “You were dangerous for my daughter.”
My heart beats faster: Mrs. Hart thinks Mack killed her, too. That medication we found doesn’t mean what Sam thinks it means. I look around, hoping that Detective Roberts is here. Maybe he can finally arrest Mack right now, on the spot. But the detective is nowhere in sight.
“I’d say that things are a lot different than they were at Christmas.” Mack sets his mouth into a straight line, his anger written plainly on his face.
Eliza brought Mack home for Christmas? But she told Erin and Arden to keep their relationship secret. Why bother, if she was going to introduce him to her family?
Mrs. Hart steps back as though Mack slapped her. Finally, she says, “You don’t know my daughter like I did. I suspected all along that she was only with you to get a rise out of me.”
“Well then, I guess I served my purpose.” Mack steps forward, closer to Mrs. Hart. “And don’t forget that you didn’t know your daughter like I did, either. Maybe if you hadn’t been so concerned with keeping up appearances, she’d still be alive right now.” Mack keeps his voice low, but his anger comes through loud and clear.
Mrs. Hart narrows her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
Mack continues, “If you’d
just let Eliza get the help she needed instead of worrying about your precious reputation—”
Is Mrs. Hart the reason Eliza wanted to keep me quiet?
Did Mrs. Hart tell her daughter to make sure I didn’t tell anyone what I’d seen?
Because she wanted to keep up appearances?
“We don’t know exactly what happened.” Mrs. Hart’s voice is tight. She’s speaking through gritted teeth, concentrating hard on every syllable. Is she angry, or trying not to cry? “It’s not as though she left a note.”
Mack thinks Eliza killed herself—and Mrs. Hart knows that he does.
Mack squeezes his hands into fists, and I think he might start punching the wall in this house, too. “How can you still be in denial now?”
“I’ve known my daughter a lot longer than you have.”
“I went to the police,” Mack continues. “I told them what I knew. Told them I was the one fighting with Eliza last week—and I told them why.”
Mack went to the police? They didn’t have to track him down; he showed up and volunteered to be interviewed, just like Sam thought he should?
That’s how the police were aware of him: not as a suspect, but as a source of information.
That’s why Detective Roberts didn’t ask me whether I’d been the one Julian saw fighting with Eliza. By the time the detective interviewed me, Mack had already admitted it was him.
“I know you spoke with the investigators.” Mrs. Hart keeps her voice low, almost hissing. “Why do you think you haven’t been arrested yet?”
For the first time, Mack looks confused. He unclenches his hands. “What are you talking about?”
“There are advantages to being associated with the Hart family. I called in a favor so that no charges would be pressed against you and Riley for that mess with the trees.”
Mack looks incredulous. “Do you expect me to thank you for that? Just another cover-up so the world wouldn’t know what Eliza was really doing?”
“You can’t prove anything,” Mrs. Hart says. “Even with your evidence, the police can’t prove anything, either. They’ll believe me before they believe you.”
Another set of footsteps crosses the hardwood. Mr. Hart. His black suit is nearly as wrinkled as Mack’s. He looks as though he just woke up from a nap and can’t wait to get back to sleep.
I shudder at the sight of the man from my memory, staring at his wrists as though I think I’ll see his scars through his sleeves. Like I think he might still be bleeding under there.
He stands behind his wife and puts his hand on her shoulder. Mrs. Hart stiffens at his touch. Her husband’s hand is shaking. He wasn’t trying to steady her. He wanted to be steadied.
“I’d like you to leave,” Mrs. Hart says finally. Mack opens his mouth to argue, but before he can say anything, Mrs. Hart adds, “Please.” Her voice sounds desperate and cracked.
Mack’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he says. “I’ve said what I came here to say.” He turns on his heel—I notice he’s wearing the same work boots he wore the day we met him—and disappears through the front door. His boots leave a trail of dry, dusty dirt.
“Let’s go,” Sam whispers. Mr. and Mrs. Hart don’t seem to notice when we walk past them.
It’s colder outside than it was when we arrived in Menlo Park. How long were we inside that house? It’s dusk, and clouds are gathering. It’s starting to rain, just a sprinkle at first, but it feels like a storm is coming. A breeze twists my dress between my legs. Sam walks toward his car, parked down the street. There are dozens of cars crowded onto this residential block. The bus that drove our classmates from Ventana Ranch is parked on the next block. The driver leans against it, smoking a cigarette.
Across the road, Mack’s back is to us. His hands are planted on the hood of his truck, but his shoulders are shaking with sobs. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the street and put my hand on his back. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I call over my shoulder to Sam. A few days ago—a few minutes ago—I would’ve been scared to face Mack by myself. But I’m not scared of him anymore.
Mack turns to look at me, trying to wipe away his tears, but they keep coming.
For the first time in my life, I know exactly what to say. It’s so obvious and so simple, but it never occurred to me to say it before now.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mack swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Thank you.”
“Can I ask you something?” Mack nods. “Last Saturday, in the woods—Sam and I overheard you talking to Riley. He said Eliza might still be alive if she’d listened to you. What did he mean?”
Mack takes a ragged breath. “For months I’d been begging her to get help. Find a therapist, go on antidepressants, anything that would make her feel better. But she always said her mother wouldn’t let her.” Mack blinks, glancing back at the Harts’ front door. “What kind of mother doesn’t let her daughter get the help she needs?”
I follow Mack’s gaze, imagine Mrs. Hart greeting her guests somewhere inside, not one hair out of place. “I don’t know,” I answer finally, turning back to Mack. “It’s terrible.”
But the truth is, I do know, at least a little bit. After so many years of sending me to so many therapists, my own mother was worn out. She and I stopped talking about my problems because it was easier than trying (and failing) to solve them for the millionth time.
Maybe Eliza stopped talking about it and her mother chose to believe she was getting better. Maybe Mrs. Hart didn’t ask because she didn’t want to hear the answer, just like my mom.
And yet … my problems were never life-threatening.
The rain picks up, landing in fat droplets on my face. I fold my arms across my chest and squeeze, trying to keep warm.
“I told her she could come live with me. We could spend everything we made off the trees on her treatment. I was ready to take her away from all this, but she said no.” He kicks at the ground. “So I thought if I ended our relationship, she might see that she needed help. Tough love—I read about it online. But even then …” He chokes on the last couple syllables and falls silent.
He thought letting her go could save her. Instead he lost her for good.
That fight Julian saw must have been the night Mack broke up with Eliza.
It was probably the last time Mack saw Eliza.
It was the exact opposite of If I can’t have you, no one can. He was willing to let her go to save her.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say softly. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”
“I know.” Mack’s voice sounds dry, cracked, just like Mrs. Hart’s did. He gazes at the Harts’ driveway, the front door out of sight behind a hedge. “You have to believe you’re worth something to get help. And Eliza …” He pauses. He looks like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Eliza didn’t think she was worth anything in the end.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the picture I stole from Eliza’s room. “Here,” I say, using my hand to shield it from the rain. It’s so cold now that I can see my breath. “I shouldn’t have taken this.”
As Mack reaches for the photo, I notice that there’s a word scribbled on the back. I look closer, squinting in the rain.
Twins.
“What do you suppose she meant by that?” I ask. What could Eliza Hart possibly have had in common with a centuries-old, hundred-foot-tall tree with a gash in the center of it?
Mack looks at the photo and shrugs before slipping it into his inner-jacket pocket to keep it dry. “No clue,” he answers. “But I’m beginning to think there was a lot about that girl I’ll never understand.”
I nod, then turn and head toward Sam’s Camry.
“Hey!” Mack calls. I spin around. “I’m sorry for your loss, too.”
I swallow and nod. “Thank you.”
I can’t remember ever having felt so tired.
Yet sleep is still out of reach.
&n
bsp; When I was a little kid, I sometimes pretended to sleep.
I used to tell myself that fake sleep was better than no sleep at all.
The first day back at Ventana Ranch after Christmas break, I walked into the woods and checked on the tree I’d started to think of as my own. I didn’t wait until the middle of the night. I wanted to see it while it was still light. This tree was the first one I’d helped Mack and Riley rob. I’d been visiting it since October.
The bark around the burl we’d sawed off had started to grow over with moss so dark it was almost black. Above, half of its branches were bare. It looked like the tree was going bald. Like it had aged a decade in just a few months.
Did you know that burls might be key to the redwoods’ survival? It’s part of how they reproduce: the seeds from pinecones aren’t likely to get enough light to grow on the forest floor, but burls bulge from the roots and base of the tree, sprouting clones of the original tree, soaking up the nutrients and water it provides. Then, when the tree dies, a burl sprout shoots up, claiming the real estate its parent left behind.
That’s what the scientists in the article I read called the original tree—the parent tree.
I wasn’t trying to look like the parent tree when I took the picture.
I didn’t have to try.
We already looked alike.
We were both already dying.
By January, I was still swimming and hiking, but my muscles were shrinking. My appetite was gone, and even though I made myself eat with my friends at mealtimes, I was losing weight.
And the sleeplessness was getting worse. Before, I couldn’t stay asleep: I woke up in the middle of the night buzzed with energy. Now I couldn’t fall asleep at all. I didn’t tell my mom, but she gave me pills for it anyway, the same pills my dad took, the ones that made him sleep like the dead, sleep through a fire or an earthquake.
I read more than once that sleep deprivation is a form of torture.
Still, I didn’t take the pills.
Death seemed better than that kind of sleep.
Then again, death seemed better than a lot of things by then.
R.I.P. Eliza Hart Page 18