by Sasha Dawn
“What? No—you’re remembering wrong, Samantha. I came later, after Delilah was reported missing, to help take care of you—”
“No. You were here that day. You were supposed to babysit me.”
“Chris?” Heather interjects.
Slowly, Dad nods. “She was supposed to be here with Sam, but she didn’t show up.”
“You lied to the police,” Heather says.
“Because she was drunk, not because I thought . . .” He’s pacing now, shaking with the realization that he’d lied to protect his mother from embarrassment, but what he’d ultimately done was remove her from the scene altogether.
I stare at Gram. “You helped Trina move my mother’s body.” My fingertips are numb. “Trina killed my mother, and you helped her get away with it.”
“Trina didn’t mean anything by it. She wasn’t trying to kill anyone. Delilah started it, if you must know. She was accusing Trina of interfering with her marriage, and—”
“Trina did interfere with my marriage!” my dad shouts.
“—and Delilah wouldn’t let it go, and Trina followed her into the passageway.”
“My mother didn’t come out.” It feels as if the earth is rumbling beneath my feet.
“Trina didn’t mean to do it! Who dies from a little bump on her head? Trina panicked. She was in the root cellar, but when Delilah didn’t come to—”
“You knew about this,” Dad says. “All this time, you knew. Not only that—you helped cover it up. You moved her body. Jesus Christ, Mercy.”
“Everything’s okay,” Gram says. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Nothing will be okay! Do you understand the pain you’ve caused this family?”
Gram glares at Dad. “I was doing what I thought—”
“Apologize to my daughter!” Dad points at me. “Apologize to Samantha for the fact that she’s spent half her life thinking her mother had abandoned her, and the other half thinking I might’ve had something to do with it! Apologize to Cassidy, who’s had to grow up dealing with the accusations! To Heather! Apologize to our neighbor for the two weeks the cops had his place turned upside down looking for any sign of Delilah!”
Gram’s head is in her hands now, and she’s shaking with sobs.
My eyes are glazed over. Dad keeps at her, but his words turn to static in my ears.
All this time, my mother has been dead.
My grandmother let me believe she’d come back.
But she’s dead.
Delilah Jennifer Lang never made it to eleven-seven.
She’s dead.
She’s really dead.
She’s not coming back.
“You loaded her into your RV,” I finally say, my words coming out like chips of ice. “And dumped my mother’s body on the side of the road in Georgia.”
“No, no. I didn’t leave her. Samantha, please.” Gram’s rocking back and forth, reaching for me, but she’ll never touch me again. “We buried her just outside of Atlanta. It’s where she wanted to be. Christopher! I had to protect you! Catrina couldn’t move the body alone, and I couldn’t either, but if they’d found her in that passageway . . . there’s no telling what might have happened to you! After Lizzie, you know—you barely recovered after Lizzie . . .”
Dad turns away and covers his face with his hands.
Slowly, I lower myself to the first chair I sense beneath me.
I pull out my phone and dial.
My grandmother knew there had been an accident. Instead of calling the police, she let my mom—my mom!—decompose for hours in a damp, dirty cell before loading her up and driving her away and leaving me all alone. She’d sent postcards to deceive me. Even wrote eleven-seven on them because that’s what my mom and I kept saying to each other that day:
Eleven-seven, Samantha-girl!
Eleven-seven, Mommy.
“Lieutenant Eschermann, please.”
“No!” Gram whispers. Her eyes are wide, and her face may as well be whitewashed. She’s shaking her head in a tiny motion, more like a vibration. “I did it for you, Chris. So you could finally start over. Please.” She’s backing her way toward the door.
But there’s nowhere she can possibly go, and I think she knows it.
“Eschermann.” For once I’m not crying. I’m strong. I know the truth. “Can you come? I know what happened to my mother.”
Chapter 1
This is where my life begins:
With Kismet curled on my lap as I read The Great Gatsby.
With my father at regular AA meetings—a preventive measure because he thinks it keeps him honest, accountable.
With Dad and Heather in a therapist’s office, and their divorce proceedings on hold.
With Heather churning out new fashions at the Funky Nun while she and Cass still live above it.
With an old locket bearing a picture of Cassidy and my father strung around my sister’s neck.
She’s not my biological sister, but the bond between us is still vital. Blood may be an irrefutable connection, but choice is what makes us love each other, choice is what makes us family.
My mother loved me, and she never chose to leave. I know that now, and I suspect I’ve known it all along. But now I have irrefutable proof: Catrina Lang, carrying a passport bearing my mother’s name, attempted to board a plane to Canada in Saint Paul, Minnesota. She is awaiting trial, and there’s little doubt she’ll be convicted. My mother’s blood was on her jacket. Trina knew where to find my mother’s body; she and Gram confirmed they’d buried her in the exact location the authorities recovered Jane Doe Georgia, and my DNA is consistent with Jane’s.
As for my grandmother, she’s going to jail too: for concealing my mother’s murder, for obstruction of justice, for interfering with an investigation.
My mother is dead. She never left me.
Heather’s never tried to be my mother, but she’s loved me like a daughter since the day we met. I’m lucky to have her, and I have her for the long run, whether or not she and Dad can hold it together.
I’m on the porch now, with my book tented on the arm of the porch swing. The fallen leaves of Schmidt’s many hickories blanket our lawn and his, and the breeze is a touch colder than it was yesterday. Second chance summer is definitely over. I pull my jacket a little tighter around my body and tuck my legs in a little closer.
“Look.” I lean in close to Kismet and massage her ears. “The fairies are sweeping the clouds from the sky. Some fairies work faster than others, and that’s when we get the clearer skies and harsher winds.”
“Hey.”
I look up to see Ryan standing in the lawn before me in running gear, with a sweatshirt draped over his left arm.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah. I just have to . . .” I dog-ear my page in Gatsby and close the book. “Let’s get you inside, Kissy.”
“Brought something for you.” He pulls aside his sweatshirt, and he presents me with a mason jar. Inside is a brown cocoon. “Found this little guy on a hickory twig.”
I melt a little inside.
“Thank you.”
“Figured we could name him. Raise him as a pet until he hatches and flies away.”
“You know cocoons don’t eat anything, right? They require virtually no raising.”
“Well, then, this should be a fairly easy task.”
“I have to agree.” I set the jar on the porch railing. “Let’s name him . . . Sunflower.”
Once Kismet’s inside, we walk past the flower bed where the sunflowers used to grow, past the row of hickories—with an extra space between the two closest to the property line, where a now-absent tree once stood.
I take his hand. “I’m going to miss you when you go back to Kentucky.”
“You’re coming to visit, remember?”
“Ah, yes. I’m going to learn to ride a motorcycle.”
“That’s right. A motorcycle.” He gives me a playful pinch in the ribs. “I’m thinking Daisy mi
ght be a good fit for you.”
“Is she a moped?”
He chuckles. “A smaller model, yes. Tame.”
“Perfect.”
“And I’ll be here permanently next fall.” He grins. “My mom called. I got the acceptance letter this morning. I’m going to Northwestern.”
I’m so happy for him that I jump up and down and throw my arms around him.
He stares down at me.
I stare up at him.
“We’re supposed to meet everyone at the Madelaine in an hour,” he says.
Brooke, Alex, Zack, and Cassidy are probably already there, saving seats for us.
“Think we can make the loop around the lake in time?” Ryan asks.
I give him a wink. “Twenty minutes, tops.”
My feet hit the pavement in even cadence with Ryan’s. I count eleven steps, then seven. Eleven, then seven.
The early autumn wind rustles through the gold and burgundy leaves, reaching from both sides of the road and creating the illusion of an arbor of leaves above me.
The melody of an old song emerges from my memory. One of Mom’s songs.
“Photograph” by Def Leppard.
I see her in the archives of my mind, crouching before me, the very last time I saw her. See you Wednesday, Samantha-girl.
She’s gone, but she’s all around me.
With every stride, I feel her in the wind at my back.
I smell her in the faint aromas of autumn flora.
She’s a caterpillar, waiting to emerge from a cocoon.
She’s a fairy, sweeping clouds from the sky.
In the spring, I’m going to plant sunflowers.
Acknowledgments
Something pretty spectacular happened over the course of writing, revising, and editing this book. I acquired a new friend by the name of Alix Reid. She never gave me a business card, but I’m sure her job title is something akin to Story Charmer/Magician. Alix, we might need to consult a geneticist; there’s a distinct possibility we’re twins. I look forward to our next lunch, and to many more books with Lerner/Carolrhoda LAB!
Thanks, also, to the inspiring Amy Fitzgerald, whose commentary makes me laugh mid-revision. We’re quite a team!
To the incomparable Andrea Somberg of the amazing Harvey Klinger, Inc.: you’re a cheerleader, a careful reader, and you make my job an absolute pleasure.
The folks at Anderson’s Bookshop and the Illinois Reading Council do much to promote books of all types. Thanks for many opportunities to meet readers and other writers!
To my writer friends, who understand—Patrick W. Picciarelli, Jessica Warman, Lainey Ervin—I appreciate you (and read you)!
My nephews—Alex, Zack, Jordan, Chris, and Ryan—I thank you for lending your names to this tale. My nieces—Andrea, Emily, Avery, and Julia—I assure you, your turn is coming!
My brother, Ken: yeah, I named a character after you, too. Don’t get a big head about it, or anything.
Mary, Margaret, Caroline, Angela, Chelsey, and Missy: you survived Swatch Talk 2K15. I love survivors. And I know you wouldn’t hesitate to work my shift at the Funky Nun . . . you rock!
Big hugs to my daughters, Sami and Madelaine, and to their friends (among them Brooke, Cassidy, Lizzie, and Neilla). You help paint a picture of teen life every time you gather for some 80s flicks. Your antics and giggles turn these pages . . . and you know how to order burritos. Next, I’m folding an origami moon. Kari and Ella should be ready; they just might share the sky with you!
Joshua, words cannot justify the measure of support, love, and loyalty you offer. I could not do any of this without you. Thanks for being a truly awesome father and an adoring husband. Thanks for your countless trips to the dance studio, to the pet supply store, and for the gargantuan stroll down the aisle. The yellow lab in this story is named after our path: Kismet. You’re stuck with me!
About the Author
Sasha Dawn teaches writing at community colleges and offers pro bono writing workshops to local schools. She lives in her native northern Illinois, where she collects tap shoes, fabric swatches, and tales of survival. She harbors a crush on Thomas Jefferson.
Splinter
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Chapter 1
Acknowledgments
About the Author