Domestic Secrets

by Rosalind Noonan

  She dug in and stepped up the pace as the path went uphill, ignoring the water sluicing down the pavement. Lights on the ridge ahead marked a string of mansions, glimmering like a jewel necklace in the night. Dutton Hill, often called Diamond Hill. Craftsman homes with hand-carved cedar, contemporary castles with walls of granite and glass, chalet-style villas with cheerful window boxes. From the outside looking in, those houses seemed perfect. No one knew the secrets lingering behind a home’s threshold, the fear creeping beneath the bed, the discontent that hung in the air, the shame splattered on the walls.

  And the sorrow. Sorrow that slashed a boy’s innocence and left him wanting to end his life, an early exit, a way to squeeze the pain off until it withered to a slow, wheezing whistle. Suicide. Her son had thought of killing himself.

  “Death by suffocation is on the rise among teens trying to commit suicide,” the doctor had told her. “Usually in combination with an overdose of prescription drugs.”

  There had been no sign of drug use, but she had seen the bulge of plastic bags in Jared’s desk drawer. White garbage bags along with that clear plastic sheeting cleaners used to cover clothes. She had thought the odd collection involved a school project or a recycling drive. She reasoned that it was a boyish hobby that didn’t matter, something like the giant foil ball Jared had assembled in sixth grade.

  Until the day she found the suicide note on his computer.

  To whoever reads this, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to gross anyone out, but I had to do it. There’s too much pain to make it worth staying.

  “Too much pain!” she had ranted to Jared’s pediatrician, Jeff Palmer. “He’s only a freshman in high school and already he doesn’t think life is worth living.”

  She had sobbed in Dr. Palmer’s office as the older man had calmed her, promising to talk to her son, suggesting a trusted counselor, and gently pondering the delicate balance between guiding a child and letting him falter in his flight from the nest. “You know, the human species is the only one that doesn’t know when to kick its offspring out of the nest.”

  Despite Dr. Palmer’s advice and Rachel’s pleas, there would be no counseling. Jared flatly refused help from strangers, and he would not discuss his thoughts of suicide with Rachel. But Jared did confide in his older brother. Although the boys had never been particularly close, Jared felt safe explaining some things to KJ. Which forced Rachel to pump her oldest son for information on Jared’s state of mind.

  “Is he doing better?” Rachel had asked KJ one cool December night when he was home for the break. They stood in the yard, taking in a sunset that painted the sky in phosphorescent pink and orange. Jackson was inside on the couch, fighting to maintain a façade of good health, and Jared was doing homework at the computer nook in the kitchen. “Does he still talk to you about it?”

  KJ shushed her, nodding toward the house. They had been keeping the details of the crisis from Jackson. The tough-guy mentality that Rachel had once found so appealing had hardened into a brittle shell around Jackson, stripping him of compassion and tolerance as his disease worsened. After he had told Jared to “stand tall and stand your ground” in response to the very first hints of hazing, the entire family had kept Jackson out of the loop.

  “He doesn’t talk about it much,” KJ murmured in a low voice. “But yeah, I think the crisis stage is over.”

  “Thank God. I keep praying that it’s over.” Rachel had been stopping by at the church on her way to work in the morning, putting quarters into the box, lighting a candle, and praying for her youngest son. “I mean, if this is the worst thing that ever happens to Jared, then he’ll have a really good life, right?”

  “Weird, Mom, but I guess that’s true.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” she admitted. “I don’t even get how it’s possible to suffocate yourself. How does that work?”

  KJ folded his arms, looking away. “Well, did you see the rubber bands in the drawer, too?”

  Rachel shook her head. “With the plastic?”

  “Somewhere in his desk,” KJ muttered. “You put all that plastic over your head and tie off each layer with a rubber band.”

  “Oh my God.” Rachel had clutched KJ’s arm.

  He nodded. “But you need to drug yourself first so you fall asleep instead of fighting it. Apparently, the natural instinct is to take another breath.”

  Rachel hugged herself as she stared at the colorful sky, fighting the impulse to run inside and wrap her arms around her youngest son. “How could he want to do that to himself?”

  KJ had shrugged. “I don’t think it’s something he wants. It’s like he’s been driven to it.”

  “By those kids at school.” Rachel’s heart thudded in her chest. “I should have known. I wish he had turned those meatheads in.” Although Rachel insisted that the school needed to know about violence on school grounds, Jared had refused to name names and get involved in their investigation. Tim Hoddevick, the school counselor, had been receptive, but without Jared’s cooperation, his hands were tied.

  Which infuriated Rachel. Everyone knew the ringleader and his henchmen.

  “Damn it, I’ll run them down with my car and sue their goddamned parents blind for what they’ve done to him.”

  “Mom.” KJ winced, gesturing for her to lower her voice. “Don’t. It’s over, okay? The football season is over, and Jared will probably never play again. Jackson is going to freak out about that, but he’ll have to deal with it.”

  “I’ll smooth it all over when the time comes,” Rachel said, realizing that it was getting easy to keep things from Jackson, who had withdrawn into a fog of pain and medication. “The important thing is that Jared is okay.”

  “He’s moved on. The plastic is gone from his desk, right?”

  It was. She had checked that day. And ever since that scare, she had made a daily ritual of slipping into Jared’s room when he wasn’t there, sliding the drawer open to find a tumble of papers and books and phone chargers and earbuds.

  Every day, every drawer, like a mantra to ward off death.

  Those had been dark days, with Jackson sick and out of sorts, missing a lot of work, hiding his cirrhosis diagnosis so that he could eventually drink himself to death. Rachel shuddered at the memory of that dismal, isolating time. Ariel had been by her side for much of it, but Jared had sworn the family to secrecy over his issues. Not even Ariel knew the depth of her problems with Jared.

  Thank the Lord, love and perseverance had brought her youngest boy back to the land of the living. Now he had his first girlfriend—a good thing—but he was sneaking around with her, and denying it—a very annoying behavior. Fed up with the lies, Rachel had approached Jared last week with an invitation to legitimize his relationship.

  “It’s okay to have a girlfriend,” she had told him when they’d crossed paths at home at lunchtime. She had been polishing off a container of Greek yogurt, a quick break before returning to the shop, when he had come in the side door with a giddy smile. That head-over-heels contentment. She figured it was as good a time as any to bring up the girlfriend topic. “It’s okay to have sex if it’s in a committed relationship,” she had said, looking down at her yogurt to avoid his awkward frown. “We’ve talked about this . . . the precautions and the need to respect a girl’s wishes.”

  “I’m not having sex.”

  “Jared, don’t.”

  “I’m not doing anything, Mom.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know what’s going on. A mother knows. Why can’t you let me in?”

  At first he’d seemed hurt. Then his expression had hardened to disdain, his dark eyes glimmering.

  “Because it’s my life, not yours. Back off!” He had wheeled around and bounded up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

  Well played, Rachel! She could write the manual on how to alienate your high school senior in one quick conversation.

  Shoving the spoon into her mouth, she had stared up at the ceiling as his music came on. S
trains of “Black Hole Sun” added to her gloomy mood. She probably had the only son at Timbergrove High School who listened to Soundgarden, Pink Floyd, and Jethro Tull. Jared always complained that he had been born a few decades too late.

  Hoping to escape the domestic drama, Rachel had returned to the shop and walked right into a ridiculous ripple with Tiffani, one of the younger stylists. While Rachel had been out of the salon, Tiff had been telling some of the customers about her plans to open a salon of her own just across Timbergrove’s main square.

  Not one to beat around the bush, Rachel confronted Tiff, whose hair was currently spiked on top and shaved on the sides, with a tail of feathers dangling from one ear. “Are you serious about opening another salon on the square?”

  Tiffani had rolled her eyes awkwardly. “Wow. Word sure travels fast when you have a good idea.”

  “Really? Really?” Rachel had looked the young woman squarely in the eyes; she wasn’t afraid to get right up in her grill. “And what might be the purpose of that?”

  “I think this town needs something shiny and new, and I’m just the person to do it,” Tiffani had said with relish. “Actually, I’m pretty shiny and new myself,” she had added with a giggle.

  “At least shiny.” Rachel would give the girl that. “You got the capital to put up for that kind of venture?”

  “What, a few months’ rent and a couple of mirrors?” Tiffani’s neck had turned a rosy pink; she was blushing under her spiderweb tattoo. She knew she was out of her league. “I could figure it out,” she muttered. “Get some friends to throw in.”

  “Sure thing. We’ll talk again when you’ve got investors.”

  Rachel had moved away from Tiff’s station, using restraint not to stomp across the salon.

  A few months’ rent and a couple of mirrors. If only it were that simple. Timbergrove wouldn’t allow Tiffani to open up a shop until her wiring and plumbing was up to code, not to mention the amenities like sinks and adjustable chairs and proper lighting. Little Miss Tiff, who didn’t have a pot to piss in, didn’t have a clue what it would take to open a new salon.

  Ungrateful little thing. Tiff seemed to have forgotten that Rachel let her use a chair for three months, rent free, when the girl had come to her down-and-out, just out of cosmetology school. It killed Rachel to think that, after all that, Tiff would stab her in the back and become her competition. Well, no, that would never happen. The cocky, well-inked upstart was going to fall flat on her face.

  That possibility also irked Rachel. Some people just refused to be saved by good advice.

  And all the running in the world was not going to get these boulders off her shoulders. KJ, Jared, and Tiff. “Why are you guys busting my chops?” she ground out, realizing that she’d been clenching her jaw. Too much tension.

  Darkness was closing in as Rachel jogged past the famously tall ponderosa pine marked with a plaque. Had she started her run too late? Too bad Ariel hadn’t been able to come along. Her friend always had a story or two to distract Rachel from her own crap. But Ariel was overloaded with Gleetime kids this weekend. Everyone was cramming in extra practice sessions for the Spring Showcase and the state competition.

  She was thinking that it would have been wise to have Ariel along for safety’s sake, too. What were those noises behind her? The scrape of footsteps? She darted a look over her shoulder, but no one was there.

  It reminded her of an unsolved attack two years ago when a masked man with a knife came out of the woods, grabbed a female jogger, and cut her face. Didn’t kill the poor girl, fortunately. The police never did catch the guy, but that was on the other side of town. Not that the attacker couldn’t travel a few miles.

  She braced herself as the trail turned into a wooded area, cool shadows on shadows. Damn, but the brush was invasive. Dense laurels twisted this way and that in a thick wall of green that effectively hid the path from the road. Anything could happen here and no one would be the wiser. She sprinted past the lower brush, panting until she reached the tall trees once again. At last the trail emerged from the woods to run alongside the country road. At least, on this part of the path, people from the road could see her if some pervert came along. Then again, it didn’t instill a lot of confidence to be striding alongside the road in this fuzzy light. One texting driver could send her flying like a bowling pin.

  “Never again.” Rachel chastised herself for starting her run too late. Friday was supposed to be her easy day at the shop. Her day to set aside some “me” time for exercise and pampering. Apparently, the cosmos wasn’t in the mood to pamper her today.

  A car slowed on the road, trailing along behind her. A chill came over her as she shot a glance over but couldn’t make out the driver. She half expected the occupants to call out and ask directions, but the car simply lingered, its motor humming.

  Oh, Lordy. Should she turn around and launch herself back into the woods? At least that would get her away from the road. She picked up the pace to a run, but the car accelerated easily, staying on her heels.

  “Get the hell away from me,” she muttered. She heard the low whir of the passenger window rolling down, and her perverse mind imagined a rifle pointing out the window, the shooter raising the weapon until she was smack in the middle of his sights.

  A moving target.

  Chapter 11

  “Rachel? Is that you?”

  Fear spiraled into surprise as Rachel slowed her pace and turned toward the vehicle.

  There was no rifle. The console light inside the black unmarked car revealed a uniformed officer leaning over the passenger seat, squinting toward her. “Little late to be out on your own, isn’t it?”

  Rachel stopped running and gaped at the sheriff, Mike McCabe. “Mike, you just about gave me a heart attack!” she said, clasping her chest as the car stopped on the shoulder.

  “That would defeat the whole purpose of running, wouldn’t it?”

  “I guess it would.” Rachel couldn’t help but smile as a mixture of relief and amusement slowed her racing pulse. “I wasn’t planning to be out after dark, but time got away from me.”

  “I know how that goes.” He pushed open the passenger side door and waved her toward the car. “Come on, now. I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Well, that sort of defeats the purpose of a workout, too.” She shoved her fists into the pockets of her thin running jacket as she sauntered closer. “But since it’s getting dark, okay.” She slid into the passenger seat, feeling a mixture of intimidation and excitement to be sitting in a patrol car with lights, gadgets, a squawking radio, and a fat computer with a bright monitor. “I live on Woodburn, not far from Pine Elementary.”

  The space in the seat was tight; the computer on the center console jutted out, taking up much of the knee room. But she was grateful for the warmth of the vehicle, and a little nervous to be so up close and personal with the town sheriff. The last time she’d spoken with him at length had been a few years ago, when she had been called to pick KJ up from a senior class party where alcohol had been present. At the time, she had thought it was kind of him not to hit the kids with charges or fines, which he could have done. McCabe had said he didn’t want to put a hurting on them. “They’re good kids,” he’d said.

  Recalling his kindness, Rachel settled into the warm car and exchanged witty jabs with Mike, who had been quickly transformed from a stalker into a Good Samaritan.

  “I was surprised to see you out alone in the dark,” Mike said as he pulled onto the road. “That path is pretty isolated in spots. I wouldn’t trust it at night.”

  “I won’t be doing that again,” she assured him. “I just got a late start, and time got away from me.”

  “That makes me feel better. We live in a relatively safe community, but a woman alone is bait for some nefarious types.”

  So he remembered that she was unattached; that was flattering. She got a chance to check him out as he kept his eyes on the road. Despite a large head of wildish brown hair, he was a hands
ome devil with a strong jaw and stark blue eyes. As they talked she let her eyes wander to his hands on the steering wheel, noticing that he was not wearing a wedding ring. Hmm. She knew he was married. Maybe he was one of those men who didn’t wear jewelry. Most women kept that wedding ring on.

  She asked him about recent incidents on the path, and he said none had been reported. No random assaults in Timbergrove since that case with the masked man, who was still at large. They discussed local crime, and he expressed surprise that Rachel was aware of most of the town’s burglaries, thefts, and acts of vandalism.

  She prided herself on staying aware. “Between the gossip at the salon and the crime blotter in the Times, I keep my finger on the pulse.”

  Mike sang the praises of Timbergrove. He was grateful to be policing in a town where the chief hazards were ice on the roads and teen parties that got out of control.

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” she said. “I love this town. I’ve lived in a few different places, east and west, and nothing can beat the quality of life here. The schools. The downtown area with a stunning backdrop of Mount Hood behind it. The flowers and trees. The way the sun sets over the crest of the hills.”

  “You get it,” he agreed.

  “I do. I’m glad my kids got to grow up here.” He asked about her kids and she told him one was in college and her youngest was finishing his senior year. She told him about the Gleetime Spring Showcase—a must-see! He told her about plans for a summer concert in the town square. It was hard to imagine that July, post-graduation, would really come around. So much would be changing for her after the summer.