The Good Daughter

by Alexandra Burt

  Quinn stumbled as he let go of her coat and she worried about him demanding the keys to the truck, that he’d take off not knowing Pet was in the backseat, or he’d throw her out of the car, and so Quinn just screamed, repeatedly and high-pitched, and Delbert ran down the hallway and out the front door.

  “I’ll be back and you better have the money for me or I’ll tell the police.”

  Quinn watched his dirty and greasy hair barely move as he ran like a man who was out of shape, almost like Nolan used to run, and she imagined the brute’s lungs about to burst, but she wasn’t worried about him. Without so much as looking at the truck, he took off toward the meadow and the woods beyond. Delbert would return, but they’d be long gone. He’d absorb himself into whatever world he had come from before he had found Tain, and he’d remain there, get killed in a knife fight, or end up in jail, or clubbed to death in some alley somewhere.

  Quinn took Pet back upstairs and put her in her bed, but left their belongings in the car. She knew the ground wasn’t frozen, knew the earth hadn’t had time to become hard and solid and, after all, she was skilled in digging graves.

  It took her a few hours and she had to take a break and care for Pet, give her a bath and make her breakfast, but once she went down for her nap, Quinn continued to dig, and when it was all said and done, she had added another mound to the two by the cypress tree. She wondered if people who came across the mounds would catch on, but maybe the ground would settle and in a year’s time it might be leveled out and no one would be the wiser.

  It struck Quinn, just for a second it struck her deeply how odd and unlikely it was for a woman to have to bury three people on a farm underneath a tree and she thought herself somehow troubled—the expression leaving death in her wake came to mind—but then she heard Pet call out and she turned and rushed into the house, not wasting another second on the dead.

  The next morning they left. Quinn had thought about it—Delbert was not to be trusted and all she’d do was look over her shoulder, jerk every time there was a knock on her door, and that was no way to live. They’d find a new home, somewhere. She’d take baby steps. One state over first, and before they knew it they’d be living in a nice house, maybe all the way in California.

  Later, when Pet awoke, she began to cry for a toy, her lavender bunny. Quinn didn’t remember if they’d left it behind or dropped it on the muddy ground at the farm. She pulled over and went through the trunk, every suitcase and every bag—Pet screamed the entire time—just to find it lodged underneath the backseat. And not until Pet had gone back to sleep, clutching the toy to her chest, did Quinn weep. Just for a moment, then she consciously thought about what she had gotten herself into.

  She didn’t dwell on it, for that would take her to much darker places. How hard could a new life be? Compared to what she had done so far, the future seemed like child’s play.

  Forty-two

  DAHLIA

  IN the parking lot of the Aurora Police Department I kill the engine. I have called Bobby a dozen times, but his phone goes to voice mail every single time.

  In the still air of the car the town’s indifference seeps into my skin, makes me feel like a ghost. Sobering and melancholy all at once, the feeling mocks the past few weeks of my life. Time will continue to pass as it always has and the trees in this parking lot will be on autumnal fire in a couple of months. Once fall comes and the temperatures drop, the trees will know it is time to let go of their leaves and expose themselves for what they are.

  This is what is about to happen: I will walk into the APD and expose my mother as a murderer. I’m about to tell the police the exact story Memphis has told me. I haven’t forgotten a single detail. I will struggle with the names, Memphis and Tain, and whom I call mother, but it’ll sort itself out. It’s not about telling on Memphis; it’s the fact that there are three bodies buried only a few hundred yards away from where I’ve been sleeping for the past few weeks.

  I tell myself to get out of the car and enter the building, but neither does my hand reach for the door nor do my legs as much as twitch. Behind me on the backseat is my long-lost encyclopedia. Memphis should have given it to me a long time ago. Why did she hold on to it? That’s another point of contention for me: her unnecessary lies, her needless secrets, the games she plays.

  I roll down the window and stare in the driver’s side mirror. Not since Memphis has told me she is not my biological mother have I really studied my face. I used to think I had her sharp nose, just a bit more refined, we are about the same height, have the same slim body type. I am taken aback by the lack of emotion on my face. There is so much inside of me, always has been, but I have learned to contain it. There is rage and frustration, all bundled up into something that I can’t name. The mirror shows the woman the world sees, not who I really am. It doesn’t express how I remain blunted, how I hardly raise my voice, how I never lose control, never allow my hands to get involved. I’m afraid how far I would go. What I would do.

  Her audacity. Is that how Memphis felt about Tain? I think of Tain, the simpleminded girl, and Memphis’ claim that she was unfit to raise me. I don’t know if I can trust her with Tain’s story. I want it to not matter, I want to believe that Memphis did all this for me, but regardless of how I twist and turn it, she is still a murderer.

  Is there more to this story? Should I go back, clean out the shed, turn the house upside-down? Roll up my sleeves and just get at it, see what comes of it, all those boxes, the dusty shed, the dark corners of the barn. Will it support her story or tell a different one? There is only one way to find out if she told the truth: to have the bodies dug up, exhumed. That also means putting Memphis in prison for the rest of her life. Whenever I think I know what to do, I wait a couple of minutes and everything arranges itself yet again.

  This is what I know for sure: by choosing to remain in hiding, she also chose my isolation, the poverty we lived in. The constant beads of sweat on her brow, the conniving and running. If you chose one thing, by default you chose another. You chose to run, you chose I run with you. Your crimes were mine. I am the biggest crime of them all. I let that sink in for a minute: the woman who has raised me in squalor killed my parents.

  I suddenly remember the first time I went to school. It was eighth grade in Aurora’s middle school, and I was so lost; I had never been to school, had never even sat still in a classroom, had never been around large crowds of kids. Those hallways between classes, all those kids, the bumping and the noise and the smells, the hurrying to get to class. I was on edge the entire time. Bobby somehow picked up on that. I had no problems comprehending any subject—I had spent my days reading and studying ever since I could remember, was mostly ahead in everything but math—but he gave me the shortcuts that mattered. He never went on and on about explaining things, just laid it down. Don’t give a fuck, is what you do. There were all the girl friendships that I didn’t know how to navigate. If it’s hard being friends with her, don’t bother. It isn’t worth it. That’s what I need right now, I need Bobby to tell me what it all means.

  I reach behind me and pull the encyclopedia from the backseat onto my lap. It is heavy and cumbersome and I can’t imagine having dragged it around ever since I was nine years old. The book seems familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, a relic I remember in spirit. The brown cover looks like linen but is made of sturdy cardboard, the words THE COLUMBIA ENCYCLOPEDIA embossed in green, and a crown with three crosses sits above them. There are little inverted tabs indicating the letters of the alphabet. I open to a random page. The letters are small and I have to squint to decipher them.

  Pages pop open as if someone has left a bookmark for me. Some of the words are underlined, maybe an indication that I had studied them, and there are handwritten comments on many pages. I don’t remember why I made those notes or what they mean—page 327, carpet and rugs, thick fabrics, usually woolen—I wrote can be magic and fly in jittery letters. I kee
p flipping; randomly my eyes catch a word here or there. Some seem vaguely familiar, more a memory of a memory than a true recall.

  The worst part is that I love her. I always have. She was the only constant between Texas and New Mexico, Vegas and California. Just the two of us. As much as I want to walk into this police station and tell them about what she has done, I also want to protect her. I need to talk to Bobby about this; he’ll know what to do. I dial his number and again it goes to voice mail.

  There is a commotion behind me; multiple car doors are opening and slamming shut at the same time. Vans with roof masts and satellites pull into the parking lot. People shout, run, and then an entire crew of people with microphones and cameras set up equipment on the steps of the police department. Another white van with multiple satellite dishes on the roof pulls up next to my car.

  I roll down the window.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” I ask the first person who exits the van.

  “We are setting up for a news conference,” he says, positioning a camera on his shoulder.

  “What about?”

  “The woman from the woods,” he says and takes off running toward the police precinct. He turns. “She’s been identified,” he adds.

  —

  “Good afternoon. I’m Jessica Valdez, reporting for KDPN,” a reporter says. “Shortly, the Aurora Police Department will update us on the woman who was found in the woods by a jogger. There’s information that she is awake and responsive.”

  I stand off to the side, behind a couple of rows of people. The energy in the air is palpable and I can’t bring myself to even form a coherent thought. All I know is that my Jane is awake.

  “We’ve been told the woman who was found by a jogger a few weeks ago in the local woods has now been identified. That’s all the information we’ve been given. As soon as the press conference convenes, we will interrupt the regularly scheduled programming and go live to hear Chief of Police Walter Goode give us the latest details regarding this case that has puzzled the town of Aurora the past weeks. This is Jessica Valdez, reporting for KDPN from Aurora, Texas.”

  I feel giddy. This is it, everything is coming to a halt. There’ll be no more wondering, no more preoccupation. It’s about to be done.

  The sliding glass doors open and two uniformed officers, the police chief, Walter Goode, a rotund man with a spikey crown of white hair, and two men in suits emerge. There’s no greeting, no introduction; Walter Goode jumps right in.

  “We are happy to report that the young woman who was found in the woods by a jogger has regained consciousness. After examination by Metroplex personnel it was determined she had been assaulted and suffered major trauma. There will be a separate news briefing regarding her health status at a later point. Her doctors will elaborate on that sometime today.

  “She is awake and responsive and her name is Kayla Hoffman. She is from Hot Springs, Arkansas, and is a sophomore at Trinity Methodist University in Dallas. Her college was not aware that she was not attending classes and therefore she was never reported missing.” Chief Goode takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his forehead. He unfolds a piece of paper and lowers the microphone. “Kayla Hoffman passed through Aurora and spent the night at a local motel. She was abducted and a suspect is in custody. This is an ongoing investigation, therefore I will not take any questions at this point.”

  The reporters break out into a frenzy. How long had she been . . . Can you spell . . . Which hotel . . . Where is her family . . . Will they make a statement . . . Has she been questioned . . . Did the school release a statement . . . Questions fly at the chief, who steps to the back and ignores the reporters.

  I’m not sure what it is I’m feeling. Relief that she’s okay surges through me. After all, I wanted to see this through until the end, in all of its madness. I know who she is now, my Jane now has a name, and there’s a suspect.

  Taking two steps at a time, I enter the precinct. I walk past the front desk, ignoring the question from the officer, and I rush down the hallway.

  On the right, several doors down from the front desk, in a room with glass windows, I see Bobby take off his badge. Bordeaux stands on the other side of the room, his hands behind his back. There are two officers and three detectives in civilian clothes crowding the small room. I stare through the window, trying to take it all in; Bordeaux’s face is blotchy and red, his eyes bloodshot. As if I’m watching a silent movie, the characters’ lips are moving but I can’t hear anything. The last thing I see before the officer steps in front of me is Bordeaux crossing his wrists, as if he’s telling them to put cuffs on him. He laughs, throws his head back.

  “You are not allowed back here,” the female officer says and steps between me and the glass window, reaching for my arm. I walk backward, then I turn and run out the door.

  Forty-three

  MEMPHIS

  FROM the perfect spot on the front porch, I position the chair just right—the angle matters more than the placement itself—and I watch Dahlia through the kitchen window. If you had asked me thirty years ago what kind of life I imagined for her, this isn’t it. She moves about deliberately, as if she’s considering the world over and over, never trusting even the most dependable things. She tries to act as if everything I have told her doesn’t touch her, but I can tell that there’s fury inside of her. She holds her cards close to her chest, never to reveal them, never to just abandon herself completely. I have told Dahlia everything, every single detail I have disclosed, yet when I ask myself what has been gained, I come up empty. The truth didn’t set her free—it binds her tighter to a life she’d rather forget. There are parts of her that never came to fruition, were cut short by the life we led. I poisoned the blank slate she was with what I have done and now here we are.

  During those long morning hours before the sun comes up, when the weak morning light is about to turn harsh, creating moving shadows on the walls, I have come to the conclusion there’s only one thing left to do: I have to make this right.

  I must allow her to begin again as if all this had never been; as if I didn’t kill her father, as if I didn’t poison her mother. I did the right thing by keeping her, yet by making the pacts I made, by demanding what isn’t given freely, I now have to pay the price. Allowing Dahlia to begin again will give her what is rightly hers; this farm for one, her father’s farm. It belongs to her, and so does the money that’s left from my inheritance that I claimed with my father’s estate. And her life—she needs to have a life, but for as long as I am here she won’t be able to move on. She will forever be torn apart by feelings she’ll never be able to sort out, never be able to put in proper perspective.

  From this perfect spot I have created for myself on the porch I have a clear view of the kitchen. I watch Dahlia hide Bobby’s gun in the cubby above the fridge where I used to keep a money can for the leftover change from grocery shopping. After Dahlia leaves, I grab the gun and the sturdy rope I found in the barn and put them in a canvas bag. I leave the farmhouse through the back door without looking back. Aella told me once if you want to leave something behind, truly behind, retreat from it and let neither the sound of feet drive you to turn back, nor the baying of a ghost dog, nor the slapping of sheets in the wind.

  I have been tired, deep down to my bones. Every day feels like an entire year. I carefully scan the ground in front of me; I cannot stumble or fall. A sprained ankle would derail everything. I gather myself and force my steps to be light and energetic. The yellow dress Nolan gave me so many years ago invigorates me. I think of Benito and my heart is heavy. By the time I returned to Aurora he was Sheriff Ramón de la Vega, married, with a son, and his wife was sick. He was a good man. His uncle and family forced him to leave after the rape, he told me later—his family was afraid he’d get blamed and they made him go to Mexico. Eventually he returned and went to live with relatives in Aurora, where I tracked him down when California became to
o much.

  After years on the road, running from one place to another, I got tired. I called Benito, told him I’d be back in Aurora, and I begged him to help me start a new life. I meant the two of us, me and Pet. His wife was dying from cancer and he loved her but he wasn’t the same boy I’d known so many years ago, his loyalties were with his family then. He helped me change our names, and from that day on we were Memphis and Dahlia Waller. It took just one form to get Dahlia enrolled in school, and clearly no one asked questions when the sheriff stands next to you pushing a paper across the counter. No one asked, no one connected us to Creel Hollow Farm. We were just a mother and a daughter looking to settle down in a small town.

  From the day Dahlia left, I lived with a steady heartbeat. I was at peace. Then, out of the blue, she returned home. Again I had to be vigilant, had to make sure no one found out about us. Old women blend in, but having her with me was always my weak spot. What were the odds of Dahlia coming across that girl in the woods bringing it all to the forefront once again? It is the price I was told I’d have to pay one day. And then Dahlia starts asking questions, turning stones. She was and is my fate and, at last, exhausted and tired of waiting, fate has brought down a sentence upon me.

  Spilled milk it is, nothing else.

  When I reach the edge of the woods, my plan begins to derail. The tree line is shadowy and even though I keep telling myself that every evil thing has already happened, that there’s no need to be afraid, panic sets in. I have to admit that I may not be able to do what I came here to do. It’s not about being out of breath, not about fainting or weakness on my part, but I have underestimated the power of these woods.

  When I enter the woods, the air turns cool and I shiver in the sleeveless dress. The dirt and the decomposing leaves make the air thick and I stumble—I have no balance to begin with—but I land on my knees. As if these Aurora woods carry the memory of the woods of Beaumont from all those years ago, I’m back in the forest with the hunters.