by Gregg Olsen
“I remember when you used to braid my hair,” Birdy said.
Summer smiled at the memory. “French braid. Yes,” she said. “I was pretty good at that.”
“No one could do the fishtail braid like you did for me. All the other girls wanted it.”
Summer smiled. She was beautiful. More beautiful than Birdy. Her eyes were true almond shaped and her cheekbones sat high and defined. Her hair was thick, black, and without a hint of a wave to it. In the right light, Birdy always thought it looked like her sister had the darkest blue in her hair.
She was older now. They both were. A few strands of gray had found their way into the sea of black. When she smiled, wrinkles dormant from what Birdy was sure was infrequent use emerged.
“What are we going to do?” Birdy said.
Summer stopped playing with their mother’s hair.
“About her?” she asked.
Birdy shook her head. “No, about us.”
Summer pursed her lips, stalling a little. “I want to say that there is no us, but, really Birdy, I can see that there is no me.”
Birdy leaned in. “What do you mean, Summer?”
She looked down at their mother. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“Try.”
Summer got up and lit a cigarette. Birdy didn’t smoke, so she moved to the recliner on the other side of the living room.
“You know, I was smart too.”
“The smartest in school,” Birdy said. “You still are.”
Summer kept her eyes cast downward.
“I’m not a good person. I could have been. You know that, don’t you? I tried to do the right thing all the time, but the choices I made just didn’t get me anywhere.”
Birdy wanted to say something about Summer having a family. It had always been her go-to whenever they had the conversation about the way their lives turned out. Birdy had a career. Summer had a husband and Elan. She had used the “a job doesn’t love you back” line on her sister more than once, trying to make her feel less jealous, less bitter.
“You made a good choice,” Birdy said. She tilted her head to indicate the hallway to the bedrooms. “A heroic one.”
Summer raised her hand as if to push away the compliment. “I wasn’t going to let our bitch of a mother screw up any more of her children.”
“Raising Elan was a great sacrifice,” Birdy said.
Summer crushed out her half-smoked cigarette. Usually she smoked them right to the filter tip. “It wasn’t,” she said. “Just the right thing to do. And now it’s all been undone.”
“No it hasn’t. You’re still his mother. You always will be.”
Summer looked away from her sister. “Did you see the way he glared at me when he came in here?”
“You’re reading things that aren’t there, Summer. He’s confused. Upset. He’s over it. Really. He doesn’t know everything and he doesn’t need to. But he does know that you decided to raise him. Love him. And you did that, Summer. Look at him. He’s a really good kid.”
Summer got up and went back to the dining chair next to Natalie.
“What was she thinking?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Birdy said. “We probably won’t ever know. Our mother is a complicated woman.”
“Right. Complicated and hateful,” Summer said.
“That too. But she’s the mom we have. And we won’t have her much longer.”
“Why do you keep coming back here, Sister?” Summer asked.
Birdy asked that of herself every time she came home. There was no variable in the way things would turn out. It might start out fine, but in time, her mother would hurl unkind words at her.
“It’s hard to explain,” Birdy answered. “This place. It has a hold on me in a way that I don’t think I can break. It’s a noose or garrote. If I move, if I back away, it tightens around me. I keep coming back because this is where I’m from, but when I’m here, I just want to go.”
Natalie stirred and Summer went to her.
“She won’t make it through the night,” she said.
“She’s not as weak as you think, Summer. Not by a long shot. You know our mother.”
“Elan’s probably hungry,” Summer said, changing the subject.
“I’ll check on him,” Birdy said.
“No, I will. I’m his mother.”
* * *
This is getting ridiculous, Shelly Evans thought. She’d nearly finished a bottle of wine, watched an infomercial featuring a new kind of slimming jean, and seriously considered putting that brisket in the oven. None of this was like her mother. Both cats had decided she was an excellent source of heat, and she nudged them gently off her lap. Those jeans on TV didn’t look half bad. Hers were covered in cat fur.
She texted again. Mom, I might just go home since you aren’t around and haven’t thought to get back to me.
Shelly ran the lint roller from the side table over her lap. Something, she was sure, was wrong. Her mom was like those cats she loved so much. She pounced on every email or text Shelly sent her. Even the ones that were meant to placate.
“Thinking of you, Mom.”
Even when she really wasn’t.
She dialed the numbers of her mother’s friends, many of whom didn’t pick up. Gone for the holiday, she thought. Those she reached hadn’t seen Tansy for a few days.
“Last time I talked to her was on Tuesday,” Bridgett Madden said. “She was so excited about your coming for a visit.”
“I told her I couldn’t make it, but came anyway,” Shelly said.
“Maybe she made other plans. Did you call Sarah Winkler? She knows just about everything.”
“She didn’t know anything this time.”
“The hospital?”
“No. She’s not there.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief,” Ms. Madden said. “Did you call the library? Maybe someone there knows her change of plans.”
“Closed for the holiday, Ms. Madden.”
“You’re old enough to call me Brit,” her mom’s friend said.
“Let me know if you hear from her, Brit,” Shelly said, trying out the name, but deciding that Ms. Madden would suffice in the future.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Elan looked around the old back bedroom. He’d played there before, of course, but that was before he’d lived with her in Port Orchard. Things that didn’t resonate when he was younger, now did. A bird’s nest on the shelf and ajar of feathers told him of her love of nature. A carving of a seabird next to her bed had been made by the father she still mourned. A collection of jazz CDs tilted against the wall signaled her favorite music—and a style that she’d loved longer than he’d known.
He let his history book sit. It was Washington State history and the passage about his ancestors was short and uninspiring. At another time, he might have gotten mad enough to complain to his teacher. Call the publisher. That was the part of him that reminded him of his aunt. Birdy would take a stand.
Instead, he tapped out a text to Amber, though he doubted she would get it. She hadn’t answered any of his others. He wondered if she was still alive. He even asked God to keep her safe, but he wouldn’t tell anyone that he was praying for her. It sounded foolish, like believing in something that could never be true.
They will find you. I will find you. Hang on, Amber. He pushed Send.
Summer eased the door open.
“Elan?” she asked. “Can we talk?”
“I’m kind of busy,” he said, looking at his history book.
Summer sat down on the edge of the bed. “Too busy to talk to your mom?”
He could see the emotion in her eyes and as mad as he could be at her, he hated to see her cry. The last time he saw her crumble was the last time he’d been home. She’d beat him. Told him that he would never be anything. It was as if he’d shot up heroin.
“It’s only weed,” he’d told her.
She’d hit him so hard that he went flying across the room. H
is tailbone was bruised, and so was his pride. He’d seen her drunk and violent before, but her fury had never been directed at him. He looked at her with eyes brimming with tears, embarrassed that his mother had sent him careening across the floor. Also, ashamed.
“Only doesn’t work in this instance, Elan! Only isn’t an excuse. Only will ruin your life.”
“Everyone else smokes it, Mom.”
Her brown eyes were black with rage. “You are not everyone else! You are not going to end up like those kids who don’t go anywhere, do anything. Those boys that play video games until morning and sleep all day long.”
Elan had pushed back. “I’m not doing that. I’m going to school. I’m studying. I wanted to kick it a little. I deserve that, Mom. You do all the time!”
She balled up her fist, but kept her arm steady. “You are not going to be like me. You can’t end up like this.”
“You and Dad do okay,” he said, his hand pushing on the floor to ease the pain of his resting tailbone.
“Look around you,” she said. “Do you see okay?”
Their house was the only home he’d ever known. There was food on the table. They had a TV. The dogs ate store-bought pet food. He had three pairs of jeans. As far as he could tell, things were okay.
“It isn’t that bad,” he said.
“You are aiming too low,” she had said. “This is my fault. This is because of the mistakes that I’ve made. I won’t let you make the same ones, Elan. You need to do some serious thinking. You need to get your life on track.”
It went on like that for weeks, maybe a month. She’d hit him. His dad would beat him. He’d go to school looking like he’d been in a rumble. No one asked if he was all right or needed help. Everyone had their own issues with which to contend. He got high. He listened to the older boys as they talked about easy money they could make cooking meth. He thought about Bobby Meakin and how he’d accidentally blown up his house and family.
All for some easy money.
After the last knock-down, drag-out with his parents, he made his way to Aunt Birdy’s in Port Orchard, vowing to himself to make good on the concept of second chances.
“Aunt Birdy told me about your girlfriend. I’m sorry about that,” Summer said.
“She’d not really my girlfriend. I’d like her to be. Probably won’t be. Probably murdered by that psycho Brenda Nevins.”
“It’s been on the news,” Summer said. “Psycho is right.”
“I’m sorry for the things I said and did, Mom.”
“Me too, Elan. I’m sorry for the things I never told you.”
“It’s okay, Mom. We’re a pretty messed-up family, aren’t we?”
“You got that right,” she said. “We probably should be in the record books somewhere.”
He smiled. As tumultuous as their relationship had been lately, he missed her.
“Why are you always so angry, Mom?”
She tugged at the blanket. “Guess that’s just part of who I am. Whenever they were handing out attitude, I got a double dose.”
“Yeah, you did.”
She nudged him. “You’re supposed to say I’m wrong.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re not that bad.”
Summer surveyed the room. It had been a long time since she’d been in it.
“I used to come here with you when you were little. Birdy was away at school and Grandma changed out a few things in here for your naps.”
“I don’t remember that,” he said.
“You were small.”
She indicated the bird’s nest. “Birdy made me climb sixty feet up in a spruce that hung out over the ocean to get that nest,” she said, smiling at the memory.
Elan grinned. “Sounds risky.”
“It was, but you do things like that for people you love.”
“How come you two don’t get along anymore?”
“We’re working on it, Elan. It’s complicated.”
Elan knew the phrase “it’s complicated” was code for “none of your business.”
“How come Grandma’s such a bitch to Aunt Birdy?”
“Don’t call her a bitch,” Summer said.
“You do all the time.”
“She’s my mom.”
He resisted saying the same thing, because he knew that it would only hurt her more.
“She treats Aunt Birdy like she’s trash.”
“That’s because she’s jealous.”
“No mom should be jealous of their own kid.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” Summer said. “And most aren’t.”
They talked about school, about life in Port Orchard. He told his mom that he thought his grades would be good enough to get him into college if he continued to work hard.
“I don’t want to get in just because I’m native,” he said. “I want to be good enough.”
“You are better than good,” she said.
When Summer moved closer to hug her son, Elan didn’t flinch. He let her. And in a move that surprised both of them, he hugged her back.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Chloe MacDonald looked into the streak of brightness coming at her. She couldn’t see anything, just a hot white beam coming at her, blinding her. She’d heard the others crying all night, but with light in her face, all she could think about was herself and what this man was going to do to her.
“Get up,” a woman’s voice said.
Chloe felt disoriented. She was hungry, thirsty. Scared. She wasn’t sure she heard right. In her fear and exhaustion had she wished she heard a voice other than that terrible man’s?
A woman’s voice?
“Help me,” she said, squinting into the light. “Please help me.”
“No one is going to hurt you,” the woman said, her voice even, calm. “I need you to get up now.”
“Where are the others?” she asked, climbing to her feet. Her hands and knees were encrusted with horse manure. Bits of straw stuck in her hair and onto her back. She knew that she’d been hurt when she was tossed into the stall, but she didn’t know the extent of her injuries.
“My leg hurts,” she said.
“I’ll help you,” the woman said, grabbing Chloe by the arm and yanking with far more strength than required.
“You’re hurting me!” Chloe cried out.
“You don’t know what pain is, Chloe,” she said.
Tears ran down her face, stinging her check where she’d been scraped when she’d been dumped there in the acrid darkness.
“How do you know my name?” the teenager asked.
“I know enough about you and your type,” the woman said. “Names are easy.”
The light stayed fixed on her face. Chloe felt a presence behind her, reaching around. A cloth pressed against her face. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She opened her mouth, but someone pushed the cloth down her face and stuffed it into her mouth. Chloe thought of biting down. Hard. But in the time that it took for her brain to process the considered response, she couldn’t. She was unable to do anything at all.
She just faded into black. A beat later, an avalanche of hay poured over her body. She was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Shelly Evans mustered up her courage and dialed 911.
“My mom hasn’t come home,” she said, trying not to cry. It felt odd to her that the emotions started to kick in with a stranger, and not so much with her mother’s friends. Something about dialing those three digits made everything feel more ominous.
“I think something must have happened to her,” she said.
“How long has she been missing?” the dispatcher, a young man, asked.
“I don’t know,” Shelly answered. “I’ve been here all day. She’s gone.”
The dispatcher told Shelly that her mother couldn’t technically be listed as a missing person—she hadn’t met the 24-hour minimum. Shelly said that she wasn’t sure how long her mom had been unaccounted for.
“Her cats hadn’t eaten all
day,” she said. “I can’t say for sure, but really, I don’t think she was here last night. Those cats are everything to her.”
So am I. I know that. I shouldn’t have told her that I wasn’t coming.
He took down the information, her name, address, place of employment, and said that a patrol car would be over soon.
“Ten minutes, max,” the dispatcher said. “Quiet here in PA for a holiday weekend.”
Shelly was grateful when the patrol car pulled up without the noise of a siren or the embarrassing spectacle of flashing lights. Her mom would kill her when she got home for calling the cops in the first place, not to mention alarming the neighbors when something so silly as the misunderstanding was sorted out.
When she opened the front door, her heart sank.
“Oh God,” she said to the police officer, standing there. “This is really happening! She hasn’t been home for three days!”
Officer Janet Robinson’s eyes followed Shelly’s downward. Friday’s, Saturday’s, and Sunday’s edition of the Port Angeles Daily News were where the paper delivery woman had left them.
“I came in the side door,” Shelly said, pulling herself together. “I’m her daughter. I’m Tansy Mulligan’s daughter. Something has happened to my mom.”
Officer Robinson shadowed Shelly into the house.
“We’ll figure this out,” she said. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Nine times out of ten there’s an innocent explanation for something like this.”
Tansy’s daughter wanted to believe that more than anything, but deep down she couldn’t.
“Was your mom seeing anyone?” Officer Robinson asked.
Shelly didn’t think so. “My mom never wanted another man after my dad died.”
“Is it possible that you don’t know?” the officer asked.
If someone had posed that question a week ago, she’d have said no way. Now, she wasn’t sure. While it was out of character, if her mom had gone off with someone she’d be safe.
“No,” she said. “My mom told me everything. She loved her life. She loved working in the yard, visiting friends, working for the library.”