I pulled my bike under the bus shelter with me and watched the house.
A few minutes later, a scrawny man emerged, a box in his arms. He wore a loose-fitting denim jacket, and his hair had not been washed any time recently. He put the box in the back seat of the car. Then he walked back up on our small stoop and spoke to someone inside.
My mother shuffled into view, and the sight made my chest tight.
He led her by the arm. But even so, her gait was shaky. She wore rumpled, baggy clothes, lank hair and a completely blank expression.
Shit.
My mother was tucked by the greasy asshole into the passenger seat of the car. And then they drove away together. When the car passed me, I made myself look away, studying the bus schedule as if the secrets of the universe were written there.
They weren’t.
Even after the car had gone, I didn’t move for a couple of minutes. I watched our house, wondering who else might be inside. But I only had an hour, and things looked quiet over there. So I walked my bike up the drive, leaning it against the side of the house where it couldn’t be seen from the street. I dug my keys out of my pocket, only to spot a new lock glinting on the back door. What the fuck? I tried the knob. Locked.
A cold dread expanded in my gut as I forced open the kitchen window. This had been my means of entry many times during high school, if I’d left my keys at home by mistake. The sill was chest height, since it was over the sink. But I still had it, ladies and gentlemen. I could still boost my ass up there without too much trouble.
It was the smell that hit me first.
God, the kitchen reeked. There was garbage on the counter tops, and abandoned dishes in the sink. I put my foot down on the counter and leapt to the floor. The sight of something moving just about stopped my heart.
A rat. Only a rat.
I stood there for a moment, heart pounding. It wasn’t long ago that this kitchen was spotless. I used to sneak through here after curfew on Saturday nights. The worst smell back then was maybe a little cigarette smoke — a habit my father never managed to break. But the surfaces used to shine in the moonlight as I tiptoed towards my room. I would hear my dad sawing logs from his side of the bed. Sometimes my mother fell asleep in the living room, the TV watching her instead of the other way around. I’d put my hand on her shoulder until she woke up — Mom wasn’t much of a stickler about curfew. At my urging, she’d rouse herself enough to go to bed.
Lucy was little then, still sleeping in a crib when I was fifteen, her red hair looking like a lion’s mane when she woke up in the morning. My father was still alive, his van parked in the driveway. McCaulley Plumbing and Heating was painted on the side.
The ghosts of happier times were all around me. I took a deep breath to try to force them back. But all that did was to pull more of the stench into my lungs.
Fuck.
I moved from the kitchen into the dining room. The smell was less here, but that didn’t make it better. Because the dining room table was covered with strange accoutrements. There was a stash of glass jars lined up in a row, and two small propane tanks. On the floor was a stack of crushed boxes that had once contained blister packs of an over-the-counter allergy medicine.
Somebody had been busy here, making something both illegal and dangerous. My first impulse was to pull out my phone and take a photo. But then I thought better of the idea. I wanted no part in this.
Leaving that shit behind, I walked toward the bedrooms. I already knew that there was nothing of value left in mine. There were some sentimental things, though. In fact, when I got there I saw that my treasure box — a big shoebox I’d begun keeping in my closet when I was nine — had been raided by some opportunistic shithead. But I found a handful of photographs scattered inside. I shoved these into the front pocket of my hockey hoodie and left the room.
Lucy’s room hadn’t fared much better. It smelled as if someone had been sleeping in there. There were still a lot of books and toys on the shelves. But I couldn’t carry much back to campus. I tucked the box set of Harry Potter books under my arm. Then I went into her closet and grabbed a stack of sweaters off the shelf. I’d brought a plastic shopping bag, which I pulled from my jeans pocket. I crammed five sweaters into it, until it was so full that the loops would barely fit over my hand.
For winter, she’d need a coat and boots. What else? Long pants. Warm socks. We would just have to buy those things. Last year’s probably wouldn’t fit anyway.
Fuck it. I had to get out of here.
Thirty seconds later, I walked out the back door, leaving it unlocked. Then I was back on my bike, pedaling down the street with a box of books under one arm and a bag around my wrist. I made it almost all the way back home before it really hit me. And then the wave of sadness was so strong that I stopped in front of the hospital, dismounted and put my hands on my knees.
I knew it would be bad. Six weeks ago, I wheeled Lucy’s bike out of the garage and told her to just come home with me. We’d put some of her things into her backpack and mine. And we pedaled away from there together. By taking Lucy, I’d basically given my mother permission to fall all the way apart. And she’d taken me up on it.
Six weeks. Not one phone call from her to ask if Lucy was okay. What kind of mother does that? So I’d already known that shit was hopeless. But… Christ. That house. That smell.
My brain began to spool through the usual What Ifs. What if I’d staged some kind of intervention? What if I just called the police right now? I’d thought through it all before, so this time it didn’t take very long to arrive at the only answer.
No way.
Because anything I did to save my mom would put Lucy into the system. Even if I spent another night Googling “addiction treatment Connecticut,” we didn’t have any other family. If my mom was in rehab — or jail — Lucy would go to foster care. And I wasn’t going to let that happen.
You can’t save everybody, I reminded myself. The trouble was that I wasn’t sure I could save anyone at all. Not even myself.
I straightened up, forcing a few deep breaths into my lungs. It was Friday. I had a bio lab in forty minutes. I had a shift at the coffee shop. And I had to pick Lucy up from her after school program by five. Her schedule was different every day of the week, and so was mine. I’d written a spreadsheet to track everything. I could do this.
So long as nothing ever went wrong.
Shoving off again, I pedaled toward campus. This weekend I’d take Lucy to her soccer game in the park, and then we’d go out for pizza together. We’d both do homework. And then the week would start again, with its schedules and deadlines.
And on Tuesday I could see Scarlet. She was my happy thought — with those perfect cheekbones and thoughtful, hazel eyes. I blew out another big breath and tried to pump the stress out of my lungs. It almost worked.
Chapter Four: If You Want God to Laugh
— Scarlet
On a busy October morning, the phone rang at a most inconvenient time. And — stupid me — I answered it.
“Shannon,” my mother’s voice hissed into my ear.
My old name already sounded foreign to me. “What is it, mom? I’m so late for class.” I had overslept, and already statistics was beginning without me. Pinning my phone under my ear, I raked my hair with the brush.
“Whatever you’re late for, Shannon, it isn’t nearly as important as the things I need to say.”
With a sigh, I sat down on my bed. “Then say them.”
“There’s no need to be rude. Your father’s lawyers need to interview you.”
“No,” I said immediately. “I won’t do it.”
My mother’s anger was audible. “Honey, you will. We’re not even asking you to drive up here for the meeting. They’ll come down to meet you in a conference room somewhere. It will take only a couple of hours. You’ll answer their questions, and that will be the end of it.”
“I’m not answering anyone’s questions,” I insisted. “The trial
has nothing to do with me.”
“Shannon! This is a small thing you can do for the father who raised you! There is no reason on God’s green earth for you not to help him.” My mother’s voice reached its familiar shrill pitch.
“Mom, if it’s so important, why doesn’t Dad ask me himself?”
Her sigh could have burned the paint off of walls. “He shouldn’t have to ask his only child for help. We are family and this is what families do. You should be sitting here in the kitchen, volunteering your time. Instead, you changed your name and left the state. How do you think that looks?”
It looked like something a person would do when she was desperate. But I couldn’t say that to my mother, because she really didn’t give a damn. She didn’t care that my teammates had turned their backs on me. She didn’t care that my textbooks had been defaced, that my gym locker had been filled with… with things that were supposed to be flushed down toilets. Just at the memory of it, I tasted bile in my throat.
But that was my mother — always concerned with the way things looked. She didn’t care if my life was intolerable, as long as we held up the facade.
“You will answer their questions,” my mother repeated.
“My answers won’t be useful.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
“Mom,” I said, and my voice shook. There was nobody on earth who had the capacity to make me angry quite like she could. “I can’t be part of this process. I need to study, and get good grades, and move on.”
“That’s just selfish, Shannon. None of us moves on until your father can walk away from this bullshit with his head held high.”
Later, I would remember to be shocked that my mother used a curse word. But at the moment, I was just too stunned by the threat she made next.
“If your father loses the cases against him, do you really think there will be tuition money for you next year? You think you’ve run away from it all. But you can’t. Do the interview, or I will not be responsible for your tuition check going astray next year.”
The truth of my situation settled like a weight on my chest. I was never getting out from under the things that my father did.
Allegedly did.
Probably did.
God.
I didn’t run out the door right after that phone call, even though I probably should have. Instead, I began Googling “compelling a testimony” and “children of the defendant.” I didn’t have a clue whether the law required me to talk to my father’s lawyers, or whether I could be put on the witness stand. And there was nobody I could ask who would tell me the truth.
My phone rang again, and I picked it up the way you handle a poisonous snake. But the incoming call wasn’t from my mom or a lawyer. It was from Bridger.
“Hello,” I said, my voice husky.
“Stalker! Where are you? Sick?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m okay. There was some… family drama today. I wasted a lot of time on the phone with my mom. But it’s no big deal.”
“Huh,” Bridger said. “I wonder how you’re going to get the notes for today’s classes?”
“Bridger,” I smiled for the first time that day. “Maybe there’s someone who will be nice enough to help me out with that?”
“Are you missing lunch, too?”
“I guess so.”
“That’s no good. I’m bringing you a sandwich. What kind should I get?”
“You don’t have to do that,” I stumbled on the words. But of course, I wanted Bridger to bring me a sandwich. What a swoon-worthy idea.
“What do you like? I’m not in line yet, so just give me a genre. Turkey? Italian?”
“Get whichever sandwich special looks good,” I said quickly. “And a cookie wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll be there in ten,” he said. “The Turner first years live in… Vanderberg, right? You can show me the guitar thing you were talking about last week.” He ended the call.
For the next twenty minutes, I ran around tidying up my room. The common room was in decent shape, but I had to make my bed and kick a bunch of Blond Katie’s clothes under hers.
My phone buzzed with a text from Bridger. KNOCK KNOCK.
I ran down the stairs and opened the entryway door. “Hi!”
He walked in, a take-out box in his hands. “Hi, stalker.” His green eyes studied me. “Are you okay?”
Damn. I should have tidied myself up as well as the room. The way he stared, my eyes were probably red.
“Sure,” I said, my voice as bright as possible. “Come on up. Thanks for bringing lunch.”
And then he was actually walking into my room, something that had figured prominently into several of my recent fantasies. I very nearly sat down in the common room, but it occurred to me that one or both Katies might show up at any moment. And I didn’t want to compete with them for Bridger’s attention, because surely I’d lose. So I walked right through the common room and into the bedroom, just as casually as if guys followed me in there all the time.
Bridger didn’t seem to find that strange. He tossed his coat down and sat on the foot of my bed, setting the take-out box down on Blond Katie’s trunk. “Let’s eat.” I sat on Katie’s bed, to make things a little less weird. He popped open the box. “It was chicken and avocado day,” he said.
“Score.”
“Exactly.” He spread a napkin on his lap. Then he took two sandwich halves and passed me the box.
“Ooh, stick-tap for remembering to bring chips!” I said.
He looked up quickly, a smile on his face. “You’re welcome.”
That’s when I realized that I’d used a hockey reference. A stick-tap was the sort of thank-you that only another player would understand. Crap! My mother had put me off my game today. And I’d almost blown my cover the first day we’d met, too, when I’d recognized Bridger’s name from the team roster. “It was nice of you to bring lunch,” I said.
“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice gruff. “Are you going to be okay? Is it anything you want to talk about?”
I shook my head. “Nobody’s dying, if that’s what you mean. It’s just… drama. Makes me happy to be many miles away.”
“Well,” he leaned down to steal a few chips out of the box. “I know drama. Everybody’s got some.”
We chewed in silence for a minute, and I thought Bridger was going to let the subject drop. But he didn’t. His voice was wistful as he spoke again. “This year I seem to be punching above my weight in drama. Last week, I really let it get to me.”
“But not anymore?” I asked. Our voices were hushed, by some mutual agreement that this was not a typical conversation for us. “Because if you know any tricks for sliding out from underneath it, I’m all ears.”
He cleared his throat. “My trick is understanding that there aren’t any tricks. You just have to wade through each moment as it comes.”
“Well I’m definitely doing it wrong, then.”
He barked out a laugh. “Why?”
“Well…” I nibbled a chip. “I’ve always liked to plan things out, so that I know what to expect. But last year, that was impossible, and I never really got over it.”
“There’s a saying. If you want God to laugh, tell him your plans.”
“I should have it tattooed on my person.”
“Which part of your person?” His green eyes lifted to mine with a sparkle that I sincerely hoped was intentionally flirtatious.
A girl can dream.
“So,” he said when the lunch was eaten. “Where’s this guitar I’ve been hearing about?”
“Move your big feet and I’ll show you.” I pulled Jordan out from under the bed, and snapped open the case. It occurred to me that I could not tell Bridger my guitar’s name, because I’d named Jordan after the hottest player in the NHL. And the real-life Jordan was a ginger, just like Bridger.
Biting back a smile, I sat down right next to Bridger on the bed, holding the guitar across my lap, and turning to face him.<
br />
He reached across to brush his fingers against the strings, each one making a watery sound as he plucked them.
I grinned. “Man up, Bridger. Like this.” I strummed, and the sound filled the room.
“Did you just call me a wuss?” Those jade eyes challenged me as he reached over again, this time plucking one string hard.
“Atta boy.” This was the most fun I’d had in a long time. “Okay, so I promised to teach you about intervals. So, that’s the D string you just plucked. Sing it with me.” I sang a la on the note of D.
“Christ, Stalker. You didn’t mention anything about singing.”
“It’s one note. Come on, give me a D.”
His ears turned pink. But then he sang the note with me. “Yes! See, that was easy. Now we’re going to raise it an octave.” I sang a higher D, but Bridger faltered.
“A real man can’t sing that note,” he complained.
“Nonsense. Eric Clapton can sing it. And he has his Man Card. But never mind — can you hear that it’s one octave higher? Still a D?”
“Sure. I hear it.”
“Good. Now see this dot?” I pointed at the inlay on the fingerboard. “That divides the string exactly in half, from the bridge to where it’s wound around the pin. So first listen…” I played the open D string. “Now put your finger there.”
Bridger pressed down the string onto the fret at the half way marker, and then I strummed again. The sound was an octave higher.
“Deeee…” I sang and then knocked his finger off the fret. “Deeee,” I sang the lower one. “Half the string, twice the rate of oscillation. Music theory is just a bit of simple math.”
He regarded me, the room quiet around us. “That’s very cool, Stalker. And so much more lucid than our shitty textbook. But now I need to hear you play.”
The Year We Hid Away Page 4