From This Day On

by Janice Kay Johnson

  He laughed out loud. “Good to know I get favored treatment.”

  Amy didn’t rise to his comment. She was quiet for a good ten miles, but Jakob kept an eye on her. “Was this a really stupid idea?” she blurted.

  From his point of view? Maybe. Jakob couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy at this tectonic shift in their relationship.

  But for her? He thought about it for a minute. “No,” he said at last, with certainty that surprised him. “This matters to you. You may not even know why, but it does. I assume you’re trying to figure out some things about your mother. You could have waited placidly back in Portland until whatever she stuck in the time capsule appeared in your mailbox. But passive isn’t your style. Charging ahead and demanding what you want is a better fit. That’s all we’re doing here.”

  She frowned at him. “You make me sound like a bitch.”

  “No. You were a feisty little girl, and unless you’ve changed more than I think you have, you’re a feisty woman. That’s a good thing, not bad.”

  “Oh.” She fell silent again for a few minutes. “Okay. Thanks, Jakob.”

  The gratitude sounded less grudging than usual. Amusement lifted one side of his mouth when he glanced at her. “You’re welcome.”

  “I meant...not only for what you said. For coming along, too. I’d have been okay making the trip by myself, but...it’s nice that I didn’t have to.”

  “I figured that. I expect to have a good time.” He frowned a little himself as he realized the truth of what he was about to say. “I’m already having a good time.”

  Her expression was skittish and distinctly wary. She didn’t say anything else. Neither did he.

  * * *

  AS FAR AS Amy could tell, Jakob hadn’t lied—he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  The college had organized all kinds of activities. Jakob was enthusiastic about most of them and assumed she would be, too. He dragged her along on the wine-tasting tour, although her idea of how to choose the right wine was picking the one that was on sale. He bought a bunch of wines, too, and lovingly carried them up to his hotel room so they wouldn’t reach boiling temperature in the back of his SUV, parked in the sun.

  He persuaded her to come along when he played golf, too. She had to concede the game—sport?—sort of looked fun. If she’d had unlimited free time and funds, she might have been tempted to take it up. Jakob admitted that, while he enjoyed a round now and again, he most often played because businessmen negotiated and networked out on the country club course. They also judged each other in part on how far below par they played, so he’d made sure he was good. He was so good, in fact, that he won the tournament staged by the college, which seemed to embarrass him.

  They skipped the evening reception at the college president’s house and ate at a restaurant, where he talked about his business and persuaded her to tell him about her writing. Amy was still astonished to know that he had bought magazines only to read the articles she’d written. She’d figured she was out of sight, out of mind, as far as he was concerned. It was disconcerting to discover he’d been at least a tiny bit interested in her life.

  Over dessert and coffee, they bickered like the sister and brother they were. Most disconcerting of all was that Amy couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a dinner date anywhere near as much fun.

  Afterward, they’d arrived barely in time to nab seats in the back of a small auditorium to hear Senator Gordon Haywood, of Utah, speak. She had to admit the guy had charm and something probably best described as charisma. She didn’t like his politics, though, and was still irritated that he’d refused to give her the interview. She might get an article out of the opening of the time capsule, but was beginning to doubt it. If she’d been set on it, she should have spent the weekend talking to alumni, not riding in a golf cart and sipping wine. What a waste, she thought. A free-ranging conversation with possible presidential contender Gordon Haywood would have been an easy sale to any number of publications.

  Now, on the final day of the weekend’s festivities and despite the blistering heat, Jakob leaned back against the substantial trunk of a big tree, arms crossed, seemingly prepared to enjoy the main event, too. He wore chinos, sandals and a bright red T-shirt. She’d forgotten that he had always loved bright colors.

  Amy had stationed herself several feet away, needing a little separation for reasons she didn’t understand. Her arms were crossed, too, tightly. It was silly to feel on edge like this, but she did.

  Great moment to have a revelation. Maybe I don’t want to know who Mom was, before I was born. Did I really think it would help me to know why she became a woman who couldn’t love her own child?

  Because the answer was a resounding no. She still harbored more anger at her mother than she’d acknowledged even to herself. There probably wasn’t an explanation on earth that would make her go soft with sympathy and understanding.

  And the truth was, given that Mom had intended to major in English, she and most of the other students had likely put their very best writings into the time capsule. Since she had ultimately majored in sociology with a minor in Spanish, whatever Mom had written at nineteen or twenty was probably less than a marvel of literature.

  Fidgeting, Amy glanced at Jakob to see him watching with seeming amusement and interest as the college president triumphantly pulled the capsule out of the foundation of the damaged building. He hefted it onto a table set up for the purpose on the green sward that seemed to form the heart of the campus. The crowd surrounding them cheered and clapped.

  Amy couldn’t seem to stay still. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and tapped out beats with her fingers unheard even by her. She’d find herself watching this face, or that. A couple of times, her gaze intersected with that of a man who stood with Madison Laclaire, the director of alumni relations who’d organized the event. He was paying more attention to the crowd than he was to what was happening up front. There wasn’t even a flicker of expression on his face when his eyes met Amy’s. Was he some kind of security?

  Why do I care?

  Amy knew perfectly well she was only trying to distract herself.

  “Rob Dayton.”

  She quivered with a kind of alarm when she realized the college president had begun to call out names. A tall, skinny guy without much hair stepped forward to take an 8½-by-10-inch manila envelope. There was some good-natured teasing as he retreated with his contribution.

  “Linda Gould.” Lars Berglund, the president, glanced around, but no one responded and he set aside this envelope. The next couple, too.

  “Ron Mattuschak.” A stocky, graying man claimed this one.

  Now Amy stood absolutely still, as if she’d miss hearing her mother’s name if she so much as twitched. She didn’t even look at Jakob.

  Half a dozen names later, it came.

  “Michelle Cooper Doyle.”

  What if this was a truly awful, horrible idea?

  I don’t have to open it.

  A knot in her throat, Amy went forward. A handsome man with silver hair and bright blue eyes, President Berglund handed her an envelope with a murmured, “I’m sorry your mother couldn’t be here.”

  She said something—probably a thank-you—and walked quickly back to the tree where Jakob waited, his eyes keen on her face. He was no longer amused by the proceedings, she realized on one level. She had no idea what her expression showed, but whatever it was had him concerned. The fact that he was paying such close attention warmed her. She was suddenly very glad she hadn’t come alone.

  Not until she had reached him did the realization of what she held in her hand kick in. The envelope was heavier than she’d expected and harder, too—a book? she wondered. There was room for it to slide around in there, unlike a sheaf of papers that would have fit just right. Her fingers flexed as she became conscious there
was also a softer lump. This didn’t feel like a short story.

  Tension built in her chest.

  For no good reason, she and Jakob stood there dutifully, trapped by good manners much like concert goers too polite to walk out midperformance, while name after name was called, and people went forward one at a time. She noticed that the alumni director took one of the envelopes. The hard-faced man at her side did, too, which meant he wasn’t here as security after all. Amy couldn’t help noticing that his expression became even more remote after he accepted the envelope for Joseph Troyer. She understood how he felt.

  At the end, Berglund upended the capsule and something small fell out.

  “A petrified Tootsie Roll,” the president said, and the grand occasion ended with a laugh.

  “Do you want to get some lemonade or a cookie?” Jakob had stepped closer without her realizing it.

  Amy wasn’t hungry, but she was thirsty, she realized. No surprise, as hot as it was out here. “I wouldn’t mind a lemonade.”

  He grabbed a couple of cookies, too, and wrapped them in a napkin. They walked across the field toward the street where he had parked. Voices of the small crowd they had left behind were an indistinct buzz in her ears. She was hardly aware that they passed students—even though once she had to dodge a Frisbee. Ten seconds later she couldn’t have said who’d thrown it. Reaching Jakob’s red Subaru was a relief.

  They opened the doors to release the heat and he got in, started the engine and cranked up the air-conditioning. Amy stood there, the weight of the package feeling more significant than it could possibly be.

  “Hop in,” Jakob said, and she complied, fastening her seat belt and then staring down at the envelope.

  I don’t have to open it.

  She almost snorted. Right. Sure. She’d wasted an entire weekend to come to the glorious opening of the time capsule, and she was not going to open the package her mother had put in it. Who was she kidding?

  She slid her thumb under the flap and the glue gave way. Wildly curious now, she reached in and pulled out...yes, a book of some kind. No, an academic datebook, the kind you wrote assignments in. And a small bundle of cloth with pink flowers on a white cotton background.

  The tension swirling inside her coalesced into dread. Panties. That’s what she held in her hand. A pair of her mother’s bikini underwear.

  Amy stared down at them, unable to think of a single good reason Mom would have put them in this envelope to be saved for fifty years.

  Her hands moved fast, but clumsily, as she stuffed both items back into the envelope. Desperate to no longer be touching it, she put it in the canvas messenger bag at her feet.

  She and Jakob sat in silence for a minute or two that felt longer. Her hands were balled into fists now.

  “Amy?”

  “I shouldn’t have opened it,” she said in a stifled voice.

  “What do you want to do?”

  She made herself look at him. “Will you take me home?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was very gentle. “Of course I will.”

  * * *

  “DAMN IT, AMY.” Jakob had insisted on carrying her duffel bag in and now didn’t want to leave. “I can tell you’re upset. You don’t have to be alone.”

  “I need to be alone if I’m going to look at it.” She knew she was begging for understanding. “It’s probably nothing. Some kind of joke.”

  He didn’t look as if he bought that any more than she did.

  “But, in case...” She stopped. “I need to respect her privacy.”

  “All right,” he said after a minute, still sounding reluctant. His broad shoulders moved, as if he was uneasy. “Maybe you should call your mother instead. Wait and see what she says.”

  “She’d tell me to throw it away.” Amy knew that, as if she could hear her mother’s voice, sharp and alarmed. She also knew that she couldn’t do any such thing. She’d come this far. She had to know.

  He opened his mouth, and then closed it. She wondered what he’d been about to say, and why he’d had second thoughts about saying it.

  “All right,” he said again. “Will you call me? Let me know what you found? Or at least that you’re okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, having no idea if she meant it or not. “I’ll call.”

  He left finally, not looking happy. Amy didn’t care. She was entirely fixated on the yellow-orange corner of the manila envelope poking out of her bag. She felt like she imagined a member of the bomb squad did as they carefully approached an IED. She couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted. Something bad would happen.

  She waited until the sound of the engine diminished as Jakob drove away from the house. The street was quiet. Although evening approached, the heat of the day lingered and she hadn’t seen any neighbors out working in their yards. Later, when it cooled off, lawn mowers might be fired up. Right now, she had never been more aware of her aloneness.

  She felt most comfortable alone. That’s what a lonely childhood did to you.

  You know you’re going to do it, so why are you dawdling?

  Good question.

  Amy made a production out of pouring herself a glass of white wine first, although she kept a cautious eye on the corner of the envelope as if it might explode if she turned her back on it. Then she sat at the table, took a sip of wine and made a face. Ugh. Hanging out with someone like Jakob, who had good taste and plenty of money, could ruin you for real life.

  She took another swallow anyway before reaching for the envelope, opening it and dumping the contents onto the table.

  Staring at them, she was quite sure the panties hadn’t been clean when Mom put them in the envelope. The crotch was stained and sort of crunchy-looking. Amy’s stomach lurched. She turned her attention to the datebook.

  It was, she discovered when she opened it, exactly what she’d assumed. It started in September, with the beginning of the academic year. Her mother’s handwriting was recognizable but immature, more given to rounded lines and swirls than it was now. Mom had liked exclamation points, too. She’d noted assignments, dates of quizzes, when papers were due, but also used it as a diary.

  Maybe it was cowardice that had Amy starting at the beginning rather than going right to the end. She never read the last page of books the way some people did. That seemed justification enough for her choice to proceed chronologically.

  Amy read the first entries carefully. Her mother had been really excited to be back for her sophomore year. Partly, she’d been glad to get away from home. She had hated, hated, hated her summer job—half a dozen exclamation points—waitressing. Amy made a face. Coincidentally, she had worked as a waitress one summer, too. Apparently she didn’t give off the right vibes, because she got lousy tips and she had vowed to dig ditches the next summer if she had to. Anything else.

  Mom developed a crush on a junior, whom she didn’t remember having noticed the year before. He was a transfer student, she eventually discovered. Joel. No last name given. Amy had begun skimming by that time. Michelle Cooper and this Joel did some flirting. He kissed her at a frat party not long before Christmas break.

  Amy was flipping pages more and more quickly. Joel’s name kept popping up. Another guy asked Mom out but she didn’t want to go.

  He’s okay, she wrote, but I don’t like him that much.

  By spring it was apparent that Joel was seeing other girls. Michelle wrote about how she was sure he liked her. She couldn’t understand how he could make out with her in his dorm room one night and then lie with his head on some other girl’s lap the very next day in plain sight on Allquist Field.

  The other guy—Steven—was determined. He was in one of Michelle’s classes and always managed to sit next to her. He talked her into having coffee at the Student Union Building a couple of times. She still didn’t sound ent
husiastic, but finally she wrote, It’s stupid to just sit in my room. Steven had asked her to have dinner with him and attend the opening night of the spring musical put on by the theater department.

  Amy turned the page. Her heart clenched at the sight of blank pages. Nothing for the entire week, not so much as a note about a class assignment. That couldn’t be the end, could it? She turned the page.

  The following week, there was two lines, the scrawled handwriting ragged.

  He raped me. But who will believe me?

  The next week: I can’t go to my Econ. class, not knowing he’ll be there. I’ve been to some of the others, but I watch for him all the time. Yesterday I saw him crossing the field and I felt so sick I ran back to my room and hid for the rest of the day.

  Finally, I don’t think I can make myself come back to school here. I don’t ever want to think about what happened again. But I can’t completely pretend, can I?

  She wrote about how what she put into the time capsule could be a kind of funeral offering for herself. The old me is dead. She had intended to throw away the panties that had his sperm on them, but when it came time to do laundry each week, she couldn’t make herself touch them. Now she had decided to stuff them into the envelope along with the diary.

  There was one last line.

  This, she concluded, is what happened to me at Wakefield College. This is what I choose to say: Steven Hardy raped me.

  Amy stared at that last line, and at the date when her mother wrote it. Oh, God, oh, God. Heart drumming, she counted on her fingers. Her mother had always said she was premature, and she’d never thought much of it because it was true she was small at six pounds fourteen ounces. That was the weight on the little card that had come home from the hospital, so she knew it was true. But considering she had stayed small and skinny and matured into a slight woman, that wasn’t undersized for full-term, was it?

  If her mother had lied, if Amy had in fact been full-term...the timing was right.

  Steven Hardy was her father. The man who had raped the young Michelle Cooper.