by Katy Regnery
“Never?”
She shakes her head. “His grandfather Cleary—Frank Cleary—would come into town from time to time to collect his check from the government—he was injured over in Vietnam, don’t you know—but I don’t much remember seein’ Cassidy.”
“Where did his grandfather Cleary live?”
“Lord only knows,” she answers, shaking her head and sighing. “Folks said he built a cabin way up in the north woods and lived there. Kept to himself. He owned over 2,000 acres up against Baxter Park.”
My eyes widen in disbelief. “Two thousand acres?”
She nods. “I can show you the survey from the sale if you want.”
I nod eagerly, and she gestures to a four-person table in the center of the room. “Take a seat. It’s quiet today. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
As we sit down, I notice my dad’s eyebrows scrunched up, like he’s figuring something out in his head.
“Brynn,” he says, “that’s a lot of land.”
“I know,” I say, but actually, I don’t have a very good idea of how much it is.
My father breaks it down. “I’m not positive how much land up here costs, but I’m going to guess it’s around $600 an acre, which means your Cassidy is sitting on well over a million dollars’ worth.”
“Whoa.”
“Here we go,” says Ms. Dolby, holding a dog-eared manila folder. “Was filed right there under C for Cleary.” She opens it on the table, unfolding a map tucked inside and smoothing it with her palms. “Yep, 2,160 acres abutting Baxter State Park, bought for $135,000 back in 1972. Sold to Francis and Bertram Cleary.” She pauses, humming softly, then grabs a Post-it Note. “Need to contact Mr. Cleary—Bert, that is—let him know that the land’s vacant now that Cassidy’s passed.”
I’m about to say that it isn’t vacant and Cassidy hasn’t passed, but I’m not sure what claim my Cassidy has to Cleary land, so I swallow my words. If he’s not related to the Clearys by blood, he may have no claim to that land at all.
“Ms. Dolby,” I say, “is there any chance I could get a copy of this map?”
She glances at my hip, where I showed her the scars from my attack, gives me a sympathetic look, and shrugs. “Can’t hurt anything, I guess.”
She takes the file and trudges off with it, presumably to a copy machine.
“Why do you need the survey?” whispers my mother across the table.
“I need to study it to try to figure out where Cassidy’s cabin is located.”
“You don’t know?” she asks, seeming surprised.
I shake my head. “I don’t. He carried me there from Katahdin, and once I was there, I never left except to go to a local pond.”
“When you were driven here to town this morning, you didn’t see anything?”
I haven’t wanted to think about this very much, but I am fairly certain that Cassidy drugged me so that I’d stay asleep during the drive this morning. It accounts for the bruising headache I had when I woke up, in addition to vomiting in the police station. The thing is, I understand why he did it. He didn’t want to fight with me about leaving, and he didn’t want me to know how to get back. That said, I’m not sure my mother would understand, so I keep it to myself.
“I was asleep the whole time.”
“You don’t sleep that deeply, Brynn. The doorbell wakes you up.”
“I sprained my wrist last night,” I explain, cobbling together a feasible story. “I took a painkiller before bed. Must have knocked me out.”
I am saved from having to say any more by the return of Ms. Dolby, who puts a finger in front of her lips and slides a copy of the survey map to me. I wink at her, fold it up, and hand it to my mother, who stuffs it in her purse.
“Did you have any other questions about Cassidy?” she asks, glancing at the front desk, which remains quiet.
“I do.” I take a deep breath. “Could we look up his birth date?”
She sits down at the table with us. “Don’t need to. Cassidy Porter was born on the same weekend as the Great White Easter Storm of 1990. Won’t never forget it. We got thirty-six feet in forty-eight hours. Sunday, April 15, 1990.”
“My goodness!” says my mother. “What a memory you have!”
“More deaths than births that weekend.” Ms. Dolby shakes her head sadly. “Includin’ my youngest son, Willie.”
“Oh, no!” gasps my mother, reaching across the table to take Ms. Dolby’s hand and squeeze it.
Ms. Dolby sniffles. “Ayuh. It was the spring thaw, don’t you know. He went up Katahdin after church on Sunday mornin’ with a friend. Aimin’ to be home by supper. No one knew we were gettin’ that kind of snow a few hours later. Those boys were wearin’ shorts and T-shirts when they left. Didn’t have anything they needed for a whiteout like that. Got caught in it and never made it down.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“I thought we’d lost Brynn on Katahdin,” my mother says. “I hate that mountain!”
“Don’t hate the hill,” says Ms. Dolby, patting my mother’s hand. “Ain’t its fault that fools want to climb it.” She darts a glance to me. “No offense, miss.”
“None taken,” I say.
She releases my mother’s hand and turns to me. “Weren’t many born that weekend if mem’ry serves. Cassidy Porter, of course. And the preacher’s son. Hard to forget that. Preacher’s wife, Nora, broke her bag o’ waters in the middle of ‘Jesus Christ Is Risen Today.’ Like a waterfall all over the first pew. Her friend gave her a ride to the hospital while Pastor Wayne finished up the service.”
Pastor Wayne.
My blood runs cold, and I blink at her in shock.
“W-what did you say? What was the pastor’s name?”
“Jackson Wayne.”
Oh, my God.
Ms. Dolby continues, “Pastor Wayne finished the sermon and stayed for coffee afterward because it was Easter and all, and everyone knows first-time labor takes an age. Walked over to his house to change clothes ’bout noon, but by the time he was ready to follow Nora to the hospital, the snow was fallin’ at a clip. Roads impassable. I don’t think he saw baby Jackson until Tuesday mornin’.”
“Jackson Wayne,” I murmur, pieces of a massive puzzle snapping together in my head as I flash back to the first time I met “Wayne.”
They call me Wayne.
I know this mountain.
I’m local, born over in Millinocket.
I could help you.
“Jackson Wayne Jr. Called him J.J.,” says Ms. Dolby, tapping on her chin in thought. “Strange occurrence in retrospect.”
“Why is that?”
“Well . . . the son of the Methodist pastor and the son of a serial killer born on the same night, in the same place, during one of the worst storms of the century.”
“Jackson Wayne Jr.,” I say feeling breathless. “Um, J.J.—he was the pastor’s son?”
She looks up at me and sighs. “Ayuh. But, oh my, you’d never know it. He was a real hell-raiser.” Her face sours. “You know what they say about pastors’ kids, right? Well, this one was the worst I ever seen.”
“How so?”
She shakes her head like she’s warding off a bad memory. “Lots of animals went missin’ in the Waynes’ neighborhood. Kids bloodied up, scared like the devil was chasin’ them by the time they got home, but wouldn’t say who done it. J.J. was always in trouble, but his parents were such good people, no one knew what to do. He was manipulative, don’t you know, puttin’ on one face for his parents and another for the world. Let’s just say when the Waynes moved on to a parish down south, we were sorry to say goodbye to Jackson and Nora, but no one felt sad watchin’ J.J. go.”
I look at my father, sitting across from me, and he raises his eyebrows. “It would have . . . it would have been . . . chaotic at the hospital that weekend.”
“That’s the truth,” confirms Ms. Dolby, oblivious to the meaningful exchange between me and my father. “We got the I-95 interstate ne
arby. Folks out and about, visitin’ kin for the holiday. Car crashes right and left. People slippin’ on the ice. Frostbite. It would’ve been a doozy.”
“We don’t want to keep you from your work,” says my mother smoothly, patting Ms. Dolby’s arm. “We are so terribly sorry about your son. About Willie.”
Ms. Dolby nods. “He was a good boy. Only fifteen when I lost him that Easter Day.”
“I’m very sorry,” says my father.
We all stand up, shaking Ms. Dolby’s hand to say goodbye, when I ask, “You said the Waynes moved on. But did they keep any property here?”
“Hmm. Yep. Now that you mention it, they did. A fishin’ cabin on a lake out by Katahdin. But I haven’t seen any of them in town for ten years at least. Wouldn’t recognize J.J. if I bumped into him.” She shivers. “That child always gave me the creeps. Somethin’ . . . oh, I don’t know . . . off ’bout him, I suppose. You ever met anyone like that? A little off?”
“Yes.” I nod at her retreating form. “Yes, I have.”
My father takes my arm, leading me and my mother back out of the room and into the hallway.
“Switched at birth,” whispers my mother.
I gulp because it is at once outlandish and obvious.
“How is that possible?” I ask.
My father sighs. “Unexpected blizzard on a holiday. Chaotic hospital. People traveling to visit family. Car wrecks. Power outages. Two little babies born under such circumstances? Anything could have happened.”
“Come on,” I tell them, beelining for the front door.
“Where now?” asks my mother.
“The hospital.”
***
When we arrive at Millinocket General Hospital, we follow the signs to the information desk.
“Afternoon,” says the young woman sitting at the desk. “Here for visitin’ hours?”
“No,” says my dad, surprising me by stepping forward and grinning warmly. “Actually, we’re trying to solve a little bit of a mystery.”
“Is that right?” asks the receptionist, smiling up at my dad. He’s always been charming.
“Yes, indeed. My daughter, here, Brynn, was born in this very hospital back in 1987.”
“Oh, my! Welcome back!”
“We were traveling down from Portage Lake, where we have a summer house, when my wife . . .” My father puts his arm around my mother and pulls her against his side. “. . . went into labor. Well, I pulled off the highway, and thank God this hospital was here waiting for us.”
“Amen!” offers the receptionist.
My father chuckles and nods. “Amen, indeed!”
“Then what?”
“Well, we were here for two nights and had the most amazing nurse looking after us. And you know? All these years later, here we are, back up in this neck of the woods, and thought we’d take a chance on swinging in and saying thank you to her.”
“O-m-gosh! That is so, so, so sweet!”
My father leans his elbow on the counter and gives her the thousand-megawatt smile that used to win all of his toughest court cases. “Do you think you could give us a hand?”
“Of course!” she says, grinning conspiratorially at each of us. “What can I do?”
“Do you know the name of that nurse up in maternity who’s been here for—”
“Like, a hundred years?” the young woman asks earnestly.
I swear I see my mother covertly roll her eyes, but to her credit she nods and smiles. “Just thirty, dear.”
“Betty Landon’s been there for a long while,” says the receptionist.
“You sure, now?” asks my dad. “Betty. Hmm. Betty does feel right.”
The young woman whispers, “She delivered my mama, and she’s thirty-eight!”
“Then Betty’s our gal!” says my dad.
“She’s here today. Want me to see if she’s free to come down and say a quick hello?”
“Aw,” he says, “would you?”
“Sure!”
I watch as the receptionist picks up the phone, asks to speak with Betty, relates our story, and smiles at my dad triumphantly. “You all go sit over there at that table. I’ll send her over when she gets down here, okay?”
“Who’s the best?” asks my dad.
“Me?” she asks him with a giggle.
He nods, pointing at her with both index fingers. “You!”
My mother takes my arm and leads me to the table, smothering a chuckle. “He’s incorrigible.”
“You’re lucky he’s devoted to you,” I say.
“Yes,” she says, squeezing me tighter. “And to you.”
We sit down, and my dad joins us a second later. “More bees with honey, huh?”
“You could charm the whole hive,” I say.
A moment later, an older black woman stops by the reception desk, then looks in our direction, smiling at us as she approaches the table and stands behind the only open chair.
“I’m Betty Landon. I understand you’re lookin’ for me?”
“Ms. Landon,” I say, standing up. “Will you join us for a minute?”
She nods, sitting down in the chair and straightening her light blue cardigan. “Chilly down here. We keep it warm up there for the little ’uns, don’t you know.”
“Of course,” says my mother.
“You wanted to talk to me?” asks Betty, looking at my dad.
“Under false pretenses, I’m afraid,” says my father. “Brynn?”
“I wasn’t born here,” I say, feeling a little bad when Ms. Landon’s smile fades. “But I don’t mean any harm. I just had a couple of questions, and I was hoping you could help me.”
She clears her throat, leaning away from us, her eyes wary. “Questions about what?”
“There were two babies born here on Sunday, April 15, 1990: Jackson Wayne Jr. and Cassidy Porter. Is there any chance you were working that night?”
“The Great White Easter Storm,” she says, sitting back in her seat. She takes a deep breath and nods. “Bad time. Yes, I was here. I remember.”
“Bad time?” I ask.
“No trucks could get through for days.” She shakes her head again. “If the injured could get here, we helped them. But the staff that was here when the storm hit was trapped. We stayed for, oh, I think it was three straight days.”
“That must have been exhausting,” my mother observes.
“Very,” says Ms. Landon.
I reach for her hand, desperate to find out what I can about Jackson and Cassidy. “Those two little boys. They were born that Sunday.”
“Yes. I remember we had two boys born during that storm, because later, they found two local boys dead up on Katahdin, and everyone said that nature had balanced itself out.” I know she’s talking about Willie Dolby and his friend, and I flinch with the terribleness of platitudes. After a breath, she continues. “I wasn’t present at either birth. I was mindin’ a little ’un in the NICU that was strugglin’. He didn’t make it either.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, waiting a beat before asking, “Do you remember who else was working that night? That weekend? Specifically, who would have been involved in delivery?”
“Would’ve been . . . ah . . . hmm.” She nods, her lips turning down.
“Who? Who was here?”
“Well, Dr. Gordon. And Dr. Maxwell.”
I get the feeling we haven’t come to the “ah . . . hmm” yet. “Who else?”
“Nurse Humphreys. Theresa Humphreys. She was the nurse on duty that night. Head nurse of maternity, in fact. She stayed all three days.”
“Do you mind my asking why you said ‘ah’ that way when you remembered her?”
Ms. Landon sighs, looking up at me with sad eyes. “She’s gone now, of course. She was almost seventy back then.”
“Was there something troubling about Nurse Humphreys?”
“Why are you askin’ about these boys?” she counters, her face growing cool. “Because I really need to get back to w—”
“Is it possible they were switched?” I blurt out. “Is it possible that at some point between their birth and discharge that the babies were switched?”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, pushing her chair away from the table and standing up. “I’m sorry, folks, but nursin’ unions don’t look kindly on these types of conversations. I need to head back upstairs.”
I stand too, reaching for her arm, which I hold gently. “Please, Ms. Landon, I can’t begin to tell you how desperately I need this information. I’m begging you . . .”
The nurse looks at me, her eyes conflicted. She leans close to me, her voice soft. “Theresa Humphreys died in May 1990. Look into it.”
She offers me a sad smile, turns, and leaves.
I need the internet, I think, as I leave the table and head to the car without a word, my parents following at my heels, asking about Betty Landon’s parting words.
Wait for me, Cass. I’m coming, my love.
I promise you, I’m coming.
Cassidy
Dropping off Brynn at the Millinocket Police Department was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but now that I know the truth about myself—that I hurt people like my father did, that I am a killer like him—I take some small comfort in the notion that I got her away from me in time.
It’s the only comfort left in my wretched life, now that I have lost Brynn.
I had a long two-hour drive to think about Wayne, and I can’t say I’m sorry for killing him, which bothers me a lot. Taking a human life would tear apart a good man. But I’m not a good man. I don’t care that I killed him. Truth told? I’d kill him a hundred times if it meant keeping my Brynn safe.
But my stark lack of regret—of any shred of guilt or remorse—worries me. I took a human life. Shouldn’t I feel bad about that? That I don’t feels like another step into the hell that is my transformation into Paul Isaac Porter, another indicator that the change has begun.
When I get home, the sun is rising, but I can’t bear to witness its glory. I park the ATV in its stall, then climb off, stumbling blindly into Annie’s adjacent stall.
I am home and Brynn is gone.
And I will never love—or be loved—again.
I slump down the wall, onto the hay, pull my knees to my chest, and lower my head, letting my rage and fear and sorrow and sheer exhaustion roar up from within me in endless bellows of fury. I scream and yell, my worthless heart bleeding out in the darkest corner of my miserable world. I scare Annie half to death, and she bleats her worry until I stop, curling into a ball by my side and crying like a baby, my body shuddering with sobs until I finally fall asleep.