That Weekend

by Kara Thomas

  “No—my dad and I were passing out flyers this morning and this man opened the door at one of the houses. I don’t know where I’ve seen him before, but I knew him, and he was looking at me funny. Like he recognized me too.”

  McAuliffe frowns. Shifts his gaze sideways to my father, as if to say, You dragged me away from the search because someone looked at her funny?

  “I’d seen him before,” I say, sure of it. “I just can’t remember where. Maybe it means we ran into him on Saturday.”

  No one speaks; the purr of the fan in the corner is the only sound in the room.

  “All right,” the sheriff says. “Perhaps you could give me some more information on this man?”

  I don’t like McAuliffe’s tone; he sounds like my parents when I was a small child, after I’d crawled into bed with them after waking from a nightmare. And then what did the scary man do to you?

  The words are on my tongue when my father cuts in. “He lives on the corner of Phoenicia Road.” I feel a surge of gratitude for my father for thinking to note the house number.

  Something clicks into place in McAuliffe’s expression when he hears the address. He holds up a finger—hold, please—and fumbles through the pages in the filing folder in front of him.

  “What is it?” I ask, my heart stalling.

  The sheriff sets the folder down, looking from me to my father, without really looking at either of us. “I spoke with a man who lives there yesterday. He was on Bobcat Mountain on Saturday and came forward with some information.”

  My pulse floods my ears, my thoughts piling up in my brain, chaotic as a highway wreck. I did see that man. I remembered something.

  I will the man’s face into focus, dive deeper into the black hole of my memory. I saw him, while we were hiking, or maybe at the campsite. I couldn’t have just seen him, though—I remembered his face, and he remembered me.

  Did we talk to him?

  It’s Dad who finally breaks the silence. “Did the man have any helpful information?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” McAuliffe says.

  “Why not?” The bubble of hope building in me that I might finally get an answer about what happened Saturday. “I was there—I just don’t remember.”

  McAuliffe’s upper lip twitches. “I can’t share details of an interview with a witness.”

  “So I don’t have a right to know something I said or did just because I can’t remember?” Anger floods my voice, despite how hard I’m trying not to leap across the desk and rip McAuliffe’s mustache off his face. He has a piece of my memory, and he’s holding it hostage. Why?

  Dad puts a hand on the armrest of my chair, a warning.

  “Quite frankly, my department is concerned about the level of media attention this case is attracting.” McAuliffe’s gaze shifts to the window at the rear of his office, a few feet from the circus in the parking lot. “Any leaks could compromise the integrity of this investigation.”

  Dad’s mouth falls open. “Claire’s not going to speak to the press.”

  “I appreciate your reassurance, Mr. Keough, but we’re talking about a very sensitive investigation here.” The sheriff stands, knocking a bony knee on the metal edge of his desk. He winces as he gathers the papers on his desk into a filing folder, a tremor in the knobby fingers on his right hand. “Is there anything else? I need to get back to the mountain.”

  I shake my head, my veins humming with anger. In the doorway, McAuliffe uses the folder in his hand to gesture to the direction of the exit.

  “Claire,” he says wearily. The area under the sheriff’s eyes sags with exhaustion. “Please don’t tell anyone what we discussed here today.”

  “I won’t,” I say stiffly as my father comes up next to me, resting a hand on my shoulder.

  “In fact”—McAuliffe glances between me and my father, frowning—“if I were you, I might not tell anyone beyond your immediate family that you were on Bobcat Mountain at all.”

  * * *

  —

  Neither of us says much on the ride back to the lake house. My head is killing me, so Dad uses it as an excuse to end our flyer-distributing mission, even though neither of us is in the mood to continue anyway after that shitshow in McAuliffe’s office.

  When we pull into the lake house driveway, Dad cuts the engine of the Civic. “Claire—don’t tell anyone about what you just told McAuliffe, okay?”

  He’s not looking at me. He stares through the windshield, at the cars lined up in the driveway. Amos’s silver BMW sedan, Mr. Marcotte’s black Highlander. Don’t tell them, he means.

  My mouth goes dry. I don’t think it’s the leaks to the press that he’s worried about; he doesn’t want Kat’s family to know I remember something.

  Dad’s cell begins to trill with “And I Love Her” by the Beatles, his ringtone for Mom.

  “Maybe she heard from the neurologist,” Dad says, scrambling to fish his phone out of the debris building up in his cupholder—a receipt from the local pharmacy, a Taco Bell cup.

  “Teenie.” Dad puts a finger in one ear. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll see you inside,” I say, unbuckling my belt. I don’t need to hear Dad recap what happened inside McAuliffe’s office to Mom. Living it once was bad enough.

  I pull my phone out on the walk to the front door, swallowing a grunt of frustration at the sight of the blank search page, trying in vain to connect to the spotty 3G.

  Friday night, Kat had said the Wi-Fi password is on the router in Marian’s office upstairs. I had been too lazy to go get it then, and apparently Saturday Claire was too lazy as well.

  The front door is open, but no one seems to be downstairs. The kitchen, Mrs. Marcotte’s home base, is quiet, save for the whir of the water cycling through the dishwasher. I head up the stairs, startled at how my legs resist each step. My muscles are heavy from lying in a hospital bed for three days.

  The sound of voices at the top of the stairs makes me slow my pace. The door to the master suite is cracked open. A figure paces back and forth, and instinctively I flatten myself against the bannister, even though there’s no way they can see me from here.

  “He needs to push her harder.” Mr. Marcotte’s voice is urgent, clipped.

  “She needs time, Johnathan,” Kat’s mother says.

  “Our daughter doesn’t have time.”

  My insides frost over. They’re talking about me. I know I shouldn’t be listening to this, but I can’t tear myself away from the bannister.

  “She’s traumatized,” Mrs. Marcotte says. “The doctors said the stress of questioning could make it worse.”

  Mr. Marcotte is quiet when he speaks. “And you believe that?”

  A tremor in my right knee. I grab the bannister, my legs threatening to give out underneath me.

  Humming inside my ears as I wait for Mrs. Marcotte to defend me. I think of her face in the bathroom yesterday, my heart sinking. More pacing, floorboards groaning.

  “Claire’s always been protective of him,” Mr. Marcotte finally says. “You said it yourself.”

  Mrs. Marcotte’s voice is hushed; I only catch part of what she says next. “—but with what’s at stake—”

  Her response is drowned out by the sound of a phone ringing, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. A crush of panic as I realize the ringing is coming from downstairs.

  Mr. Marcotte snaps, “How could you not have your phone on you—”

  Get away. The thought cracks through me like lightning. I’ll never make it downstairs in time; I dart toward the spare bedroom next to the master. Throw a hand over my mouth to muffle a yelp at the sight of Amos Fornier, seated on the edge of the queen bed.

  He tilts his head slightly, the look on his face saying he’s been watching me—and listening to his aunt and uncle—this whole time.

  H
e lifts a finger to his mouth. Jerks his head to the door.

  I shut it quietly and press myself against the wall, as the master door screeches open. Footsteps, storming down the stairs.

  Amos watches me from the bed. The look on his face launches me back to the last place I want to be.

  His bedroom. I’m fifteen, my legs shaved with surgical precision, quaking as Amos runs his hands down my sides, tugs at the waist of my jeans. I’m in my brand-new red bra, because I’d read in some stupid magazine that the color red triggers lustful feelings in men. Back then, Amos, at seventeen, was practically a man to me.

  I was fifteen and that felt like a perfectly acceptable age to lose my virginity; my best friend’s hot older cousin a more-than-acceptable person to lose it to.

  Now: Amos stands, crosses to the bedroom door. Mr. Marcotte’s voice carries up the stairs, pinning us in this room.

  Then: I’d planned it, wanted it, pushed for Kat and me to go to the party she mentioned her cousin was having while his mother was in Paris. Amos unhooked my bra, wrapped his hands around my bare back, and pulled me to his body. His tongue, parting my lips, tasted like Captain Morgan.

  Now: I swallow, cross to the door. Amos shakes his head. “You don’t want my uncle knowing you were up here. Trust me.”

  Then: Amos flipped me onto his bed. The Captain Morgan shots roiled in my gut; his sheets, too cool, too foreign on my back, prompted a single thought: I want to go home. When Amos’s fingers moved to the zipper on my jeans, I covered his hand with mine.

  Now: Amos turns, crosses to the sliding door at the rear of the bedroom.

  Then: Are you serious? His words were sour against my neck. I scrambled until I was sitting up against his headboard, my heart jackhammering. Slurred excuses tumbled out of me: I think I drank too much, maybe some other time—

  Now: Amos slides the balcony door open. Follow me.

  Then: He scooted so he was sitting up. Shook his head, laughed as he shrugged himself back into his T-shirt. He was gone from the bedroom before I could even gather all my clothes, my throat sealed with humiliation.

  Now: I have no choice. I follow Amos onto the balcony.

  * * *

  —

  There is a single Adirondack chair on the balcony. Amos steps past it, leans over the railing dividing his bedroom’s balcony from the master balcony.

  He swings a leg over the railing, effortlessly launching himself onto the master balcony.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  Amos extends his arms to me. Trust me.

  I swallow, grab his wrists. Hoist a leg over the railing and let Amos pull me over to the other side. He helps steady me, his hands at my waist, close enough that I can smell the weed lingering under the linen spray he must have doused his clothes with.

  “Sorry.” Amos drops his hands to his sides.

  I straighten, glance around the master bedroom balcony to avoid his eyes. Behind Amos are the glass sliding doors leading to the master suite; inside them, white curtains are drawn tight. To our right, a set of stairs leads down to the patio and grill area.

  I follow Amos down the stairs, panic needling me as I take in the proximity of the balcony to the patio. The outdoor seating area offers a poor view of the balcony; anyone could have been up there, listening to my conversation with Sheriff McAuliffe yesterday.

  Amos hops down, skipping the last step, and continues toward the lake. He turns around, eyebrows lifting when he sees I haven’t moved from the patio. “You coming?”

  “Where?” I ask.

  He thinks for a moment before saying, “Away.”

  I glance back at the house; I can’t stomach the thought of going in there and looking Kat’s parents in the eye after what I overheard. I never heard Dad come inside the house, nor do I expect him to for another fifteen minutes. Most phone calls with my mother are akin to a hostage situation.

  Amos waits for me to catch up. We head down the back of the property, which slopes to the lake. A chipmunk skitters across our path and disappears through a crack in the stones encircling the firepit.

  The sounds around the lake dissolve as the dock comes into focus. I see Jesse, leaning forward in that Adirondack chair. I banish the image from my brain because I can’t handle the idea that it’s the last memory I’ll have of him.

  To the right of the dock is a shed; Amos spins the combination into the padlock holding the doors shut. He opens them, ducks inside. Emerges a moment later dragging a red canoe by its hull.

  He pivots, pushes the boat toward the lake. A sliver of tanned, toned lower back peeks out as his polo rides up. He uses one of his Sperrys to nudge the canoe into the lake. Once the boat is afloat, he turns to me. “Hop in.”

  I meet him at the water’s edge and glance inside the body of the canoe. A daddy longlegs hobbles out from under the rear seat as I lower myself onto it. We pitch to the right; Amos leans forward, hands on both sides to anchor the boat.

  He hops onto the opposite seat, facing me, and picks up the oars lying between us. Overhead, the sky is brilliant blue and cloudless. I close my eyes to block out the afternoon sun, listening to the steady drip of water from the oars between Amos’s rows.

  When I open my eyes, we’re in the middle of the lake. Amos has taken a break from rowing, his face tilted back to the sun. I can make out a small smattering of freckles on his nose. “I got Kat in trouble all the time for this when we were kids,” he says. “Convincing her to take the canoe out without asking.”

  Humming overhead draws Amos’s attention away from the sky. A dragonfly dips down and lands on the edge of the canoe. “My uncle always thought I was a corrupting influence.”

  I don’t know why he’s telling me this. Maybe he wants me to feel less shitty about what Mr. Marcotte said. I swallow to clear my throat. “You heard everything?”

  Amos nods. “Yep.”

  I inhale through my nose, the smoky scent in the air making my eyes water. Somewhere, someone is grilling.

  “I’m not making it up,” I say. “I have no idea what happened on that mountain.”

  “I know.” Amos leans back, slices the oars through the water. The dragonfly, startled, lifts off and flies away. Something feels significant about how he’s chosen to word it: I know. Not I believe you.

  I look at him. Why?

  “My buddy got into a car accident last year,” Amos says. “He dropped his car off at a repair place, called his girlfriend to come pick him up, got home, and went to sleep. Said when he woke up, he asked his girlfriend what happened to the car. He didn’t remember waking up that morning…didn’t remember the accident or anything that happened after.”

  My toes curl in my flip-flops. What he’s describing is exactly what happened to me.

  Amos pauses, hands on the oars, as the canoe drifts. “Claire…you don’t just fall and hit your head hard enough to forget an entire weekend.”

  The troubled look in his eyes makes my stomach somersault. It’s the look of someone who is staring down a person who is failing to see what’s right in front of them. It reminds me of Dr. Ashraf, right before I was discharged.

  My brain hums. “Jesse didn’t hit me on the head.”

  I lean forward and let my knees rest on my elbows. That’s what everyone is thinking, right? That Jesse was drunk and angry at that ledge and lost control. Angry at his girlfriend, and somehow I got in the way—

  I sit up abruptly, rocking the canoe so that Amos has to shift on his seat to rebalance it. “Do Kat’s parents think Jesse killed her?”

  “They haven’t come out and said it,” Amos says. “My aunt Beth has always thought Jesse is too serious about Kat. She said they’d been fighting a lot lately, and she was worried Kat might have been too afraid to break up with Jesse before she left for BC.”

  “That’s insane,” I say, my throa
t thick with anger. “Jesse’s not violent.”

  My fingers itch to find the bump at the base of my skull. I can’t explain Jesse to someone who doesn’t know him. Last summer, I went to Alive After Five in the village with him so he could see his favorite local band; right before they began to play, I tripped on the curb, split my kneecap open. Jesse insisted on accompanying me to the CVS down the road, helped me clean and bandage my cut, even if it meant missing half the band’s set.

  “He would never hurt Kat,” I say. Or me. I know it’s weak, it’s not even an argument. But Amos doesn’t look interested in arguing.

  “I know,” he says, lifting the oars. He dips them back down, propelling us farther away from the lake house. “I’ve seen them together. It’s pretty obvious he’d die for her.”

  The dragonfly that has been circling us floats down and lands on the surface of the lake. The hair on the back of my neck lifts as the dragonfly begins to devour one of the mosquitos buzzing on the lake’s surface.

  I’m silent as Amos rows. Someone else believes me; someone else doesn’t believe Jesse hurt me and made Kat disappear.

  But if not Jesse, who? The redheaded man?

  Amos nudges his knee with mine. “Claaa-ire. Care to share what you’re thinking?”

  The zip of electricity that passes from his bare skin to mine startles me. The current moves to my thighs as Amos brushes his hair, unruly and sun-streaked, behind an ear.

  I’m so disgusted with myself, it prompts me to look away, say, “With you? Not really.”

  The silence that follows feels like a door slamming between us. I half expect Amos to begin rowing us back to shore. Instead, he says, “I get it.”

  I pin him with my gaze. “Do you?”

  “I was a stupid kid. I’d like to think I’ve since learned some things about how to treat women.”

  My heartbeat gathers momentum. At the thought of me, in that red bra, Amos’s fingers finding the clasp. At the thought that Amos, of all people, might be the only person in Kat’s family that believes me, maybe even trusts me.