Beneath the Skin

by Kyla Stone

  The days bleed together. I keep waiting to wake up from this nightmare, but I never do.

  27

  For days, I have no idea what’s going on. I only know Ma was appointed a public defender since we have no money. He never calls. It’s the friend of the court child advocate lady, Michelle or Michaela or something, who calls me to tell me my mother’s been arraigned. The public defender argued for a low bail amount. I don’t know if 500 grand is low or not, but we couldn’t put down one percent of that, let alone the insane amount a bail bond would require.

  “So what happens next?” I ask the lady, twisting my rings over and over around my fingers.

  “Since your mother is pleading guilty, the lawyers will battle it out in a pretrial conference. They have to come to an agreement on the charges. Then it’ll go before a judge. The defense requests a sentencing, and the prosecutor makes a recommendation. The judge decides.”

  “And then that’s it?”

  “Yes, honey, but I called to tell you about your aunt. I got ahold of her. I gave her your number, so she may call you. She hasn’t committed to anything yet, but I’m hopeful she’ll take the boys and get them out of the system.”

  “When can I see them?” I’ve thought of them a million times every day. How scared they must be. Are they okay? Is anyone hurting them? I hate my helplessness. I hate the fact they’re gone because of me.

  “Soon, honey. I promise. Everything’s a process. There’s lots of red tape.”

  “Does Aaron have Ratty Bunny?”

  “What?”

  My voice cracks. “His stuffed rabbit. It’s his favorite. He sleeps with it every night.”

  “I don’t think so. I can get it for him, once the house is no longer a crime scene. Hold tight, okay? We’re taking care of them. I promise.”

  I hit the end button and slump down at Arianna’s kitchen table.

  Pastor Torrès left a copy of the Cass County Gazette on the counter. “Brokewater Woman Slays Husband, Confesses” reads the article third from the top. Even in death, our family doesn’t warrant a front-page headline. I push the newspaper off the counter and watch it flutter to the tile floor.

  28

  Two days later, they tell me I can go back to the house.

  Outside, the earth is a barren, frozen brown, the sky bloated with the thwarted promise of snow. The sun hasn’t shown itself for days. The stalks of corn in the fields behind our house are withered, shriveled and crushed into the dirt.

  I enter the house and wander the rooms like a ghost. There are no lights or heat on. I wrap my arms tighter around myself. It’s so cold, I can see my breath. The late afternoon shadows spill from every object, now harsh and unfamiliar. It smells different. Everything about it is different. This is not my home.

  I stare at my parents’ closed bedroom door. I leave it shut.

  In my room, all the dresser drawers are opened and the contents spilled onto the carpet. Three of the drawers are cracked. The bedspread is pulled off the bed, all my books tossed out of the bookcase, the closet turned inside out. I kick around the pile of clothes on the floor next to my bed. The wooden heart Lucas carved for me is lying on top of a wrinkled pair of jeans. I pick it up, place it gently on the dresser. I can’t think about him now, can’t think about that kiss, the fire it ignited beneath my skin. I blink rapidly, stare at my familiar walls, the butterflies, their sleek bodies, their satin, colored wings.

  I leave my room and walk into the bedroom my brothers share. The beds are next to each other below the window, Frankie’s bedspread covered with spiraling airplanes, Aaron’s Winnie the Pooh. Frankie’s dresser is lined with dozens of googly-eyed rock people. The new PlayStation is shoved into a corner on the floor, half covered by a pair of Aaron’s Superman pajamas. Ratty Bunny sits on Aaron’s bed, staring at me with his droopy button eyes. This room looks almost untouched by the forensic team. Or maybe they were respectful in here and put everything back.

  I pick up Ratty Bunny and hug him to my chest. He smells like Aaron’s vanilla-scented shampoo. I pull open the top drawer of Aaron’s nightstand. There are the unfolded sketch pages I’ve drawn for him over the years, scattered in piles next to a couple of Hot Wheels cars, a few crayons, a half melted chocolate coin still wrapped in gold foil, and Aaron’s favorite purple sparkly pen with the feather sticking out of the cap.

  I go to the buffet in the hallway, jerk open the drawer. There’s a slip of paper tucked into our spot. My favorite sister is scrawled in his awkward, slanty handwriting over a glued-on pink construction paper heart.

  My heart cracks wide open.

  29

  The doorbell rings, splintering the thick silence.

  “Yoo hoo!” Arianna calls.

  I open the door, blinking against the harsh daylight burning into my retinas.

  “Holy cow! Sidney, it’s freezing in here! Why are you in the dark? Can I turn some lights on?” She doesn’t wait for me to nod before rushing in. She goes around the kitchen, flipping on any switch she sees. She turns up the thermostat, and the furnace rumbles to life. “Got any hot chocolate? You need to warm up.”

  “Top cupboard, next to the sink.” I sit down at the table. I’ve been trapped 100 feet underwater, and Arianna’s bright, bustling presence is dragging me back to the surface. “How was school?”

  “Fine. Boring. Busy.”

  I shake my head. “Tell me the truth.”

  She bites her nails and looks at me, like she’s trying to gauge what she should say, like she’s forcing herself to be happy, for me. It makes me feel horrible.

  “You know what it’s like. They just walk by me, like I’m not even there. Like I don’t even exist anymore.”

  More guilt. So much guilt piling up on me, I can barely stand it. This is happening to her because of me. “No one talks to you?”

  “Some do. Lucas. That girl who’s always taking pictures for yearbook, Lena McKenna? My Bible study friends, actually. That sort of surprised me. At first it was really bad, but not so much anymore. A lot of people hate Margot. More than I thought.” She shrugs. “It hurts because I thought—because I thought they were real friends. Margot can be terrible, but she can also be—it’s hard to explain. It’s like she lets you into this inner circle. She’s the one who knows all the inside jokes, everybody’s secrets. It’s like being welcomed into this exclusive world. I don’t know. Margot can shine this light on you, make you feel like the most important person in the world. But when she flips the light off, when she decides to turn on you . . .”

  “It’s a betrayal.”

  “It is. But I was also shallow and super passive and meek around them. I never said what I really thought. It’s different, being away from them. I think it will be okay.”

  “If Margot does anything to you, I’ll make her regret it.”

  “I believe it.” Arianna’s eyes widen and she tugs her phone out of her jacket. “I forgot to tell you. Yesterday somebody sent a video to my phone. It’s from that night at the beach. What Margot did to you.”

  My stomach tightens. “What? Who?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a blocked number. Could be anybody. Somebody else who got on Margot’s bad side one too many times, I guess. Should I delete it?”

  “Keep it. You never know when you’ll need a little blackmail handy.”

  She slips her phone back in her pocket and slants her eyes at me. “How’re you doing? Are you okay?”

  “Spectacular. Never better.”

  “I know. Stupid question.” She bangs through the cupboards and pulls out a container of powdered chocolate and two mugs. “Sidney, there’s almost no food in this house. What are you eating?”

  “I still have three jars of peanut butter.”

  Arianna shakes her head. “I would laugh, except you aren’t joking.” She pours water into the mugs, puts them in the microwave and sets the timer. “Lucas sent me a note for you. I have no idea why he doesn’t just text you like a normal person. Do you want it?�
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  “Maybe later.”

  “Is there anything new with the case?”

  “I don’t know. That stupid public defender attorney won’t return my call. There was an arraignment, she pled guilty, but I don’t know what happens next.” They have no reason to suspect anything happened other than exactly what my mother says happened, whatever that is. Only Aaron can say differently. A small shiver passes through my body. I’m still holding Ratty Bunny. I tuck him into my lap, fold my arms on the table, and rest my head in my hands.

  “Can you—I mean, can you visit your mom? In jail?”

  I picture her slumped on a hard bench, dressed in orange or stripes or whatever prison garb she’s forced to wear. “I don’t want to visit her.”

  Arianna is silent for a moment. The microwave drones. “But—don’t you want to see your mother?”

  I keep my head down. “No,” I say to the tabletop.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s a shitty mom, that’s why.”

  “Well, she’s going to jail for you. She obviously loves you.”

  “Does she?” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “It’s about eighteen years too late.”

  A chair squeals against the linoleum as Arianna sits down. “Sidney . . . Your mom . . . I’m sure if she had known, things would have been different.”

  I snort. “Maybe in your perfect life.”

  “It’s just that . . . she didn’t know. I mean . . . right?” No mother would let that happen are the words she doesn’t say.

  The microwave beeps.

  “She did know,” I whisper as the weight of the knowledge I’ve endured for years presses my body into the floor.

  Arianna gets the mugs, stirs in the packets, brings the mugs back to the table. Neither of us touch them. “Please forgive me for saying this, but are you absolutely sure? How do you know?”

  “Because I told her.”

  Arianna’s body goes tense. “What?”

  “She said—she said I seduced him.” The words taste like death on my tongue.

  “Oh, Sidney.”

  Shame curdles inside me. “Don’t say you’re sorry for me. Don’t you dare. I don’t need your pity.”

  Arianna sighs. “It’s not pity. It’s called caring about somebody.”

  I force myself to breathe. My fingers dig into Ratty Bunny’s matted fur. She’s right. I know she’s right. I can trust her. Ever since the night of the beach party, she’s proven it a hundred times over. She doesn’t deserve my continued suspicion, all my sharp edges. “Okay. Whatever. Aren’t you going to drink your hot chocolate?”

  We both know she isn’t going to touch it.

  There’s a long silence.

  “Then why this? Why is she doing this huge thing for you?”

  The what-ifs leap up out of the darkness to torment my mind. This is the thing I’ve been wrestling with for the past week. A monster lying in wait. There’s a trick, a snare, a trap in there somewhere. I just don’t know where it is. I can’t figure it out. She’s not a manipulator like Frank. So what’s her end game? “I don’t know. I can’t think about this. Not now.”

  My phone buzzes. We both jump.

  I reach for the phone. “Hello?”

  “—Hello?” a throaty female voice says. “I’m trying to reach Sidney Shaw.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Oh. Hello, Sidney. This is Ellen. Ellie. Your Aunt Ellie? Do you remember me?”

  I blink. “I remember you, I think. Ma always talked about you.”

  “She did, did she? Well. That’s good. How are you? Are you all right? I mean, never mind. Of course you can’t be all right. I’ve been meaning to call you since I heard . . .” She clears her throat.

  I stare at Arianna. Arianna raises her eyebrows.

  “Anyway,” she continues. “I know this must be uncomfortable for you. I know I haven’t been around much, or at all, really. You don’t know me, but I’m your family. The lady from family services called to tell me what happened. I’m just—it’s awful. I want to help. I’ve booked a flight for Friday.”

  “You’re flying here?”

  “If that’s okay with you. I realize you’re eighteen, but Frankie and Aaron shouldn’t be stuck with strangers. After what you’ve been through, you need to stay together. I can help. I want to help.”

  My brain’s stuffed with confetti. The woman’s saying so many words, I can’t follow what she means. “You—are you coming to stay?”

  “I don’t want to disrupt the boys from their school and friends. I have no pressing concerns right now, and I thought . . . I don’t have to come, if it’s not what you want.”

  I picture their empty bedroom, the ghost-silent house. “I want them home.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll see you Friday. Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll take a what’s it called? An Uber taxi. And I’ll be in contact with a lawyer. We’ll get those boys back in no time, I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll talk more when I come.”

  I click off the phone with shaking fingers.

  “This is a good thing,” Arianna declares after I fill her in on the other half of the conversation.

  “Are you sure?” I wrap my hands around the mug of hot chocolate. There are too many changes happening at once. I feel the tug of anxiety, the tightness in my chest.

  “You miss your brothers, right?”

  I nod. I miss them like an unraveling in my bones. “But where’s she been all these years? Where was she when we had no money? Mom always said she was loaded. Or when Frank was terrorizing our family? Or when my mother was too drunk to get out of bed?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  I feel an anger I can’t explain. “Trust me, I will.”

  “But she’s coming now. And you need what she has to offer. She can get your brothers back.”

  This woman with the throaty voice has no face. I can’t even recall a picture of her. My memories of those few family get-togethers are a blur. I was so young. But some ghost of a memory flits through my brain: blue smoke swirling in sunlight, thick strong fingers gripping my much smaller ones, spinning around and around and around. It doesn’t make sense. That Aunt Ellen is a figment of my imagination, as much as Ma’s Ellie coming to her rescue was a figment of hers. Now she’s real, leaping out of a misty past straight into the chaos of my life.

  “I’ve been praying for something to happen, so your brothers could come home,” Arianna says. “This is a good thing.”

  “Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right. But I’m not committing to anything.”

  That night, I don’t sleep in my room. I can’t. I grab an extra blanket from the coat closet and curl up on Aaron’s bed, breathing in the scent of his sheets, Ratty Bunny tucked in my arms. I stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

  30

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, scribbling chemistry formulas and eating handfuls of Reese’s Pieces from the super-sized bag Arianna brought me. The doorbell rings.

  It’s the woman from that night. I recognize her immediately. The female detective.

  She’s dressed in black slacks and a brown trench coat. Her skin is dry and cracked around her eyes. “Detective Henricksen.” She smiles and half-lifts her badge from the front pocket of her coat. Behind her, the first spirals of snow bleed from the sky. “May I come in?”

  I wipe my mouth and step back to allow the detective in. She sits down at the table. “You must be wondering why I’m here.”

  I stare at her, silent. The hairs on my neck prickle.

  The detective clears her throat. “I wanted to check up on you. You’ve been through a rough time.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It must be awful, having both your father and your mother taken from you in one day.”

  My fingers squeeze into fists. Beads of sweat pop up along my hairline.

  “Anyway. When a case winds up, I usually go through the files one more
time, just to tie up loose ends and such. You understand?”

  What does it matter whether I understand or not? I nod stiffly. The first flutters of panic wing their way through me.

  She looks directly at me. Her steady gaze is unnerving. It must be a cop thing. I know better than to look away. “There’s just this one little hiccup, this one little ‘loose end,’ if you may. Your mother shot your father twice in the chest with his own gun, a Glock 22, correct?”

  My lips are so dry they feel like they’re splitting open. “You tell me. I wasn’t here.”

  “Your friend provided your alibi. Arianna Torrès?”

  “She didn’t lie, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Detective Henricksen raises her eyebrows.

  Damn it. Stop talking. I’ve watched enough TV to know my own words can weave the rope they’ll use to hang me. Whatever she’s here for, it’s not to see how I’m doing.

  Detective Henricksen shifts in her seat, leans forward a little. “When I was looking through the evidence, I reread some of the witness interviews. Your little brother. He changed his story a few times.”

  The panic is full-fledged now. Blood pounds through my skull. I struggle to keep my voice even, normal-sounding. “He’s eight.”

  “So you’re saying he’s unreliable? A liar?”

  “I’m saying he’s eight. What’s your point?”

  “When the officer interviewed him, Aaron said he was playing with his scooter outside, down the road. And you made him a ‘peanut butter cheese wrap.’ Then he said no, he made it himself. When the officer asked him again, he again said he made it, you weren’t home.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Every case has its . . . irregularities. Unlike Law & Order and CSI, not everything wraps up into a neat little bow.”