We looked around the side and in the back yard in case Ian or Char had moved it. We even looked in the garage, which is full of Ian’s uncle’s stuff. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be there and it wasn’t. It was a little weird bringing Leigh into the house, which was even messier than usual, but, like me, he had a hard time believing the bike had been stolen, and it became our project to look together. I apologized for the messy house because he is my boss and I work in a restaurant, so cleanliness does matter. I didn’t want him to think I’m a slob. The experience broadened my view of him. He was nice, not like some spoiled rich kid, and he’s not bad-looking either.
That evening I was watching TV alone when Grant showed up. We don’t have cable, so there’s not much on. I had finished my book and was trying to stay off my foot, and I was watching a news program about the war in Iraq. It all seems like such a mess where everyone is going to lose. You’d think if the Iraqis could talk to each other without everyone being so stubborn, they wouldn’t have to kill each other.
I was really startled when I opened the door. I mean Grant was the last person I expected to see. He was dressed casually, but again, quality stuff, a really nice polo, chinos and loafers. He’s younger than Sterling, but seems more like that generation and dresses that way. Just off the porch behind him, the bike was standing upright on the kickstand. I noticed immediately that the chain had been fixed.
He gestured toward it. “Good as new,” he said.
At first I was speechless.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said.
“I don’t know what to say,” was what came out. It wasn’t the happy kind of surprise he was looking for. “I thought it was stolen. It surprised me that anyone would want it. Now I’m even more surprised.”
“I’m sorry I worried you. I was afraid that if I waited until you returned, you might not let me do it. You seem very independent. I hope you’ll forgive me and indulge me this. It’s been quite fun, actually.”
I thought of Leigh’s offer to get it fixed, and how his concern made me like him more, and how maybe if you’re a guy, it’s fun to help a damsel in distress. But this gave me one of those wary feelings. I’m not good at speaking my mind, so I thought about what Natalie would do in this situation, and I said what I thought she might say.
“So why? Why me? Do you go around getting people’s stuff fixed? I can take care of myself. I’m not some starving, stray dog. I came home from work earlier with a friend to pick up the bike to get it fixed. I though it had been stolen. So yeah, I was upset.”
“I’m sorry. You are absolutely right. I should have waited and asked.”
“You could have left a note.”
He looked hurt and it made me feel bad; maybe he did just want to be helpful and make the world a better place. I had presented him with an opportunity and he had taken advantage of it. Now I was being a jerk.
“Look, it was a really nice thing to do,” I said. “And people usually don’t go around being nice. When it was gone I got upset, but that’s no reason to be rude. I apologize. Thank you. You’re a nice man and you did a very thoughtful thing.”
He smiled. “No. You’re right. I was out of line. I’m the one who should apologize. I was being selfish and thoughtless, but I really do take pleasure in smoothing out life’s little bumps. On my way home after dropping you off, I noticed a bike repair shop, and then earlier today I was in your neighborhood. It was very spur-of-the-moment. I knocked on the door to tell you, but you weren’t home. Fixing your bike seemed like such an easy way to make someone happy, but I messed it up.”
“It was just a communication problem. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Can we be friends anyway?” He held out his hand.
“Friends,” I said. I shook his hand. “And now I don’t have to take the bus tomorrow. Thanks, friend.”
As he was opening his car door to leave, he turned and said, “Are you hungry? Can a friend buy a friend a bite to eat?”
I hadn’t had anything but a few Doritos and a banana since I left the restaurant that afternoon. I was hungry and it seemed harmless enough. After all, we had the same last name. He could even be my uncle.
Kristen
So Grant took me to dinner. We went to this little town called Brentwood Bay. It’s on the Saanich Inlet. It took about half an hour to get there and I could have said no, but I didn’t. Here’s how it happened. I got in the car. Remember, it’s a Cadillac and quite nice, but it’s not like I haven’t ridden in nice cars before. Sterling drives a Mercedes. We were heading towards town, like he had a particular place in mind, when he looked over and said, “Do you need to be back right away?”
“I have to work tomorrow, but I don’t have to open up or do breakfast. I’m good for a while.”
“We live in a beautiful city. I’m sure you know that already, but there are some places outside the city that are quite wonderful.” He looked at his watch. “We still have enough daylight. I know the perfect place to eat, but it’s a bit of a drive. It will be worth it. Do you mind?”
I wasn’t totally comfortable with the idea, so I said, “I’m not dressed for a nice restaurant.”
“You look fine,” he said. “If we always bend to society’s rules, we miss half the joy in life.”
So I agreed to go.
We headed out of town toward the ferry dock. He asked me if I had been to Butchart Gardens, and when I said I hadn’t, he promised to take me. He said that when the roses were in bloom it was truly glorious. I noticed the word, “glorious,” because it’s not a word people in the Valley often use. He was like a tour guide and a salesman at the same time, very enthusiastic, and it made me wonder if he sold real estate, like Sterling.
Listening to him made me get over my nervousness about going with him. He was very polite and thoughtful, and his talk was interesting. When we got there, the restaurant had a great view of the inlet. Since it was a weeknight and a little late for dinner, it was pretty low-key inside. I could tell when we drove up that it would be expensive, so, thinking like Natalie, I said,
“For a friend buying a friend a bite to eat, this is pretty upscale. When it’s my turn, I’ll feel inadequate.”
“This is you doing me a favor,” he said. “Don’t let it make you uncomfortable. I like good food and a nice view. My life has been good to me and I can afford them. I enjoy being with my friends. You’re my friend. I’ll tell you up front, I don’t expect you to reciprocate. You’ve forgiven me for my thoughtlessness today and you’re sharing your time. So humor me and please let me do this for you.”
So I did.
Sterling and Bonnie like expensive restaurants, and I’ve had plenty of experience with them, which means the restaurant wasn’t intimidating. I was comparing Grant to Sterling in the same situation. Sterling can be pushy and is often rude to the waiters. Grant was very polite.
He ordered a bottle of wine, Pinot Gris from Oregon, just for me, because he ate a steak and even I know that you’re supposed to drink red wine with steak. The crab-dip hors d’oeuvres were amazing. I ordered halibut for my entree. It was fresh, with this lemon sauce that was a specialty of the restaurant. Everything was wonderful. Remember, I’d been eating most of my meals at Leigh’s restaurant and it’s not bad, but it’s heavy and greasy and a little on the boring side. Since I haven’t had a lot of drinking experience, I just sipped the wine.
As we ate, Grant asked the kind of questions you would ask when you’re trying to get to know someone. I didn’t feel like he was prying. He wanted to know if I grew up in Victoria, that kind of thing. I won’t bore you by trying to recreate the conversation. Considering my situation as a fugitive runaway, it would have been perfectly reasonable for me to stay in character as Amy and tell the story I’d been telling about being born in Canada but growing up in Seattle and coming here to settle something about my origin. After all, my birth certificate says I really am Amy.
Instead I told him this story about growing up in California. Sterling h
as family in California and we’ve visited them. I said I went to Redwood High School because one of my fake cousins, Sterling’s nephew, went there, and a long time ago Robin Williams went there too, so at least I knew it was a real place. I was vague about specifics, but Grant didn’t press me. He really is a master at making you feel comfortable.
If you think about it, and I have had to lately, there are lots of little stories you can tell about yourself that aren’t specific to a place. I mean schools are pretty much the same everywhere, and situations between people aren’t much different either, so I’ve been learning to filter everything I say so that it could have happened in Seattle or California instead of the Valley. Once you get the hang of it, it’s not that hard.
Fate had brought me this far. And if I really wanted to know the truth about myself, he might have been the perfect connection. For all I knew, he could really be my uncle or cousin or something. Or he could have some government job where he might be able to find the answers to the questions I have about my roots.
He has traveled all over the world and knows about food and wine and puts a lot of importance on the atmosphere of a place, like how the food, the wine, the smells, the view and feel of a place go together to set up a perfect mood. He’s a good storyteller and can make you see what he’s describing. He puts you under this intimate spell, so there weren’t any uncomfortably quiet moments, in spite of the fact that I didn’t have much to say. The wine was good with the halibut, and looking out through the fading light at this beautiful tree-lined fjord, I sipped it while I listened.
I couldn’t help but think about how that particular moment, finding myself—whoever I am, Kristen Nichols and/or Amy Mackenzie—in that restaurant with that particular man, was the result of so many other unlikely moments that maybe I should at least have told him Amy’s story. Maybe I should have given him that much and let him help me find out who I really am, if he could. Maybe it was my big chance. But my instinct was totally against it. It didn’t feel right to tell him about wanting to find my father.
Amy lied. Kristen double-lied. I’m not sure why I did it, but it turned out to be a good call.
It was a pleasant evening, and Grant was good to his word. He got me home early so it wasn’t hard to get up for work the next day. The new chain on the bicycle got me there and riding gave me time to think on the way. I would have to explain to Leigh and Trudy about getting the bike back. If I told them the truth about Grant being this random, older guy from the park and about dinner last night, it would sound strange, and they would worry. So I fibbed a little and used our having the same last name to imply that he was a relative and part of my trying to connect with my family here.
On my way to work, I passed those big government buildings that must be full of records about people from all over British Columbia. I knew my father’s name, and if I had really wanted to, I could’ve started looking. But I had the feeling that once I made that move, I’d end up going back, and I wasn’t ready.
Corey
The detective who’s assigned to me and whose personal mission is to put me away came to tell me he’ll be watching every move I make after I get out because he knows I did it and that eventually I will make a mistake.
When Smith was here to see me, he said up front that he didn’t come because he thought he could help me, but because he thought we had something in common, like he needed a friend too, and I might understand his situation better than other people. His believing in me and putting it that way allowed me to speak out to the cop a little more, to say things I might not have said before. So when the jerk said he would find a way to nail me, I said, “I’m innocent. How’re you going to feel when you find out it’s true?”
“You’re not.”
“But I am, and someday someone will come forward, or the right piece of evidence will be found.”
“You’re going to fry.”
“You’ll look like a fool.”
Then after I got him to admit that my English teacher said he believes me, the bastard had to add that some people can’t face unpleasant truths, as though Smith was some kind of weakling.
I’m out of there.
They had to let me go, and on getaway day, when it finally quit raining and the clouds broke, it was good to feel the sun warm my face again. It wasn’t the pure joy-of-release kind of time a person might fantasize about, but a day of complex emotions. Smith messes me up. He’s probably the only one who believes me, and especially since he went out of his way to say so, his believing makes it harder than if I was completely alone. He said it can be more painful to try to live right than it would be to just let go and give up, and his believing in me kind of hangs there behind me when I’m feeling sorry for myself. It complicates things.
It didn’t stop me from getting into my dad’s vodka as soon as I could, but it was floating around in my thoughts, spoiling the purity of the plunge I was trying to take. My dad only took the morning off to come get me. I’m sure just having people know I’m his son is bad enough, especially on top of the fact of his already marginal, alcoholic life. I had to blow the breathalyzer thing in his car to start it so we could get out of the courthouse parking lot. Then I had to do it again when he left the house to go to work.
This was a bad day for him. Most of the time he doesn’t act sloppy drunk and you wouldn’t see it right away if you didn’t know him. He usually regulates himself during the day to get through work. But once he’s home in the evening, he moves it to another level. He slurs and forgets things. He watches a lot of TV and he sleeps a lot, so at least he’s not in my face making me feel like a worm, the way Harold would be if I’d had to go to my mom’s house.
If Smith hadn’t stopped by Juvie, and if I didn’t know that there was at least one rational, respectable person in the world that saw me as something different than a sex-pervert psycho killer, it would have been a lot easier to follow my dad’s example and pickle myself into oblivion. As it was, I did a pretty good job of it anyway, but it wasn’t clean. By the time the sun came out, I was lying on a dirty blanket amidst the clutter of my dad’s back yard, letting the rays warm me. I had a pretty good buzz going. I was drinking it straight, like the old man does. I was trying to let go, to be in the moment, to wash everything but the warmth of the sun away. But I was thinking about Smith, and the idea of him knowing I was turning into my father was humiliating. The numbness wasn’t entirely comfortable.
So I tried to write Smith off by imagining things like maybe he is one of those guys who likes young boys and was trying to set me up so he could seduce me. It didn’t work because I have instincts, and when I pay attention, I can tell about people. Smith wasn’t lying. He’s just stuck with an inconvenient belief that involves me. Everyone has inconvenient beliefs. Most people ignore them when they can, and become kind of hypocritical. They put things off and try to stay numb. Because he might be dying, Smith has less to lose by being honest. I mean if he’s going to check out pretty quick, what does he care if people think he’s some kind of bleeding heart that can’t face it that one of his students is a killer. If he actually believes it, he’s stuck with it, just like I’m stuck with it.
The truth does matter.
And my truth is that it’s better to be out and staying at my dad’s house in Burlington than to be back inside or staying with my mom and Harold. But it’s not so good here. I’m still trapped by my situation. I’m just penned up in a different way, in a different place. I don’t feel as safe. I feel like if I go to the mall or just become visible to the wrong people, I’ll get beat up, or worse. People get beat up and even killed just for being gay or black.
My getting out was in the paper. Even though there was no picture, it was a front-page story right alongside a story about some kid from Mount Vernon getting blown up by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan. Sometimes at night when I hear car doors slam outside and men talking, I worry that someone will throw a gasoline bomb into the house or break in to do what the law couldn’t. I t
hink I understand what Smith’s life is like, knowing the end is coming, but not being sure and not knowing when. It’s easy to wish it would just happen and get it over with.
I have this fantasy about going to the school and being out in front when they break for lunch and everyone is heading across the street to the cafeteria. I would stand at the bottom of the stairs at the main entrance and yell, “All right you fuckers, I miss her too. I’m back, and I didn’t do it. You don’t believe me and I hate you all, so come on. Just do whatever you’ve got to do to make your fucking world feel right-side up again.”
Sometimes it ends with them coming at me, swarming me, killing me. Sometimes I have a bomb strapped to myself. Sometimes I have an assault rifle. They’re just fantasies, the same as dreaming of having a bomb strapped under my shirt to scare Harold or the principal was before all this. I still don’t think I can do it. The news is so full of that kind of thing. It seems to be getting worse all the time. I mean, all over the world, people are at that crazy, blurry place where you just pop. So it’s not like I’m the only one who feels that way. Like Smith says, there are lots of ways to be trapped.
None of my old friends have called. They won’t. Or, if they do, it won’t be out of friendship, but out of curiosity, to be the one who actually talked to the killer. I didn’t have any really close friends, the kind that stick with you, like Natalie was to Kristen. I don’t think I’d call someone that I thought was a pervert.
I stole some money from the old man and was able to score some weed. I got it from this Mexican kid I know in Mount Vernon. He was in Texas when Kristen disappeared. If he knew about me, he didn’t say anything, but I was still really nervous about getting beat up, so I had him meet me at one of those gas stations on Old 99. He pulled up with a car full of guys, which scared me, but nobody said anything and nothing happened. I gave him the money. He gave me the baggy, and they drove off. Maybe I’m paranoid.
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