“Do you think that’s a wise idea?” Mama asked, her voice wavering. She knew very well that it wasn’t a wise idea (at least not from her point of view), but she would never go as far as saying it. She wanted me to turn around and say, “You know what Mama, you’re absolutely right. We’ll sit here at the kitchen table so you can watch us like a hawk and make sure they’re plenty of room between us and our skin doesn’t touch. Please, hover so you can see what we’re doing on the big bad Internet. Oh, and I won’t say anything about the body festering in the basement again!”
Nope. Wasn’t going to happen. I waved coyly at her over my shoulder as I sailed up the stairs, actually enjoying my moment of teenage rebellion.
“Leave your door open!” Mama called up. I knew if she didn’t have bigger fish to fry—with a dead body impersonating my long deceased daddy in our cellar and all—she’d be hovering around my bedroom door, not letting us have a moment to ourselves. It was her only chance of exerting control over me because once I set foot outside of the house, she was helpless and I was out of her grasp. At least, I thought I was. Her display of bravery this afternoon left me scratching my head, wondering if perhaps she might be breaking free on a more regular basis. And I wasn’t sure if I liked that idea or not, despite wishing for it for years.
“Sure!” I called back down as we stepped into my bedroom.
“This is my room,” I told Carson, despite the fact that it was obvious from the purple flowers and wicker décor and the letters on the wall that spelled out Kennedy. “Sorry about the mess,” I added, eying the bed I had not made that morning. I quickly kicked a bra underneath my bed. I had to get used to putting them away and not tossing them on the floor. Especially if I was going to be in the habit of bringing boys in my bedroom. “You can—” I was about to offer Carson a seat on the bed, but then I realized that might be rather forward. I wasn’t sure if that’s what I was supposed to be doing. I’m pretty certain I wasn’t following the Lindy Lincoln guide to having a boy in your bedroom.
I blushed, trying not to look at my bed as I pointed to my desk chair. “You can sit here,” I mumbled to Carson as I placed the laptop on the desk.
Colt sailed in after us, jumped up on my bed, and quickly made himself at home—after turning in a circle several times before settling down with a contented sigh. He pushed his snout underneath my covers so we couldn’t see his head.
“Wow, you don’t waste any time, do you buddy?” Carson chuckled as he plopped down on my desk chair. “I usually try to get to know a girl before I get into her bed.”
I instantly turned bright red—I felt the flush from the tips of my ears down to my toenails. Okay, I know toenails can’t actually blush, but you can bet if toenails could blush, mine would have been on fire right then.
“Um, okay,” I stammered, trying to ignore Carson’s allusion to sex, which was difficult to do. We were in my bedroom—a room where I had maybe one too many fantasies that involved Carson and what sex might be like with him. Speaking of sex, I remembered the book in my shorts. I pulled it out and leaned down, tossing it under my bed with the bra. No need for Carson to see that. “You can put the album on the desk,” I said.
Carson pulled the album out from underneath his shirt and laid it on the desk next to the computer. Then, his fingers hovered over the laptop keys.
“Password?” Carson asked, causing me to laugh. For all the time Mama spent on the computer, she wasn’t exactly what one would call computer savvy. She didn’t even have it password protected. Well, not really. Her password was ABCD, so as soon as you hit the A button, the rest was filled in the blank. A three-year-old could have broken into the computer.
“Her password is ABCD,” I told him. “I figured that out in about thirty seconds.”
Carson quickly entered it and within minutes, pulled up the Facebook page. I leaned over his shoulder to look.
He scooted over in the chair. “Here, sit next to me and we’ll look together.”
I stared at the chair that was obviously intended for one butt, certainly not two (one of them being my big ole behind). “I don’t think we’ll fit,” I stammered. “I’ll just stand.”
Carson slapped his thighs with his palms. “Sit here then.”
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I stammered with my heated cheeks. As much as I’d love to…
Carson cocked his head to one side. “I don’t bite, Kennedy.”
I laughed nervously. “I know that. I might crush you, that’s all.”
“Ha, Kennedy, I’m six foot, two-hundred pounds of solid muscle.” He flexed his bicep in a fake display of machismo. I laughed.
“Still, I’m not exactly a little girl.”
“We’ve established that,” Carson said while clearing his throat. “But seriously, you’re like half of me.”
“I’m a lot more than half of you,” I scoffed.
“Really?” He cocked his head to the side. “I had you pegged at 110.”
I laughed. “That’s funny. I was probably 110 in fifth grade. I’m a lot fatter than that.”
“Fat?” He wrinkled up his brow as if he didn’t understand the word. “Kennedy, you’re not fat at all.”
I stared down at my shoes. Was he blind? I get he was trying to be nice, but why go overboard and lie?
“Okay, well, I’ll still hurt you,” I said.
“You sitting on my leg won’t crush me. I was a linebacker at my old school.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what that is.”
Wrinkling up his brow, Carson yelped. “Linebacker? Football? Don’t tell me you don’t know football?”
I shook my head sadly. Not that I was actually sad not knowing about football, but if it saddened Carson, then that made me sad.
“Oh man. I’ll have to teach you a thing or two.” Carson pulled me onto his lap and I didn’t fight him. “I can’t have a girlfriend who doesn’t know anything about football,” he murmured into my ear, sending chills down to places that I didn’t know could be chilly. There’s that word again. . .girlfriend. Are we in a relationship? What does this mean? I was now feeling my whole body tremble with uncertainty—it was distracting me from concentrating on the pictures that Carson was scrolling through.
Concentrate, Kennedy. Do not think about his strong forearm that is brushing up against the side of your breast as he works the mouse. Do not think about his breath tickling your neck lightly, causing those chills to radiate everywhere! Think about something very un-sexy. Think about the fact that your mama is downstairs and there’s a dead body in the basement!
With that jarring thought, I quickly stole a glance at the doorway. No Mama, and I didn’t see her shadow darkening the staircase, but you never know. She was definitely nearby and I didn’t need her to see me and Carson like this and have her be even weirder than she already was.
“It says he has a brother,” Carson said excitedly, pointing at the screen.
“There’s no way to tell if his brother is dead, right?” I asked squinting to get a better look at this guy. Carson was right. There was a resemblance to the man in the photo album I had just flipped through. This fake Mark Ryan was likely related to me.
I stared at Carson, waiting for him to answer my question, when I heard a scream from the doorway. Carson and I swiveled our heads in unison. Standing next to my bed, flour still on her face, was Mama. We hadn’t even heard her sneak into the room.
She lifted one shaking finger and pointed at the screen of the laptop in front of us. “What are you doing with his picture?” And then, she grabbed the side of the mattress to steady herself, and collapsed onto the bed.
TWENTY
“I’m beginning to wonder if maybe there isn’t a familial disposition to low blood sugar or something,” Carson attempted to joke as I helped my mama sip from a cup of OJ a few minutes later. I ignored his comment, concentrating on Mama—she was still groggy and shaky, but she was coherent.
“Why is that man’s picture on your computer
?” she asked again. I had shushed her and made her sip the orange juice, even as she attempted to wave it away.
“Drink this, Mama. Don’t talk yet.” This wasn’t the first time I had witnessed Mama fainting and it worried me. She fainted at least once a week; usually orange juice cured her right up. I had suspected she might have low blood sugar, just like Carson had suggested, and I wanted her to see a doctor. But she poo pooed that idea, blaming it on a sinus infection, or the tides, or the phases of the moon.
“I’m fine, Kennedy Ann,” Mama said firmly as she struggled to get to her feet. “Just the shock of…” she waved her hand angrily toward the computer screen, “…that person. Why do you have that man’s picture on my laptop, Kennedy?” She glanced at the desk and her eyes grew to the size of saucers. “And where did you get this?” she asked as leaned toward the desk and snatched up the album. She cradled it lovingly in her arms and sank back down on the bed.
I felt my cheeks flaming. I didn’t want to admit to my mama that Lindy had snooped in her bedroom. Why didn’t you think this out more thoroughly, Kennedy?
“It was in your room,” I muttered, staring down at the beige carpet on the floor. A path had been worn from my bed to the door and my desk to the door.
“Do you belong in my room? Are you supposed to be going through my stuff?” Mama asked angrily. “What gives you the right to touch things that don’t belong to you?”
My head snapped up. “What gives you the right to lie to me?”
“Lie to you?” Mama looked appalled, like I told her I was running away to join the circus. “I didn’t lie to you!” She unsteadily rose to her feet, her hand waving in the air as if she was going to slap me.
“Why didn’t you tell me I had a sister? Why did you leave her in Texas? And why didn’t you tell me that someone was blackmailing you, pretending to be Daddy?”
“What?” Mama gasped, wrinkling her forehead. “Blackmailing me?” She glanced uneasily at Carson, who looked like he was trying to blend in with the desk chair—this was quite the “meet the mother” moment. I was surprised he wasn’t jumping out the window.
I reached around him and poked the computer screen. “We found out this man is pretending to be Mark Ryan, Mama. Daddy.”
She sucked in her breath—I knew she was frightened that Carson knew her secret, possibly even more frightened because she knew his daddy was a retired police officer.
“I’m sorry for dragging Carson into this, Mama, but I told you I found the body. Carson was with me—he saw it, too. You can’t deny it now, Mama.”
Mama’s eyes widened and she wobbled backward until she flopped down on my bed with a poof, her shaking hand covering her mouth.
“He was trying to blackmail you or something, right? That’s why he came here? Looking for you? Maybe looking for Daddy’s life insurance money?” This thought suddenly occurred to me and I had no idea if this was true, but it was a possibility that Carson and I hadn’t explored.
Mama shook her head feverishly, her eyes widening so much I thought they might just pop out of her head. She was petrified. I could understand that, but I wanted her to know, I was on her side.
“Well, Carson and I haven’t worked out the exact angle. But we’re trying to help you, Mama. Maybe you could tell me…what did this guy want from you?” I pointed to the picture on the computer of the fake Mark Ryan and turned to my mama hopefully. There had to be some kind of mistake. My mama would never kill a stranger in cold blood unless he had threatened her or…something. There was a piece of the puzzle I wasn’t getting here, and Mama was the only one who could put it together for me.
Silence hung in the air, threatening to suffocate all of us, until Mama took a deep breath, and rose to her feet confidently, albeit shakily.
“Carson,” she said, and offered Carson a weak smile. “I would appreciate if you would leave me and my daughter alone for a bit.”
I shrank back, nearly collapsing on Carson’s lap. This was it. She was going to kill me for learning her secret. I was gonna end up dead in the basement, too. Carson grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.
But wait! She wouldn’t kill you if Carson knows her secret, too! If you wind up dead, he would just go to the police. In fact, what’s stopping him from going to the police right now?
“No, I’m okay,” I told him, moving aside so he could stand up.
“Are you sure?” he asked, concern written all over his face. He shifted his gaze to Mama, warning her with his eyes. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
I nodded my head, his reassurance comforting. The guy wouldn’t leave me alone last night before I got into the house. There was no way he’d let Mama kill me.
“Okay,” Carson said, giving my hand one last squeeze as he rose to his feet. “Come on, Colt.”
Colt grumbled as he stood and leaped off my bed. He stretched into a downward facing dog position for a moment, and then I swear, he scowled at Carson for interrupting his nap. He nudged at my hand for a pat.
I absentmindedly rubbed the dog’s snout—Carson’s hand lightly brushed my shoulder. He sauntered out of the room, Colt grudgingly trailing behind him. My mama stared after them, nervously gnawing away at her already ragged cuticles. Neither of us spoke until we heard the front door close.
I frowned at Mama as I sank into the chair. “You need to start talking, Mama. Carson knows about the body, and his daddy is an ex-cop. Who’s blackmailing you, and what’s the deal with this?” I gestured toward the photo album.
Mama bit her quivering lip, her light blue eyes glassy with tears on the brink of falling. She opened up the album and placed it on her lap. Inhaling sharply, she turned the pages until she reached the photo of my daddy holding the baby. She pointed to it with a trembling finger. “The man in this picture is your daddy, Kennedy—”
I cut her off impatiently, squeezing my fists. “I know that, Mama.” I had never been so frustrated with the woman in all my life. “I want to know who was pretending to be him. Who this man is.” I poked the laptop screen. “And why he’s dead in our basement.”
Mama drew in a sharp breath, her nostrils flaring. The tears were edging out of her bottom lids. Soon they would tumble all over the photo album, Mama powerless to stop them.
“The man in our basement…the dead man…he’s your real daddy.”
My mouth hung open, my brain unable to process words that could flow out of it and form a coherent sentence. How was this even possible when she claimed he died so many years ago?
“You’re lying,” I spat.
Mama shook her head and held up the photo album so I could see clearer. “Look at the resemblance, Kennedy,” she said, suddenly the voice of reason.
But I couldn’t, my face just remained panic stricken and grave. “This doesn’t make sense, Mama,” I managed to stammer. “You said he died years ago! That man has not been in the basement for years!” My face crumpled at the very idea. It was nauseating and horrifying at the same time. I jumped to my feet and tried to slow my breathing. I backed up, wanting to get away from my mama.
“Your daddy was…” Mama sighed with a flutter, as if she was desperately attempting to breathe in a small confined space, the walls crumbling in on top of her. “Your daddy was not a nice man,” Mama said firmly, setting the album to the side.
“That doesn’t explain anything, Mama!” I shouted, my mouth working again. Even though she was still seated, I shriveled up against my bookcase, terrified of this madwoman I had once called my mama.
If that man downstairs was indeed my daddy, and not the impostor Carson and I had thought him to be, that could only mean that she killed him. In cold blood. And lied to me for years about him being dead. Not one second of this conversation had made sense so far, and I suspected it was about to get a whole lot stranger.
“Come sit next to me, Kennedy,” Mama said, patting the bed…my bed, the bed I don’t think I’d ever feel safe in again. I
n the span of five minutes, my mama had managed to suck out all the oxygen in the room, leaving me dizzy and lightheaded, questioning everything I had ever known.
I shook my heavy head, vision blurring in front of my eyes. I could barely stand, but I certainly was not going to sit next to her, this woman I had trusted with my life—this woman who snuffed out the life of my daddy because he was “not a nice man.” The body downstairs was not that of an impostor. It was the body of a person she had once loved and lived with.
“Maybe you should have some orange juice. You look like you’re going to pass out. Maybe you have low blood sugar,” Mama advised with a look of concern.
“I don’t give a flying…fuck about low blood sugar,” I spat out as I moved away from her, trying to shock her enough to leave me alone.
“Kennedy,” Mama said softly—could I even dare to think of her as Mama? “Please let me explain.”
“I don’t want to,” I replied defiantly, puffing out my chest. If I heard her side of the story, wouldn’t I be an accessory to murder? Wouldn’t I need to immediately turn her in? I didn’t want to have to make such a life altering decision, especially not when life as I knew it was falling apart at the seams.
“Your daddy didn’t die seven years ago like I told you he did. He didn’t die in the war, heck, he wasn’t even enlisted at the time. He served in the army for a short while, around the time you were born, but after that, he came home and decided to be a trucker. He drove a truck for a living, Kennedy—he didn’t die in Afghanistan. I’m sorry that I lied to you about it, but there wasn’t any other way.”
The Dead of Summer Page 17