What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

by Miranda Smith

  I consider telling her about the essay and Darcy, but that would be a complete breach of ethics, and I’m already straddling the line. Instead, I try to fish for more information. “Does Zoey seem bothered by something?”

  “She said some of her teammates gave her a hard time at first. Things are better now. They can’t hate on her too much if she’s helping them win. She told me your school’s track team is lousy, no offense.”

  “Well, that’s true,” I say, forcing a laugh, but Ms. Peterson seems as dry as ever.

  “Track has helped her make friends faster than she has before.” She stares at the landscape past the porch. “She made a big deal about going to the dance and that party. It’s not like I really wanted her to go, but what can you do?”

  My throat feels dry and I take another sip, wide-eyed. Zoey did go to the party.

  “Has Zoey had problems making friends at other schools?” I ask.

  “Zoey eventually has problems everywhere she goes.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ll ask you again,” she says, hardening her stare. “Has she done something I should know about? I’ve had teachers from other schools visit, and it’s never to tell me how smart and popular she is. Zoey knows we need to stay here this time around, now that we have the house and all. There’s got to be a reason you’d spend your Friday afternoon sitting on the porch with me.”

  I want to tell her, but I don’t know how. I’ll sound like a lunatic if I tell her Zoey might have attacked Darcy. I can’t prove it. I could barely tell my own mom about Brian, even when I had evidence to back up my suspicions.

  “I think we bump heads sometimes,” I say. “I don’t think she interacts with the other teachers that way. It makes me wonder if it’s just me.”

  “It might be just you this time, honey,” she says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one, releasing a gray plume into the air. “But you aren’t the only one she’s rubbed wrong.”

  “Has Zoey been in trouble before?”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you something if you aren’t telling me,” she says, hitting the cigarette hard.

  “I can’t say she’s done something specific,” I say, hesitantly. Our conversation is becoming more contentious, and the last thing I want is to upset this woman.

  “It’s just a feeling, isn’t it?” she asks, looking at me again with those honest eyes. I realize she knows exactly what I cannot say. There’s something wrong with Zoey, but neither one of us can define it. “When it comes to Zoey, she runs hot and cold. People either love her or they hate her. And she either hates you back, or she doesn’t. I’ll tell you this, if you’re skating on her bad side now, it’d be best to back off. Once you’re on her list, there’s no getting off.”

  I look back at her, mouth open. I’ve never heard someone describe their own child so harshly. They say mothers know their children best, but after Mom and Brian, I didn’t believe that was true. Staring at Ms. Peterson, I see the opposite. She’s a mother who sees there’s a darkness residing in her daughter, but like me, she knows there is nothing to be done about it.

  “If I were you,” she continues, taking another hit of the cigarette, “I’d keep my distance. It’s what I try to do.”

  “Is that why you don’t go to her track meets?” I ask, the question leaving my mouth so suddenly I overlook how rude it sounds.

  She puts out the cigarette, takes a lengthy swig of her drink before pouring more in the glass. “People will judge me, sure. Zoey figured out a long time ago that the Bad Mom card was her ticket out of trouble. And it works. Most of the time. I’d love to cheer on my daughter. But Zoey’s not that daughter. She tells me not to go. Says her drunk, skank Mom has no business being seen at school.” She reaches back into her pocket, takes out another cigarette and lights it.

  “That’s a horrible way for her to speak to you.”

  “Yeah, well. You should hear what she says when she’s mad.”

  She stands and stumbles back to her chair. Instinctively, I try to help her.

  “I got it,” she says. I’m close enough to smell the alcohol on her breath now.

  “Ms. Peterson, maybe you can talk with someone. Maybe you and Zoey would benefit from family counseling.”

  “Like I told you, I’ve got one more year.” She slides her flat palms through the air. “Then I’m done.”

  I want to tell her how dangerous that position is. That her inability to do something now could hurt Zoey, and others, in the future. But it’s not my place. Maybe I should try, because of Brian, but she already seems rattled. I remember what it’s like living under the same roof as someone so hostile. I see what it’s done to Ms. Peterson. Zapped her of her former beauty, forced her to work from home, drink heavily and smoke.

  “I tell you what,” she says, standing again. This time her stance is solid. “You seem like a nice teacher, and you’ve got to be smarter than most if you’re able to pick up on the real Zoey. But it would be best if you don’t get involved. I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. But you should just get in your car and go. The track meets always seem to end early on Fridays.”

  She’s asking me to leave in the nicest way possible because she feels threatened, for herself and for me. I pick up my purse and walk down the steps. She remains standing, watching me leave.

  As I open my car door, I turn again. “You should ask Zoey about the party after the dance.”

  Before she can respond with another question, I get in my car and go.

  Twenty

  Now

  “You aren’t sleeping?” Danny asks, breaking my concentration. He’s seated to my left, driving our sedan down the interstate. This hour on a Saturday there’s little traffic. We loaded the car and left Victory Hills before seven, which is too early for me to be awake on a weekend. For Danny, it’s more like sleeping in.

  I didn’t tell him I threw up this morning. I brushed my teeth and hopped in the shower, not wanting to spoil our weekend ahead. This Zoey nonsense has a hold over me, and visiting Ms. Peterson yesterday seems to have strengthened the grip.

  “You know what it’s like once you’re awake. Sometimes it’s hard to go back down,” I say. Usually, when we have an hour or more drive, I’m passed out. I can’t tell him I’m awake thinking about Zoey and Ms. Peterson. My most logical option, as Pam suggested, is to leave the matter alone. Deep inside, something refuses to let me do that. Maybe it’s my guilt.

  “Just making sure you’re okay.” Danny senses something is on my mind. He knows me too well, and that is rather annoying right now.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him, our hands now connected in between our two seats.

  “I can visit her with you,” he says, and I wonder how many minutes he’s been contemplating whether to make the suggestion. “She’s my mother-in-law, after all.”

  “No,” I say. “That will make the visit that much longer. I’m only stopping because it’s Mother’s Day weekend.”

  That’s not entirely true because whenever we drive this direction, we make a pit stop to visit my mother; she now lives two hours from Victory Hills along the highway. We must, otherwise my daughterly guilt screams so loud I lose concentration.

  “I just don’t want you getting upset.”

  “Do I seem upset to you?” I ask, kicking my foot onto the dash.

  “Not yet,” he says, shyly. Yet. Twice in the past five years I’ve had a meltdown, and now he expects it every time.

  “I’m the only family she has left, Danny. She deserves some one-on-one time with me.”

  “I know. And I think you’re an excellent daughter. You visit her a lot more than I do my folks, and they still have their wits about them.” He stops, knowing his words came out differently than he meant. Mom has dementia. It’s not like she wouldn’t have her wits if the choice was hers to make. “You know what I meant.”

  “I do,” I say. “But she’s also the only family I have left.”
/>   Now it’s his turn to feel guilty, even though I wasn’t intending to hurt his feelings. Of course Danny is my family. As we get older, we have the luxury of choosing who we want in our lives. Your childhood family is different from your adult family for this reason. I didn’t get to choose what happened to Dad or Mom; and none of us chose what happened with Brian.

  Mom never made me promise not to put her in a place like this, so perhaps that’s why I feel only partially culpable when I visit. Besides, it’s good she’s surrounded by peers; Mom has always loved a sense of community. Out of the three facilities I toured, it was undoubtedly the best option, and the closest to Victory Hills. The visiting area looks more like a family living room, only with more tables and chairs. Each bedroom has a fireplace, although it doesn’t work. It’s all about the look. Make a space look like home, and it won’t serve as a constant reminder that it’s anything but.

  Mom’s dementia showed up early; like, scarily early. She was in her early sixties when she started displaying signs. Danny was the one who officially figured it out, and at first, I thought his assumption stemmed from his role as a medical student: when you think every person you know, including yourself, is suffering whatever illness you’re studying that week.

  I thought Mom was being her normal, flighty self. And when symptoms occurred that I couldn’t brush off as just Mom, I thought maybe she was faking. Being Brian’s mother, after all, was far worse than being Brian’s sister. I think Mom handled it worse than most mothers would, considering she was always so image conscious. I thought her early episodes were nothing more than an excuse to trick everyone, including herself, that she wasn’t fazed by the evil crimes her son committed.

  Five years ago, not long after Danny and I moved to Victory Hills, she almost burnt down her apartment complex by leaving the stove on. A neighbor called the fire department. When they arrived, she claimed my father was at fault, then blamed Brian. Neither man had lived with her for over a decade at that point. Thankfully, if there’s any thanks to be found, the incident took place during summer vacation. I stayed with her for two weeks, which presented event after event highlighting Mom’s weakened state of mind. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her alone again; that’s when we decided to move her into Melody Springs Living Facility. It didn’t even bother her she was moving, although I did receive several calls from the nurses in those beginning weeks. Apparently, Mom demanded Brian pick her up and take her home.

  Now, I’m sitting in her bedroom. The walls are lavender with white molding, and the barren fireplace is in the center. This could easily pass as a suite in some fancy hotel, and it never has that dank smell so many other facilities have.

  Mom and Violet, her nurse, walk into the room.

  “There’s my baby girl,” Mom says, coming in for a hug.

  I stand and embrace her. I’m always comforted by how little she’s changed. Her mind might be going, but she still has the same friendly eyes and wildly curly hair.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, breathing into her neck. When she pulls away, I look at the nurse. “Nice to see you, Violet.”

  “That’s funny,” Mom says. “Violet standing in a violet room.” She kicks back her head and laughs. She makes the same joke every time, but it’s not some side effect of the disease. She always found something funny and said it over and over again. If I were to visit and she didn’t say it, then I would be worried.

  Violet laughs. “I’ll let you two visit. Call me if you need me,” she says, exiting the room.

  Mom waits for Violet to be out the door before she speaks again. “Call if we need her.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m some deranged citizen.”

  “She knows that, Mom. Violet is just being helpful.” Violet started working at the facility a few months after Mom arrived. They hit it off, and I think they both benefited in making the other feel comfortable, but typical Mom means if she really likes you, it’s only a matter of time before she also finds reasons to not like you.

  “Where’s Danny Boy?” she asks, leaning back and propping her feet on a tiny stool.

  “He’s golfing,” I say, twirling my wedding band with my fingers. “You know he loves the courses around here.”

  “Yes, he does,” she says, with a disbelieving tone. Again, Mom’s not that out of it. He’ll be here around Christmas; any other time, I keep him away. “How’s school?” she asks, graciously changing the subject.

  “Only two weeks left.”

  “I guess it is May, isn’t it?” she says. “You and Danny going anywhere this summer?”

  “I think Europe,” I say, and I ramble off the list of possible destinations I’ve still not taken the time to plan, let alone book. The conversation bounces back and forth. She tells me this story about when she and Dad first started dating and went to France. They missed their train and ended up spending a bulk of their vacation in the countryside as opposed to Paris, as they’d planned.

  She smiles as she speaks, and there’s a renewed life to her face. She always gets that look when she talks about Dad, and I can’t imagine the pain she must feel knowing he’s gone. I feel it too, but it’s different. I imagine Dad strumming his guitar strings in some flower field while Mom got drunk off a bottle of wine. These are the best visits, when we can talk back and forth about material things; it’s what our relationship has always been about.

  “Who needs the Louvre?” she asks, still laughing about the missed train all those years ago.

  “Well, let’s hope we don’t have any traveling snafus.”

  “Let’s hope you do,” she says. “Those make the best memories.”

  “They do,” I say, trying to discreetly look at my wristwatch. I’ve been with her for almost an hour, which is what I promised Danny I’d do. He’s not actually golfing, instead he’s going to the store and buying a few groceries for the weekend.

  I feel guilty, wishing away my time with her so I can go relax with my wonderful husband at a secluded cabin. Talking to her about my summer vacation, knowing she’ll never have a trip so wonderful again. Or a man as wonderful as Dad or Danny. But then I remind myself we probably wouldn’t even be this close if it weren’t for the dementia. Our bond was strained growing up, and her diagnosis gave me the incentive to strengthen it.

  “You feel all right, darling?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ears. “Just tired.”

  “Your color is off,” she says, squinting.

  “We’ve barely eaten,” I tell her. “I think we’re going to grab lunch soon.”

  “You need to eat. Are you eating well during the week?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Grab dinner with friends. That’s what I used to do,” she says, smiling. “You still have friends up there?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say, remembering how important her social engagements with other couples were to her. “Loads of them.”

  “Good,” she says, patting my hand as it rests in my lap. “What about Brian?”

  “What?” I ask, stuttering the word as it comes out.

  “What about Brian? How’s he doing?” she asks, staring at me with the same direct demeanor she’s displayed throughout our conversation.

  “Mom, I don’t talk with Brian.”

  “Well, why the hell not?” she asks, her tone sharpening. “Your dad and I gave you a brother, and you don’t even talk to him.”

  “It’s not like that, Mom,” I say, trying to avoid why we no longer speak. “Brian is—”

  “Oh, here we go again.” She throws back her head and gives her curls a hearty shake. “Brian this and Brian that. You know you were always so jealous of him.”

  I open my mouth, but words fail to come. I lean forward so my hair covers my face. I take a deep breath. Mom literally doesn’t know what she’s saying, and I don’t even have the heart to correct her. But she’ll never know, right mind or not, how hurtful these words are to hear. Like somewhere, in the same place where sh
e’s locked away those happy memories of Dad in France, there’s the memory of me being jealous of Brian.

  “You’re right, Mom,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’ll really be better for you,” she says, unaware of how much she’s destroyed me with a few simple words. “Maybe if you act a little more like him, you’ll feel better about yourself.”

  “I’ll try, Mom,” I say, pushing the silent button which notifies Violet to return to the room. One… two… three.

  “When is he going to come visit?” she asks. “He’s yet to see the place since we painted.”

  “I know,” I say, my heart beating faster as I wait for someone to interrupt us. Four… five… six. I don’t want Mom to see me cry. I stand, trying to turn my face.

  “He’s just so busy at school, you know,” she says, twirling a ringlet of hair. “I bet Amber is still kicking herself for letting him go.”

  Suddenly, the room is spinning and I’m falling against the carpet, closing my eyes as the sound of Mom’s voice fades away.

  Twenty-One

  Fall 2004

  “Finish putting up the clothes,” Mom said. She sat at the breakfast counter typing away on her laptop. She’d recently attended some planning convention where they taught her how to use PowerPoint. Since then, every spare moment seemed devoted to some adorable flyer or brochure.

  “I put up mine,” I said. I was in the living room, a fortress of folded towels and linens surrounding me. Pixie slept peacefully on my lap.

  “Take Brian’s clothes to his room,” she said, still typing.

  I rolled my eyes and lifted Pixie’s tiny body off my legs. I loaded Brian’s clothes into a basket and made the trek upstairs. Surprisingly, the door was open. I was used to knocking at least twice before he’d respond. He was gone.

  I pulled out drawers and deposited the folded clothes. Looking around, I realized how long it had been since I’d been inside his room. It smelled raunchy. I spied three varieties of crumpled potato chip bags in different corners of the room. Dirty shorts and socks were wadded on the floor. An assortment of metal rods hung over his bed. I moved closer, knowing I’d never seen them before. Upon closer inspection, I grasped the rods were various knives, their pointy tips covered. I looked each one over. All were different lengths, some short like daggers, others longer like bayonets.