by E. C. Diskin
By three o’clock, Brooklyn began feeling restless at the hospital and headed over to her dad’s store. After unlocking the front door and turning off the security system, she stepped inside and cursed Ginny’s name. The lights were all on, the register drawer wasn’t even locked, and in the back room, the computer was still on, as was the coffeemaker. An open box of half-eaten pastry was now being enjoyed by a family of tiny ants. If felt like another reminder that Ginny couldn’t be trusted.
But the mess didn’t make sense anyway. Her dad, a military man, was all for order. She’d been chastised more times than she could count for leaving things out of place in the back room, and yet newspapers were stacked up on the table—several weeks’ worth—empty soda cans were on the counter, even boxes of inventory were left open. Something was wrong. He wasn’t disorganized or forgetful, but this room looked like he’d become both. He couldn’t run a store like this.
It wasn’t even safe. A box of guns sat open under the table, an open box of ammunition beside it. Brooklyn checked the computer for recent sales. Her dad had sold a .38 two weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe he’d forget to put the box back on the shelf, that he’d leave unregistered guns out in the open for two weeks. Brooklyn closed the box, put it back on the bottom shelf where it belonged, and returned the ammunition to the second shelf, hidden in back where he kept all the bullets. She took the garbage out to the bins in the alley, locked the back door, and powered down the computer before heading home.
The microwave zapped the casserole she’d found in the freezer while Brooklyn listened to the messages on her parents’ answering machine. Three messages in a row, all from women, all wondering if her dad was okay, having seen the sign on the store window that it was closed indefinitely. They might have been doing “the Christian thing,” as Mom used to say, or they might have been swooping in to make a play now that Dad was a widower. She’d seen both types over the years. “I’m prayin’ for you, John,” one woman said. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine, John,” another said, adding, “God protects the righteous!”
Brooklyn rolled her eyes as she grabbed the hot plate of food. She’d calculated it once—she’d probably sat in a pew nearly a thousand times during her life—and yet she still didn’t know what she believed. It had always bothered her that everyone else seemed so certain about who was running the show, who was right and wrong, and who was going to hell. The only thing Brooklyn knew was that the universe was a mystery and anyone who acted like they had all the answers was suspect.
And these women had no idea if John would be okay. No one did. Nurse Wanda had told them it was important that he begin to move as soon as possible, but when she tried to help him swing his legs off the bed and put some weight on them, Brooklyn noticed again how thin he’d gotten. He looked at least twenty pounds lighter than he had been at the funeral. He winced, collapsed back onto the mattress, and began cursing and accusing Wanda of incompetence.
Brooklyn had never seen him so angry, and he’d looked at her without a hint of recognition in his expression. “I’m not some sideshow. Get out!”
He’d never yelled at Brooklyn before. Not once. If she ever got in trouble as a kid, his silence indicated anger. If he was merely polite, without asking her about her day, something was up. But if he remained quiet at dinner, she had to get the topic on the table. And she always did. She’d apologize, promise to do better . . . whether it was grades or missing curfew or forgetting to lock up the store properly. That’s all it took.
He and Mom never held on to their anger. If Dad got riled up about something at the store or some news story, he did what most men in town did. He took off for the gun range. But today, he was mean. He was rude to the nurses, particularly Wanda, and even made some comment about her getting her “nasty braids” out of his face when she leaned over to adjust the machine behind the bed. Brooklyn had followed Wanda out of the room, apologizing on his behalf, and explained how concerned she was by his behavior. But Wanda said that between the reports of dementia she’d heard about when he came in and the residual effects of the anesthesia and the painkillers, she wasn’t too surprised.
Brooklyn had gone back into his room after he’d rested. His face relaxed as he looked at her. “Hey, baby girl,” he’d said, as if nothing had happened. “I don’t want you worrying about me. You need to get back to school.” She didn’t have the heart to remind him that no, she didn’t.
Standing at the kitchen sink now, Brooklyn ate her food in silence. She looked around the room, terrified of what was happening. What if her dad really had dementia? Could she arrange for help? Could they build a ramp so he could stay in his home? She could move his bedroom to the main floor. Maybe she could fly home every six weeks to check in.
She looked at the remaining food on her plate, the creamy chicken on her fork. It was making her sick. She dumped it into the sink, exhausted by the hurdles, the absurdity of thinking she could do it all. She was a waitress, a starving artist, living in a dump with three friends in the East Village. She was in no position to fly back and forth every month or two. If her dad needed her, she was not going to be able to stay in New York. As she braced the counter, her stomach began to turn. She’d barely begun living her dream.
And what about the store? Was she supposed to run the store, determine her dad’s care, take care of the house and everything he needed? And for how long?
She began pushing the air out, gasping as if she could get rid of the anxiety building inside.
Suddenly, the floor was tilting. Spots filled her vision, and she felt nauseous. She lowered herself to the floor as a cramp in her chest wall began squeezing her insides. She’d never been able to prevent these attacks, even after learning years ago that they were not a heart condition, as she feared, but anxiety-induced. She sat on the kitchen floor as her body temperature soared and finally lowered herself to lie flat. Closing her eyes, she fought through the feeling of being trapped, of suffocating inside a burning building she couldn’t escape. She tapped on her chest, guiding her breath back to normal. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and took a few deep breaths. It had been a quick one.
Brooklyn sat up slowly, looking around at the crumbs on the floor and dust bunnies in the corner. Dad needed help. The evidence was all over his store and this house. Her mother had been gone five months now. Ginny had obviously been useless.
So why had Ginny been at the house on Mother’s Day?
Brooklyn left the kitchen, wandering back toward the front hall and the study. Ginny was still holding back something about the night Dad fell. There was no way he had called her, no way he’d let her cook him dinner. Even if he was sad on Mother’s Day, he was far too proud to show a child, particularly Ginny, that he needed help.
She stood in the hall, looking first right, into the study, then left into the living room. Both were carpeted. She stepped into the study and examined the rug more closely. Finding nothing, she did the same in the living room. Nothing. Her dad cut his head open. He was supposedly unconscious on the floor and needed twelve stitches. How was there no blood?
She returned to the hall, her gaze wandering as she considered it. And that’s when she noticed the tiny red dots toward the bottom of the white doorframe that led to the study. Brooklyn got on her knees and wiped a finger over the spots. They didn’t budge. Was it old paint? She licked her finger and wiped the spots again. This time, they came off.
Blood.
Had her dad been standing here, in the front hall, when he fell? Why not say that? She looked down, noticing more dark spots on the wood floor. And then she noticed the cast iron fleur-de-lis doorstop, neatly tucked against the wall by the front door. And on its tip, more blood. If he’d fallen and hit his head on this, why not say so? Why was it so difficult to get a straight answer? Why had Ginny finally seemed ready to talk and then suddenly left when Brooklyn returned with their coffees? It had been as if Ginny couldn’t escape fast enough. It almost felt like the mention of Darius Woo
ds had caused her to run.
Still kneeling on the hall floor, Brooklyn stared absently into Dad’s sanctuary. He wasn’t going to provide any answers if he remained confused. And if he was protecting some secret, he’d probably never tell Brooklyn. Her mom’s cancer had already proven that he had no problem hiding the truth from her.
She looked around the room—at the books on the shelves, the file cabinets next to the desk. She’d have to find her own answers.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GINNY SAT ON A GIANT boulder and looked out at the vast, open wilderness. Her mom had always said there were two places to feel close to God. Being with the pastor at church hadn’t done it. So she’d driven twenty-five minutes and hiked the observation trail to look out over the Garden of the Gods in the middle of the Shawnee Forest. The Garden was a favorite spot for locals, tourists, and the burnouts who ditched high school, but fortunately, the rain had kept others away, and she had the place to herself.
Just a smear of clouds remained, and the fading sun had turned the distant horizon pink. She took a long swig from the small vodka bottle she’d bought on the way and inhaled the spring air, gazing out over the 280,000 acres of perfection that could change her perspective like a kaleidoscope.
Growing up, Ginny had gone with her parents every fall to take in the blanket of changing leaves on the treetops below—a completely unspoiled, panoramic view of God’s work. The rock formations jutting out above the trees, like stacked river-rock sculptures, had been millions of years in the making—320 million years, actually. She’d created a science fair exhibit in elementary school called “Beautiful Erosion” to demonstrate how the prehistoric rock, twenty thousand feet thick and four miles deep, with its millions of sandstone layers, was all thanks to the giant sea that had once covered parts of what was now Illinois, Kentucky, and Indiana. She’d learned, too, that Colorado had a more famous Garden of the Gods—but unlike its giant red spike-shaped rocks that few dared to climb, her garden’s rocks were like perches designed for taking in the view. Standing atop the massive structures corrected a person’s perspective: the world was grand. People were small.
Whenever life overwhelmed her, Ginny hiked up here to feel some peace and hope and try to remember that her problems were a speck of dust and her life nothing more than one layer of sand in the story of planet Earth. She’d sat on these rocks when everything fell apart the summer after high school, even fantasizing about the fast and easy end that might come with a simple slip or jump. She’d returned following every miscarriage, begging the universe for a respite from the pain.
The last time Ginny had brought the kids here, Mikey had said the rocks were like Jurassic versions of the drip castles he made with wet sand at the beach. Lyla had said the treetops looked like a forest of broccoli. That had been a great day. They’d shared their adventure with Simon later that night, and she’d expected praise for the educational outing, a day free of technology, but he’d chastised her for taking them to the Garden. A woman had died a couple of years earlier after falling off one of the rocks, and a couple of years before that, a boy Mikey’s age had died as well.
“It’s a magical place, Simon,” she’d pleaded. “We can’t protect them so much that they miss out on adventures. And we were careful.”
“We were, Dad,” Mikey insisted. “It was awesome.”
Simon’s silent stare told her the discussion needed to end. His job was to lead, her job was to follow, and conflict in front of the kids was forbidden. “Next time just check with me first.”
The first time Simon had used that word—forbidden—she’d called her mom to vent. But Bonnie had backed Simon. “Kids need a united front,” she’d said, “and you can’t battle for power. The key to a good marriage is for your husband to believe he has the power.” And then she’d giggled. “It’s a dance.”
So Ginny didn’t argue with Simon about going to the Garden. She’d simply kept it a secret next time she took the kids there. She’d given up nursing to please him, she’d learned to hold her tongue, to submit on demand, but she couldn’t stop going there.
The vodka softened the edges, and she leaned back on her arms, conjuring another visit, some twenty years earlier. It was late April of senior year. She’d been so excited to leave Eden by then. She was going to get as far from this town as possible. It had been a perfect night, at least until Eddie Wilson and his friends showed up, high on pills and acting like rabid dogs, taking the peace of that moment and violently ripping it away.
She never told anyone what Eddie did that night. The sheriff was her dad’s best friend. Eddie was his son. And Eddie knew her secrets. That was the beginning of the end, she realized, as one terrifying moment had been followed by another, and another, like dominoes toppling, until her dreams of escaping her town had ended forever.
Ginny raised the flask to her mouth, stopping to examine her raw and swollen fingernails, a habit started back in high school. It had been a point of contention with her mom, who used to grab her hands and frown. “Ginny, no one wants to kiss the hand of a wild animal.” If only Mom had been right, she thought. Pastor Gary always kissed her hand when she went to his office. It was part of the ritual. First, he’d place a drink in her grip, and once the glass was empty, he’d take it from her, kiss her hand, and move on from there.
And Simon thought seeing Pastor Gary would help her stop drinking. What a joke. The whiskey on the pastor’s breath was the first thing she noticed when she got under his umbrella earlier today. After going to his office, she’d explained what happened on Mother’s Day and he’d told her not to worry, saying she’d done the right thing. He said she didn’t need to feel guilty, that everything would be okay and that God worked in mysterious ways. The poison allowed her to believe it.
But nothing would be okay, ever again. She’d heard “the truth will set you free” a million times in church, but it wasn’t true. The truth would destroy them all. She imagined the day Darius’s movie would premiere at the only theater in the area, fifteen miles away. The whole town would probably go. She imagined the whispers, the stories, the gossip that would spread from everyone who saw it. She sat up and crawled toward the ledge. The vodka made her feel wobbly, and she collapsed onto her stomach, inching herself forward until only her head dangled over the cliff. She couldn’t see past the treetops below. Would they stop a body, catching it like some rough nest, or would someone simply crack branches and break bones the whole way down? She took her bottle, half-empty now, and opened her grasp, watching it fall, waiting, listening.
Death would be painful, she realized, but swift.
Brooklyn sat at her father’s orderly and sparse desk, opening drawers. The top drawer revealed neatly stacked blank paper, unused pencils bound in one rubber band, and ballpoint pens bound in another, each pen cap facing the same direction. Finally, a sign of the military man she knew and loved. She opened a side drawer and found more neatly stacked papers, Post-its, paper clips. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for.
She sat back, her focus on that La-Z-Boy in the corner. Her whole life, Brooklyn had never headed to bed without finding her dad at this desk or sitting in that chair. The study door was always open. “Open doors, open hearts,” her parents would say. Of course, by high school, the open-door policy simply felt like a refusal to give Brooklyn any privacy. And for a house of open doors, why did it feel like she was suddenly drowning in secrets?
She swiveled her chair toward the metal file cabinet. The drawer revealed alphabetically organized files: bank statements, car, church, health insurance, homeowner’s insurance, kids, life insurance, mortgage, utilities. She had to laugh as she pulled out the file labeled “Kids.” Seemed a bit vague.
Inside, the top sheet of paper was Brooklyn’s acceptance to college. Her heart sank. It meant so much to her dad. She’d gone to school to act, and the theater department in Boston was fine, but once she’d experienced New York City, it was hard to return.
But then again, Dad
had never gone to college. Mom either.
Behind the letter was a stack of Brooklyn’s report cards. Not exactly worth saving. Behind those was Ginny’s college acceptance letter—to Columbia University’s nursing school. But Ginny had never gone to Columbia. She’d attended a community college at some point, but as far as Brooklyn knew, Ginny had never ventured beyond the borders of Illinois.
Behind Ginny’s college acceptance letter were her report cards—A’s, across the board. Every year. And a certificate indicating that she was a National Merit Scholar.
It was so strange. The passing comments about Ginny “finally getting her act together” over the years suddenly seemed at odds with the evidence in the file. She hadn’t just been a good student, she had been at the top of her class and had gotten into a really good school. Why hadn’t she attended? Brooklyn lifted the certificate and found another. This one was from their church, a certificate of achievement: youth group leader. The youth group was the pride of First Hope. They organized food and clothing drives and met on Wednesday nights for Bible study. The girls in the group had to pledge chastity in some awkward ceremony that involved their fathers.
Brooklyn had been sure her parents would make her join the teen group. First Hope was the center of their life. But Brooklyn didn’t belong there. She’d known it for a long time. People looked at her as an oddity, an outsider despite having grown up in the church.
She was about nine or ten the first time she noticed the looks. She overheard some women a few rows behind them say something about how “those Andersons are saints.” It seemed like a nice thing to say, and her ears perked up. But then one of the women whispered, “But you know Bonnie was so desperate for another child.” She didn’t see their faces, but something about the comment told Brooklyn she should feel lucky.
For years, she and the other kids were shooed off to Sunday school during the most boring parts of the service. She no longer remembered much about those hours, but she always remembered the Sunday before Christmas when she was eleven, sitting on the floor in a circle of kids, discussing the night Baby Jesus was born. The teacher was asking each of them to help provide details of Mary and Joseph’s journey and struggles, what it was like in the stable, and who visited the couple and their new baby that night. Everyone was shouting out details, and someone said it sounded like a barn, with its dirt floor. That’s when one girl said, “Just like Brooklyn.” Everyone, including Brooklyn, turned to the girl, who looked at the teacher, suddenly embarrassed. “I heard she was born in a barn with a dirt floor.” No one said anything else, and the girl looked at Brooklyn for confirmation. “Right?”