by Kate Myles
The problem is, the murderer lady is all of a sudden like, the good kind of famous. And it’s because of Dr. Maryn. She interviews the lady on her show like all the time to defend herself and now the murderer lady has her own podcast. She’s allowed to record it in the hospital. It’s called Cracked! and she interviews all these other murderer ladies. They all talk about how they were really good people before they met so and so, or did such and such, and the real problem was that they didn’t take care of themselves to begin with. Like, supposedly nobody would have killed anyone if they’d taken bubble baths every night or something.
What bugs me the most, though, is that part of the reason my dad is in jail is because his and the lady’s cell phones both pinged at his airport right before my mom got murdered. (Seriously can you believe my dad used to have his own plane???) Anyway because they had proof my dad and the lady were together right before she went to my mom’s, that means that the lady only got charged with temporary insanity manslaughter instead of first degree murder like she should have been. Her lawyer did this whole song and dance about how she was under my dad’s influence or something stupid like that. But my dad swears he didn’t talk to her. He didn’t even know she was there.
I totally believe him by the way because he never got charged with murder. He always says that. “I never got charged with murder.” He sounds really proud when he says it too which grosses me out a little because you’re supposed to be proud of cool things, like getting an A on a test or winning a race. But anyway, he’s in jail because they kept telling him they would charge him with murder if he didn’t agree to a super long sentence for stuff like fraud and stealing data. Like I said, it’s complicated.
I’m glad my dad copped a plea though because I get to sit at a picnic table when I visit him. The only other kids with parents in jail are the poor kids at my school and they have to deal with handcuffs and partitions and all sorts of craziness. When I tell them I get to hug my dad, they’re all like, “No fair!” The poor kids make me sad sometimes.
Anyway, my dad’s kind of weird. He looks like he wears a wig, but Aunt Jessica called it a combover. I mean, what’s he trying to do? Look good for his cellmate? Some other lady married him, so I guess I have a stepmom now. Her name is Anna. She keeps trying to meet me but Uncle Wally and Aunt Jessica keep going to court about it. Oh, and they revoke my dad’s privileges with me all the time so sometimes I go months without visiting or talking to him on the phone.
The first time was when I was like 6. He told me that Jesus was the one that sent him to jail because he could only help people if he’d actually been through some shit. (His words! No swear jar!) He showed me his arm and how he couldn’t straighten it anymore. He told me what the other prisoners did to him.
“It was the missing piece,” he said. “Now I know what it means to suffer.”
We took a break from my dad for a while after that and then I had to have my social worker sitting with us and listening in on our phone calls. Seriously there is so much drama. She interrupted him once when he started talking about Jesus, and then he got a court order saying he had a right to tell me about Jesus.
Everybody calls my dad a phony but he swears he met Jesus on the beach before he even knew my mom was dead. When he gets out he’s going to start his own church. And it won’t be boring like the church I go to with Sister Destiny making us sing songs about redemption and lost coins and sheep and all that. I ask Sister Destiny about my mom sometimes because Uncle Wally told me they were friends when they were little. All she’ll say is that God loved my mom because God loves everybody which makes me think that she didn’t like my mom and that Uncle Wally doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Anyway, my dad’s church isn’t going to be small and uncomfortable with everybody sitting on wooden benches. It’s gonna be huge like a stadium with big screens and there’s gonna be guys in suits with walkie talkies escorting him to the podium and then back to his Escalade when he’s done with his sermons.
And that’s pretty much all he would say for years. But when the social worker finally stopped coming on our visits he started telling me he’s gonna need my help to start the church. Because it turns out there’s money. Secret money. And it’s on an island way, way out in the Pacific Ocean. My dad won’t tell me which one, but he promises he’ll take me there when he gets out, and it’ll be like we’re pirates hunting buried treasure. Before we do any of that, though, my dad told me I had to find my mom’s death certificate.
Well. I don’t have to tell you that Aunt Jessica and Uncle Wally got soooo pissed when they caught me going through the filing cabinet. The next time my dad called collect, Uncle Wally screamed at him, “YOU SONOFABITCH! YOU LEAVE THAT LITTLE GIRL OUT OF YOUR SCAMS!”
We were about to take another long break from seeing him after that but my dad started crying and begging Uncle Wally to let me keep visiting. I could hear him through the phone on the other side of the room. “She’s all I have, Wally. She’s all I have.”
Anyway, I don’t know if my dad is telling the truth about that Pacific island money or living in a fantasy world or what, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you have to be rich. Especially with the economy and everything. I mean, all the grownups talk about is how hard things have gotten. A bunch of my friends had to leave their houses. That’s super bizarre, when they just stop showing up for school. Everyone’s like, “Where’s so and so?” and it’s like, “They had to move.” And we’re all like, “Wow. Did they turn into poor kids all of a sudden?”
Anyway, we’re super lucky because we moved into my grandpa’s house after he died last year. It’s all paid off, so we don’t have to pay anything except the taxes. And seriously, that was totally enough for us. Uncle Wally was going to take the carpet up because there were hardwood floors underneath and we were pretty excited about it.
But then—and I swear this is where the story gets totally bonkers—it turned out my grandpa was RICH. We didn’t even know! He had MILLIONS of dollars that he didn’t tell anybody about. When I first found out, I was like, let’s get a mansion! Let’s get a limousine! But Aunt Jessica and Uncle Wally said we can’t start acting like showoffs and they told me I especially can’t talk to my dad about it which is kind of lame, but then they got me a horse. Her name is Bessie Junior, and she’s a pinto with the best personality. I’m learning how to ride both English and Western styles.
Anyway, we put a new roof on Grandpa’s house and bought one of those stair lift elevator things so that our dog, Bella, can go up to my room at night. She was my mom’s dog and she’s super old and can’t climb the stairs anymore. I sleep in my mom’s old room, by the way. The one she grew up in. I asked Uncle Wally where her bed was, and I put mine in the same place. Uncle Wally said she was a neat freak too, so I keep my room really clean, and even though he doesn’t remember how the walls were painted when she was a kid, I’m pretty sure she would have liked mauve because that’s my favorite color.
Okay. I have to admit something now. Even though my aunt and uncle show me pictures of her and stuff, I didn’t really think of my mom as a real person before I moved into her room. Like, I knew she used to exist, but I never pictured her breathing and thinking and feeling. But now, it’s almost like we’re sharing a room. Is that a weird thing to say? Some nights I stay up and stare ahead at my closet and think about the fact that she had the same exact view at my age. It makes me feel like I know her. Like she’s a friend. My favorite thing, though, is to open the window and climb out and sit on the roof. I bet my mom did this too. Who wouldn’t? I’m out here right now actually. It’s the only place I feel calm.
I can see the whole town by the way. It’s midnight here in Figblossom Valley and everything is dark except for the gas stations lit up near the freeway, and I don’t know why everybody is asleep right now. How can anyone be in bed with all these stars out? It’s like billions of them.
Sometimes I wonder what’s out there. Like, is it just fire
and rocks or whatever? I hope so. I really hope there’s nothing. I hate to think I’m looking up at planets full of people just like us with everybody straining away all the time to do stuff and causing each other problems. I mean, what if there are murderer ladies up there? And economies and court orders and weirdo dads who pretend to be nice but you never really know what they’re planning?
I know it’s crazy, but I’d rather look at outer space and think that the universe only cares about infinity or whatever. That it doesn’t care about me at all. And sure that thought is scary. Sometimes if I think about it too long, it feels like all that nothingness is going to swallow me up. But sometimes (and this is going to make me sound like a maniac) but sometimes it feels like I have a tiny piece of outer space inside me. Is that weird? Like a tiny piece of sky is inside me, and if I’m really still, that part of me will talk to the rest of it and tell me what the night sky says. That none of it matters. Nothing matters.
I don’t know about you, but I find that really peaceful.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the support, generosity, and wisdom of the following:
My husband, Peter, the best reader in the world, and Neil, the best kid in the world.
My sisters and cheerleaders, Molly Fagan and Jane Ward.
Laurie Horowitz, who taught me how to write.
Great people and institutions, including Stephen Cooper and UCLA Extension, Jim Krusoe and Santa Monica College, and Beyond Baroque.
Friends, critiquers, and experts: Lene Amalfi, Julia Lee Barclay-Morton, Ilona Brown, Jill Caryl Weiner, Jennifer Clay, Ryan Hilary, Tamara Holub, Chris Lawson, Shelli Margolin-Mayer, Frank Matcha, JoBeth McDaniel, Greg Moore, Jason Peugh, Frank Possemato, Victor Rauch, Chris Richardson, Katie Saunders, Jan Shure-Hurwitz, Signe Sorstein, Anna Stigen, Matt Sullivan, and A. K. Whitney.
My agent, Noah Ballard, and his unceasing support.
And my wonderful editor, Liz Pearsons, and everyone at Thomas & Mercer. Thank you for believing in this book!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate Myles is a television producer for networks such as the Food Network and OWN. Before producing, she worked as an actor and comedian, enjoying a two-year stint as a host and video journalist for the Travel Channel series Not Your Average Travel Guide, among other adventures. Her fiction has appeared in Necessary Fiction, Quarterly West, and Storm Cellar Quarterly. The Receptionist is her first novel.