Confess to Me, page 2
I smiled and reached back to hold his hand. “I think she’s right. That’s a lot of grass to mow.” It was a good, wifely joke. Trevor gave my shoulders a loving squeeze. He liked it when I acted wifely. I peered over my shoulder. Sawyer leaned against the car, neck dropped, eyes on his phone.
My brow must have knitted because Trevor said, “Sixteen is a tricky age. He’ll be fine. This is only temporary.”
“If I had a quarter for every time you’ve said temporary,” I said, turning to him, smiling. “I already know it’s ugly in there, I don’t care. You know why?”
“Why?” His eyes lit. He liked games.
“Temporary.”
He smiled, but his eyes dimmed, no longer matching his smile. “You and the kids can go home at any time. Remember that. You guys don’t need to be here.”
I put my palm against his jaw and kissed him on the lips. He tasted like strawberry Starbursts. “Let’s go inside,” I said.
If I could go back, I would have gripped the backs of my arms tight enough to leave nail marks and warned myself, This place is poison.
If I could go back, I would have told myself, Get. Out. Leave the bedding and that favorite coffee mug, grab your people, and get out. Hunther is a diseased tree, its rotten seeds riding the wind to sprout plague in the dirt below your doorstep.
2
Trevor unlocked the door and we followed him in.
“Pew!” Emily laughed. “It smells funny in here.”
No humor in his voice, all sixteen-year-old irritability, Sawyer said, “Yeah, smells like old lady, wet dog, and a cigarette.” Was that old lady comment a dig about me? Sawyer could be sweet and cruel within the same conversation. He didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t paint yourself as the hated stepmother.
The foyer was tiny so we spilled into the parlor room. It was a vomit of warm colors. Three lemon-yellow walls. One hombre wall that faded from hot pink to orange to red. Ugly, disturbing, and brilliantly avant-garde. The couch was red, and the throw rug was orange and yellow with red bursting flowers. I felt energized and crazy and slightly nauseous. Maybe I would appreciate this room in the winter.
God help me, let us be back in Chicago by Christmas.
It was August, so that was likely.
A large vase sat on an end table. Em’s gonna break that by the week’s end. Where to put it? There were no high shelves or bookcases in here.
“So,” I said, trying to make a good, fun memory of this. “A smoking granny with wet hair?”
“Yep, that’s exactly what I was going for,” Trevor said, winking at me. “I said to myself, what we really need is a dirty, moist grandma.”
I smacked him playfully with the back of my hand.
“Let’s name her Moldy Mildred,” he said, scooping Emily up for a hug and a tickle. She beamed at him. Being swept into Trevor’s creative, energetic mind was like being picked as the audience member who got to join the circus for a show.
“Mildred?” she giggled. “That’s not even a name.”
“Sure, it is,” he said. “That’s what we were gonna name you.”
“Really?” she said, mind blown.
He touched her nose with his. “No.” He laughed, spun her, and plopped her down.
Sawyer said, “You could stab someone in this room, drag the body out, and no one would notice.”
“Mommy, did someone get killed in here?” Em asked, slipping her hand into mine.
“No, Emmy. Sawyer’s only joking. Sawyer, please be more careful with your words.”
Sawyer rolled his eyes and left the room.
“I’m going to grab some stuff from the car,” Trevor said. “Sawyer, come help me.” Trevor, bless his heart, was trying to redirect.
I moved through the first-floor rooms, Emily holding my hand. The house was dark. Lots of wood paneling. The family room had no windows. The windows in the living room and dining room were small, like they’d been put in as an afterthought. The kitchen wasn’t bad. The cabinets and décor were fifty years old, oak, but the kitchen lighting was cheery, and a quaint chandelier hung above a cozy table. You’re stretching. To borrow Sawyer’s phrase, this place “sucks balls.”
In Trevor’s defense, there was not an abundance of houses to rent. People didn’t pass through Hunther; they were born here and died here.
During our drive, Trevor had explained Hunther’s layout. There was an apartment building on the south side of town, a screw factory and a trailer park to the east, a brushstroke of old mansions on the northern tip, a handful of dairy farms to the west, and sprinkles of businesses and houses all over town. Hunther had two cemeteries, two churches, and two high schools—Hunther North and South. Trevor went to North and played third base on their varsity baseball team. Go Bobcats.
I remembered so little about this place. When you’re six years old, you have minimal interest in anything beyond the layout of your house and yard.
We’d visited Trevor’s parents over the years, but our visits lasted no more than a few hours and we took the same door-to-door route. We never strayed from our route, never stopped at a grocery store to pick up a forgotten ingredient, never stopped for ice-cream cones at the general store before we drove back to Chicago, never stopped at a park or scenic lookout. Trevor knew I wasn’t a fan of this place.
I opened the back door, and warm air seeped in. A faint low rumble simmered in the distance. Sounded like a train.
Trevor hustled into the room, carrying two boxes and holding the top one steady with his chin. As he set them down in the middle of the kitchen, Emily’s hand slipped from mine, and she wandered away.
“Are there train tracks nearby?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” he said, gazing at the backyard, blissful. “Hey, you want to pick up pizza for dinner?”
“Pizza sounds good.” My phone buzzed with a text. I pulled it out of my pocket, read the message, then deleted it.
“Who’s that?”
“Just a friend from work,” I lied.
“They miss you already?” he said, smiling. Damn handsome.
I smiled back. “I’ll probably—”
Something crashed in the parlor room. I rushed toward the sound of Emily crying, already knowing. The vase.
Broken shards on the floor. Emily stood in the middle of the mess, crying. It hadn’t taken her a week. Only fifteen minutes.
My reflex was to yell, but I squashed it. Trevor moved in and scooped her up. “It’s OK, kiddo. Anything hurt?” She shook her head, no longer crying.
He kissed her on the forehead and looked at me. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Remember that pool I was telling you about? It’s supposed to be really nice. Why don’t you two go dig up your suits and check it out. Sawyer and I can unpack.”
I gave him a sincere smile. He was good to me. “Great idea. What do you think, Em?” I said, thinking our pool expedition might be an opportunity to hunt for information.
“At the first International meeting in Chicago, I listened to other doctors describe these cases. I remember thinking the cases were idiosyncratic and incredibly rare. It wasn’t too long after that I found my own patient.”
Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology
Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on
Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma
THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO
3
The concrete edge of the pool snagged the ass of my swimsuit. It was two or three wears away from the garbage anyway, thinning to see-through. In the dim dressing room minutes ago, I had aimed my ass at the mirror and strained my neck over my shoulder. Could I see my butt crack? Faintly, yes.
I sat on the edge, circling my feet through bath-warm water near where Emily happily played. There were movable underwater structures to make the water shallower for young swimmers, and Emily splashed and paddled from platform to platform. This was definitely better than unpacking. And it was a good thing we’d left when we did. It was Open Swim now, but lessons would begin in thirty minutes. If we had driven all the way here and not been able to swim, Em would have melted down. And when she melted down, I occasionally did too.
The pool was encapsulated by a clear glass structure to keep the air in here warm and moist, and there were two doors, one at each end. To my left was a long bench backing up to a wall of glass. Behind that, eight showers in a row with low buttons, perfect for little kids. Guppy Swim was geared toward ages one to ten. A dozen kids splashed in the pool, most of them shouting joyfully, a couple of them whining. Parents were in the water or sitting along the edge like me.
I breathed in heavy, chlorine-saturated air, thinking about that text I deleted and what I should do about it.
The door opened, and a woman walked in wearing a red one-piece suit, holding a Pepsi bottle and looking at her phone. She was young, slender, and stunning. Dark hair tied in a loose bun on top of her head, her wrists covered in bangles. Eyeliner heavy. Obnoxiously heavy. Lips syrupy with gloss. Who wears a red one-piece? I felt like I was watching a Pepsi commercial. Her eyes still on her phone, she sat on the bench.
Chills ran up my thighs.
Becky. She looks like Becky.
Did she?
My oldest sister, Becky, died when she was fifteen, so who knew what Becky would look like if she lived to see her twenties?
This girl. She would look exactly like this girl right here.
No. It’s just the loose brown hair, the beauty, the slender body. That’s all.
My gaze drifted back to Emily. She was standing on a platform, belly-deep in water, talking to a rubber duck, teaching it how to jump through a ring. This place, Guppy Swim School, was going to be her favorite.
“Hey, you’re new,” the woman said, her voice scratchy.
I smiled. “Literally. We just moved in an hour ago.”
She laughed, raspy and brazen, baring high, sharp canines. Her gravelly voice and the imperfection of those snaggleteeth made her more beautiful. She grabbed her soda and phone, brought them over, and sat on the concrete edge catty-corner to me. Her eyes were striking: an ultra-light fairy blue, rimmed with smudged black eyeliner. Becky had light blue eyes too, but I don’t remember them this magical.
“I’m Desiree Moss. Welcome.” She held out her hand, and a dozen bracelets jingled on her wrist. She wore rings on five fingers. Her hand was moist and warm when I took it.
“I’m Heather.”
“You just arrived in town and came to the pool? That’s kinda fucked up.” Her rude words didn’t match her warm smile.
“My husband let us off the hook with unpacking the car.” Quieter, I added, “My daughter broke a vase within minutes of us being inside the house.”
“Ha! It’s hard for some of us to sit still. I get it, believe me.” She spoke like an off-year Camaro. Crude, dated, yet flashy and packed with horsepower. “So, where you from and why the hell move to this dark armpit?”
“Chicago. My husband is taking care of his mother. She’s got cancer in a bunch of places. She’s got a few months left. So, it’s temporary.” Look at that. Now I was using the word temporary. Trevor would be so proud.
“I got ya. Hopefully she kicks the bucket soon, and you’re home by Christmas.”
I laughed because it was so inappropriate and it had been exactly what I was thinking. “This pool is really nice. It, well…” I hesitated.
“Does not fit with the rest of the town? I know. It’s the newest building we got. One of our wealthy families built it. This couple, they have eighteen grandkids. Instead of building each of their five kids a pool, they built this.” She pulled one bare leg up out from the water and wrapped her arms around it. As she moved, her breasts jiggled under thin nylon.
I relished the idea of having breasts like hers. Mine had always been small—perky was the kind, yet patronizing adjective—but since breastfeeding Emily, they’d lost the meager volume they’d had. Now they were tuberous, barely filled water balloons hanging onto my ribcage. Emily had drained my sexual appeal, literally sucked it right out through the nipple.
“The saltwater aquarium by the changing cabanas is the only aquarium in town,” Desiree said. “This is literally the fanciest joint in Hunther. Maybe that’s why I work here. I can fantasize that I’ve escaped.”
“You can’t?”
She shrugged. “My dad lives here. My boyfriend. This is what I know. These are my people. They may be scum of the earth, but they’re mine.” She smiled.
She had to know she could run a good hustle in the city. That she could have her pick of men and jobs. I bet she liked being the queen of this town—big fish in a small pond. Or maybe she truly couldn’t see beyond the horizon.
Emily’s fingers squeezed my big toe, then her face broke the water like a baby seal, her smile so wide, her eyes so bright. “I got your toe!” She laughed hard, and coughed a little.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Desiree said to Emily. “Can you back-float?”
Emily stared at Desiree’s eyes, mesmerized, and shook her head.
“Let me teach you. That way you can float with the mermaids at Mermaid Lagoon.” Desiree slipped into the pool without hesitating. The water hit her below her breasts. Her nipples were hard. “I’m Dezzy. What’s your name?”
“Were you born with your eyes like that or did you color your eyes?”
Desiree smiled wide and her snaggleteeth slipped out. “You are such a doll. I painted it on. Doesn’t your momma wear makeup?”
“No.”
I did, but not like Desiree. Her smokey eye was obscene. On anyone else, it would look grotesque. On her, it was captivating. Me, I didn’t like to draw attention. Same reason I never got a boob job. Once you have boobs, you are noticed. I would have liked to have boobs, but I liked being invisible more.
“It’s pretty. I’m Emily.”
“Emily, sweet pea, I’m gonna hold you like your momma held you when you were a baby, OK, hon? Fall backward into my arms.” Desiree was fun, but bossy. Like a kid. Like a kid who’d like to drive a red, off-year Camaro.
Emmy did as she was told and Desiree held her, instructing, “Push your belly button up and tip your chin back.” Desiree pushed Emily’s chin up, and pulled her forehead back. Roughly, like she was positioning a mannequin. If she got any rougher, you’d step in, right?
“Good,” she said. “Now make your hands and feet relaxed. Pretend they are Jell-o. Perfect. You’re doing it. Let’s sing our ABCs.” Desiree sang while stealthily letting go of Emily. When Emily started sinking, Desiree caught her under the armpits and lifted her up in the air. “You made it all the way to G. Wow, are you sure you’re not part mermaid?”
Emily liked that.
Desiree put her back on the platform and hopped out of the pool.
“She’s amazing,” she said to me. “I have a spot open in my next class if you want to wiggle her in. She could try today for free.”
“I’ll ask her. I’m sure she’ll want to.”
“So, where you guys renting?”
“Off Route 34. Near Marjory’s restaurant. Our house is on Winding Way.”
“Winding Way?” She slapped her thigh, thrilled. “You’re neighbors with the lions?”
“Who?”
“There’s a bunch of cages in your neighbor’s backyard. They have mountain lions. I mean, cougars. They’re the same thing, right?”
The skin on my thighs pricked and itched, suddenly irritated by the chlorine-charged air.
Pet cougars? She had to be messing with me.
I was opening my mouth to protest, Come on, Desiree, that’s against the law, when she said, “Listen to this. I’m such a dope. Until I was, like, fourteen, I thought lions were boys and tigers were girls. I swear to God. How was I so stupid?”
My heart bloated. I couldn’t hold back my smile. Shared idiocy is the best kind of connection between souls. “Me too,” I said, my words actually coming out in a shiver.
“What’s our problem?” she said, playful.
I laughed, then said, deadpan, “You’re joking about the cougars.”
“You’ll see.” Her smile was seductive, one snaggletooth slipping free. “So, your husband is from here? What’s his last name?”
“Bishop, but you wouldn’t know him. He’s forty-seven. Twice your age, I’m sure.”
“Yep. I’m twenty-four”
Here’s an opportunity to dig. “I was actually born here too,” I said. “But we moved away in 1991. I was little.”
“1991, damn,” she mused. “That year is famous around here. Carved into this town’s memory. Dawn Young was murdered in ’91. You remember that?”
“No. I mean, I was six when we moved away; I barely remember anything from back then.” Most people couldn’t recollect much of their early childhood, and my autobiographical memories were especially absent.
If a brainful of memories were a forest, trauma went in there with an axe and chopped memories down. For me, it cleared out most of the happy and mundane memories of my childhood, and it spared the most shocking ones. In the barren forest of my mind, these lonely trees were honey locusts, their branches spiked with long thorns, their trunks wrapped in treacherous barbs like shark teeth, warning: keep away.
“So, your hubby is,” she said, tipping her chin up and closing her eyes, “ten years older than you. Damn, he made out well.”
“Impressive math skills,” I said. Seriously. “So, what happened to her? The girl who was murdered in ’91?”
Desiree shrugged. “I wasn’t even born then, but it’s a juicy story. One of our only gruesome stories. My dad’s a cop, and I was a bit of a true crime fanatic when I was in high school. The story goes, a couple of kids found the girl under the grate of a storm drain, her dress blood-stained down the middle.”
I scanned for Emily. She was jumping from one platform to the next.
Even being this close, it was unlikely that Emily overheard Desiree. This pool-in-a-glass-box-room trapped the splashing noises, and the warm air venting in from big silver ducts overhead softened the shouts of kids and created the ultimate whooshing, white-noise machine.
