My heart’s pounding like crazy as I run up to my room, clutching the sympathy note. Before checking out the address online, I study the handwriting, which is careful and elegant cursive. When my mom was alive, Aunt Tina came to see us twice a year, once on my mother’s birthday, which was in July, and to ring in the New Year—
Wait. How do I know that?
Those are Morgan’s memories, not mine. I can’t remember being around for either of those visits, yet the fact sits in my skull indisputable as sunrise. I rub my knuckles across my brow. It seems like a memory that just won’t come, a word hovering on the tip of my tongue. Somehow I feel as if I know Tina Goldsmith but I never met her, though Morgan must have.
My head aches, a throbbing drum in both temples, and as the pain sharpens, a mental image forms. She’s a slender woman with rich brown skin, big eyes, and natural hair worn short, and she favors bright colors. I can see her in a yellow sundress complemented with black and white bangles. I’m on her lap, clacking them together in delight while she and my mom giggle over something I’m too small to understand.
That fast the images fade to white noise and I reel to the side. The bed catches me, so I only hit my side on the frame, my head landing on the mattress. Beside me the card flutters down to the floor, slower than it should. I don’t want to touch it but I can’t resist. It feels cold enough in here that I should be able to see my breath. I’m smelling that damn perfume again, and I can feel Morgan, close, like she’s whispering but I can’t quite make out the words.
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope to reveal a vase of lilies on the front, simple and innocent in death. When I unfold the card, an old photo tumbles out.
At first I just stare at it because this can’t be real.
I blink once.
Twice.
But it’s definitely Lucy Ellis-Frost and Tina Goldsmith, who’s wearing the exact outfit I envisioned a few seconds ago, down to the bracelets. They’re standing outside a bistro-style restaurant, arms around each other and beaming wildly at the photographer. Fighting nausea, I set the picture aside and read the message.
Dear Randall (and Morgan),
Words can’t express how sorry I am. I’m sending you a copy of this picture because it means the world to me and I hope seeing her smile so brightly will help when you miss her most. Morgan, I will always be your Aunt T, so if you ever need anything, I’ll be there. I wish I lived closer and that I could do more, but I’m only a phone call away.
All my love,
Tina
Before I can think better of it, I pick up my cell and dial. The whole time it’s connecting, I hold my breath. The out of service message is rather anticlimactic, but I guess it’s too much to hope that she would’ve kept the same number for ten years. She didn’t say if this was her home or cell, either. She may have disconnected her landline and gone mobile only.
“What the hell is going on?” I mumble.
Nothing makes sense anymore. Am I Morgan who remembers being Liv or Liv who almost remembers being Morgan? At what point do I accept that I’m not okay and ask for help? Misery sweeps over me, inch by inch, creeping over my ankles, chilling my knees, foreboding fingers clutching like cold bone. When my phone rings, I jump and nearly drop it. As I check the ID, I pray that it’s not Creepy Jack, and relief streams through me when I recognize Clay’s icon. My heart still hasn’t settled when I answer.
“Hey, you.”
Clay’s smile comes across enough to thaw the block of ice my torso has become. “You’ve been quiet today, so I’m checking in. Everything okay?”
The automatic answer won’t come. I’m beyond weary from carrying this alone. Today the baby steps I took with Mrs. Rhodes are the first of many down a road I never expected to travel. I might as well be the unnamed narrator in that “Road Not Taken” poem by Robert Frost. I’m staring in two directions, checking out my options, and neither path is rosy. Neither ends with me living at home, eating dinner with my family. My soul diverged in a wood—no, it was a field beneath an infinite starry sky—and that has made all the difference. Maybe I am insane.
Maybe I am.
At this moment I only know I can’t handle this shit alone, and the person I choose to share my delusions with is Clay. I want to let him all the way in, carve my secrets between us in trust and truth. What happens next, I can’t even speculate.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s really not.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks instantly.
“Nothing I can talk about on the phone. Can I pick you up?” I’ve kind of lost track of what day it is, but I think he should be off work by now.
“Are you okay to drive?”
The question puts a smile on my face, settling my nerves. It’s amazing how steady Clay makes me feel. It’s not that all my fears and uncertainties disappear, more like they’re reduced by a factor of ten. A slow breath escapes me.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. See you in half an hour or so.”
Normally I’d just leave without saying anything, but the talk I had with Mrs. Rhodes makes me want to be polite. She’s spent ten years cleaning our house and cooking us food; this is the least I can do. So I call, “I’m going out with Clay. I won’t be late.”
She emerges from the kitchen with a startled look. “Thanks for letting me know.”
We exchange tentative smiles, then I let myself out and head for the garage where I parked the VW. After dropping my phone in the cup holder between the seats, I back out and navigate the curves of the drive, pausing only for the gate to let me out. Half the drive passes without incident, but as I stop at the four-way intersection on the outskirts of town, the passenger door flies open and suddenly Creepy Jack is in my car. My heart lurches.
If he looked abnormal in some way, I’d feel better. But he’s not scruffy or unshaven; his eyes aren’t bloodshot. To anyone else I’m sure he’s the picture of control and sanity. Yet here he is, a married man, chasing me like I’m his reason for living. His abrupt arrival means he’s been stalking me.
“Get out,” I order, hoping I don’t sound as scared as I feel.
“Not before we talk.” He’s smiling, but the number of teeth he shows me—it doesn’t feel safe or friendly, more like he wants to take a bite.
“There’s nothing to say. I’ve outgrown our arrangement.”
I’m torn on what to do next; I really want him out of my car, but there’s a truck approaching in my rearview mirror. In the ideal world I could jump out and beg for help. That would expose Creepy Jack and open the door to criminal charges. But as I look at the dilapidated pickup truck and the grubby neckbeard driving it, I’m not convinced I can rely on the dude to do the right thing. I’m better off alone with CJ. I step on the gas and drive toward town, hoping he doesn’t know the way to Clay’s house.
Except a hard hand settles on the nape of my neck. “Turn around.”
So far he hasn’t produced a weapon but he outweighs me by eighty pounds. In a purely physical contest, I don’t see how I can win. Fear coats my tongue, tasting of copper and bile, but I try to remain calm. My breathing gives me away, though, quick and staccato beneath the rush of the vents.
“I have plans.” My voice doesn’t shake at least.
“Change them. I don’t think you realize how important this is. I’m not a man you can play with, precious.” With an awful smile, he runs his knuckles down my cheek and my whole body clenches in revulsion.
The idea of him touching me anywhere else … it makes me want to die. I can’t believe Morgan did this—for any reason. She wanted to learn the truth about her mother’s death, but I recall the pictures she stored online and I stifle a whimper. Assholes would say I invited this, deserve it even.
This isn’t my fault. Is it? In my head, I hear Morgan echoing the question, all heartbreak and hesitation.