Learning Not to Drown (20 page)

He asks me if I remember that day.

I say yes.

Wrong place, wrong place, wrong place.

He'd like for me to write down everything I remember about that day in my own words; he says that details are important. Where will this lead? What if I do or say something wrong?

Trying to remember every detail, I pick up the black pen and write:
On July 19th my brother Luke asked me to drive him to a few stores so he could return items. He had three different bags, one from each store. He pulled out a receipt from his organizer at each store and returned the items. I then drove him home.

The interrogator looks at what I wrote and shakes his head. Maybe he can help me remember some of the details. Maybe we can figure this out a little better, together.

He asks about Luke's organizer. I say that it is black, and small.

He asks why my fingerprints were on the organizer. I say because I picked it up when Luke was in the stores. I wonder how the police have it. Did Luke leave it in my car?

He asks why I touched it. I say, because it fell on the floor of the car and the receipts fell out, so I wanted to put them back in for him.

He asks what items Luke returned. I say I don't know.

He asks why I don't know what items Luke was returning. I say they were all in bags, and I didn't see inside the bags.

He asks if I remember what time we were gone. I say I remember I had to be back by two, so earlier in the day. I think we left the house around eleven.

He asks a.m. or p.m. I say a.m.

He asks if there was anything I noticed about the organizer. I say just that it was black and had receipts in it.

He asks if I looked closely at the receipts. I say I glanced at a few of them.

He asks if there was anything I noticed about the receipts. I say I noticed that they were all very crisp, very new.

I pause, thinking about Skeleton pointing at the receipts. They were
fake
? No! I need to think about this more. But—why else would he question me about the receipts?

The interrogator notices my pause. He asks why I paused. I say because I am thinking.

I want Mom to cut in. To say something that will slow the questions down. Give me more time to be allowed to think. But she just sits silently next to me, rubbing at her thumbnail, and I know she's not really here. Mentally she's at home, buffing a stain off one of her ornaments. I wish Dad were here. Maybe he would say something. Probably. I'm sure that's why Mom asked him to wait outside.

The interrogator asks again about the receipts.

I say they were from different stores, with different items; they were dated recently. I don't dare say that one I looked at was dated from when Luke was in prison.

He asks how long I looked at the receipts for. I say just a few seconds.

He asks what I thought. I say I thought that there were a lot of receipts and that Luke has a great way of organizing his files.

He asks why the organizer was in my car. I say I don't know.

He asks if Luke left the organizer in my car. I say I don't know.

He asks if Luke told me what he was returning. I think, They've already asked me this. Are they trying to trick me into messing up? Into saying something new, something different? Maybe I should have asked for a lawyer. I say no, I don't know what Luke was returning.

He asks if Luke has ever wanted me to drive him anywhere else before. I say yes, to the store so he could buy snacks and cigarettes, to the pool hall, to the lake a few times.

He asks if Luke ever returned anything else when I was driving. I say no, not that I can remember.

He asks me if this is my car in this photo. I say yes.

He asks if this is me in my car in this photo. I say yes.

He asks if this is Luke getting out of my car. I say yes.

He asks me if I knew Luke had printed fake receipts. I say no.

I think, Oh, crap. They
were
fake receipts. It was a scam. It was a scam. And I
was
in the wrong place at the wrong time. I could go to jail. I could go to jail. I'm an—what's the word? Accessory. I'm an accessory to a crime. Am I? If I didn't know?

How could Luke do this to me?

Little splotches of green and yellow appear in front of my eyes as the room tilts. I close my eyes and tell myself to concentrate. When I open them again, I am looking straight into the interrogator's dark brown eyes.

He asks me if I knew that Luke was returning stolen goods. I say no.

I think, Luke wouldn't do that to me. Luke wouldn't make me an accessory to his crime.

The interrogator asks me if it was my idea to make the receipts and return stolen goods. I say no, I didn't know he was doing that. I thought he was returning items he'd bought.

I think, Mom, please say something. Please make this stop. But she just sits there, rubbing her damn finger-nail.

He asks me if when I looked in the organizer, I realized Luke had stolen items and was returning them with fake receipts. I say no, Luke would never ask me to drive him if he were returning stolen goods. Luke wouldn't do that to me.

He asks me if I am sure that Luke would never involve me in an illegal activity.

I pause. And have to answer truthfully. I whisper no. I am not sure. I hear Mom's sharp inhale beside me. She did not like the way I answered that question.

He asks me if Luke confided in me that he had made fake receipts. I say no.

He asks me if I saw Luke with any of his friends that day. I say no.

He asks me if I saw anyone else in the parking lot of Compute This who might have been suspicious. I want to say yes, that the person looked a lot like Luke, so maybe they are mistaking this other person for my brother. But I know I can't lie, even if I thought it would help him. Even if that is what Mom would want me to do. So I say no.

He asks me if Luke has ever asked for my help before. I say yes. I am sure he has, because he is my brother. But never for anything illegal.

He asks me if I am sure. I shake my head.

He asks me to answer yes or no, verbally. I say no. I'm not sure.

He asks me if I know where Luke is. I say I think still in Tennessee, living with a friend. I can't remember the city.

He asks me if I have a phone number or address for this friend. I say no. He said he'd write or call with his new information, but he hasn't yet.

He asks me if I know any information on any of Luke's friends in Tennessee. I say no.

He asks me if I know the names of Luke's friends in Tennessee. I say no.

He asks me if Luke left a cell number, or any phone number at all. I say no.

He asks me if Luke has an address in Tennessee. I know I have answered this already. I say no.

He asks where I last saw Luke. I say when we dropped him off at a bus stop.

He asks where the bus was going. I say I don't know,
because we dropped him off before he bought his ticket. And he didn't say where.

And then I think how weird that was. How strange that we didn't park and walk him to the window. That Mom didn't buy the bus ticket for him. That we didn't sit with him on the bench, waiting for the bus to come. That we just dropped him off and said good-bye on the curb.

Then I realize. Oh, my God.

Mom didn't
want
to know where he was going. She didn't want
me
to know where he was going. Maybe she'd had a call from Dad to warn her, when the police had showed up. Or maybe she'd just guessed he'd be in legal trouble soon.

He asks me what bus station it was. I say I don't remember.

Mom breaks her silence. Offers to write down the name of the station and the time we dropped him off. He hands her a pen and paper. I'm surprised that she would give that information up. But how much help is that, really? We don't know how long he waited at the bus station before leaving. How many transfers he made. He doesn't have a credit card, so it was paid for all with cash. And who is going to remember Luke out of all the passengers taking a bus that day?

The interrogator looks at me and says he thinks I can probably remember a little better now that day I drove Luke to the three stores. And that I am probably ready to rewrite my account of what happened, including looking at the organizer, the stops we made, the
approximate times, and anything else I think is important. He tells me I am doing fine, and to take my time.

He is silent while I write a much more detailed account of the day. Mom is silent too. I sign it and date it.

He tells me he'll call if there are any more questions. He gives both Mom and me his card and says I should call him if I remember anything else.

He says that if Luke comes home or calls or writes that I need to call him immediately. That goes for Mom, too. And Dad. And Peter.

He says that he can have me arrested for obstructing a police investigation if I do not call, that they will have no choice but to assume that I was an accessory to this crime if I do not call.

He asks if I understand.

I nod and say yes, I understand.

•  •  •

Safe in the car, my head starts pounding. I'm exhausted. The detective's questions have my mind spinning. The seriousness of it all crashes over me. If they think I helped Luke . . . If they think I knew he was doing something illegal, I could go to jail. Acid rises in my throat, burning my esophagus, then my tonsils. I swallow. Don't vomit. Don't vomit. Don't vomit.

Dad asks, “How did it go, Clare? Everything okay?” I glare at him. Is everything
okay
? Really?

Mom says, “They have her fingerprints on evidence but nothing that will convict her.”

“Where did they get her fingerprints to compare?” They continue the conversation as if I'm not in the car,
creating a sense of disbelief that this is actually happening to me.

“Remember? They do a fingerprint scan on anyone getting a license now. At least she didn't do anything illegal. I think she's safe. Let's just hope that nothing she said will get Luke in trouble.”

I turn my glare toward her but don't say what I'm thinking: Fuck that. If he goes to prison again, it's
his
fault. Luke's making me an accessory to his crime could ruin my
life.

But Luke wouldn't do that to me. He wouldn't. Besides, the police could be wrong. Maybe it wasn't a receipt scam. Maybe Luke's innocent. My stomach turns, telling my brain that I know better. Luke
is
guilty. And he almost made me an accessory to his crime.

In the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Tovin, Clare?”

“Here.”

“You come from a family with quite a reputation.” I had been in high school for less than fifteen minutes, and I already hated it. Skeleton squeezed into the seat with me, knocking my pencil off my desk. As I bent to pick it up, my new teacher continued with roll. When he finished, his eyes traveled around the classroom.

“I am known for being one of the more strict teachers at this school. I can tell you all now that I do not teach people who are slackers, nor do I teach those who cannot follow the rules. If any of you fall into either category, I suggest you save us all a headache. I'll happily transfer you out to another teacher's class, hmm?” His eyes fixed on me.

Choice one: stay in a classroom with a teacher who obviously has preconceived ideas about me, prejudices based on my brothers' actions in his classroom. Choice two: transfer out. Would transferring out make it an admission of guilt? After all, he did tell me to leave
if
I were a slacker or a troublemaker.

Would other teachers look down on me because of who I was related to?

I sat up straighter, blinked back the tears, drained the hot blood from my face. Stayed and proved him wrong. Lucky for me, teachers gossip, and by the end of June, my own reputation of being a smart, hardworking, well-mannered student began to overshadow the others that I had by association.

Mom barely sets her luggage in her room before heading to her ornaments, now covered in three weeks of dust. I escape immediately to my room to check on my fish. Come on, guys. Make me happy. They've survived the vacation feeder and the power going out in our house twice while I was gone. The tank is a little dirty, but the water level is good, the temperature is right, and the fish look bright and healthy. Peter did a great job taking care of them. I slide down the wall and sit on the floor in front of the fish tank, trying to let my mind rest as I watch the fish glide.

There is a knock as the door opens. That's usually Mom's move, but this time it's Peter.

“Hey,” he says as he sits on the floor next to me. “Drea's called about three times in the past two hours. She says she's been calling and texting your cell phone all day.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket. I didn't even remember to turn it on when the plane landed.

“You should at least call her to say you are home and alive,” he says, picking at a piece of white fuzz on the carpet. “She's stupid worried.”

“I can't talk to Drea about this.” I groan. “What am I going to say? That my idiot brother I'm always so quick to defend made me an accessory to theft?”

“Clare, thirty seconds after the police arrived, the whole fucking neighborhood was up in our business. They all saw your car being searched. Sure, they're all assuming it has something to do with Luke, but they know it was
your
car.”

I bury my face in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

“If it were me, I'd clear it up once, to my close friends. They know you, right, so they know you wouldn't be involved. Screw anyone else. They can think whatever they want.” He pauses, looking from the fuzz to my eyes. “You okay? After the police?”

“Not really,” I say. “It was brutal. I don't want to talk about it. And I'm not really allowed to talk about it anyway.”