What She Left Behind (25 page)

“Dad started falling apart the minute we left Philly, and you couldn’t have known Matt would really—why the hell did he care what Dad thought, anyhow?” But I know the answer. No matter what Dad did to us, no matter how bad he treated us, there was a part of all of us—Mom, Matt, me—that still loved him because of the dad he used to be. A part of each of us still wanted to please him—and wanted him to love us. It’s stupid, crazy, and utterly insane. And yet it’s still true. “God, Zach, why didn’t he tell me?”

I think of my brother leaning against his car.
Need a ride, Sara?

If I had said yes, would you have told me?

If you had told me, would anything have been any different? Would I have known the right things to stay to stop you from leaving us forever? It’s just not what I was expecting. But, hey, sometimes surprises turn out to be the best things about life. I
loved
you, Matt. I loved you for
you
. Damn it, Matt, why didn’t you stick around?

“He didn’t tell you because he didn’t tell anyone, Sara. I only knew because I showed up at your place right after your dad had wailed on him. That was the week before—”

“Matt said he’d fallen down the basement stairs.” When Matt had told me, I’d known it was a lie. But I had wanted to believe him. And once again, I’d done nothing. Hadn’t told anyone who could have helped. I hadn’t even asked why Dad did it. I suppose I had thought that Dad didn’t need a reason.

“How come you never told me before, Zach?”

Zach finally looks at me. “I thought it didn’t matter anymore.” He turns away again. “Or maybe the truth is, it was easier not to tell you.”

I have this empty pit in my stomach. How could I not know something this big about my brother’s life?

Suddenly I wonder what else I don’t know about the people who mean the most to me. “Uh, Zach? You and Matt weren’t ever, you know, I mean you’re not—”

“Gay? No, Sara, I’m not.” Zach sighs.

“Go ahead, say it. This is exactly why Matt didn’t tell me. Because I can’t even say the word ‘gay’ out loud.”

“I’m sure that isn’t the reason, Sara. He knew you would love him no matter what. He was probably just waiting for the right moment.”

Like on the bike ride that never was.
Why hadn’t I gone?
I make a fist and hit the headboard.
Why?
I hit it again.

“I’m sorry, Sara. I’m no better at dealing with what happened than you are. But I think you’d better stop banging or your Dad’s going to come back in here.”

“I hope he does. Because then I can—”
Then I can
what,
exactly? Do the same thing I always did when it came to Dad?

Nothing.

I stop banging and lie perfectly still. “What’s that?” The hallway floor creaks under the weight of my dad’s footsteps. Is he coming to check on us because of the noise? My stomach clenches. Zach’s right. I better pull myself together. There’s a belt on the nightstand. My heart pounds. Will Dad hit me with it if he comes in? There’s
no way I can protect my face. And what if he hits Zach instead of me? Or my mom?

I stay motionless as the seconds tick by.
Thump. Thump.
The footsteps stop outside our door. I hold my breath, as if it’ll do any good. Finally the footsteps sound again. I wait another agonizing minute, then let out my breath. He’s gone.

“What are we going to do?” I whisper.

Zach stays quiet. I really hope he’s thinking of something brilliant.

“We do what he wants for the moment and look for our opportunity. You’re our best bet, Sara. You were the only one he left alone in the bathroom. He’s the least careful around you. You have to forget what your dad did to Matt and play the part of the obedient daughter.”

I clench my fists. “Don’t worry. I’ve been doing that so long, I’d almost forgotten it was a part.”

I
t’s not easy to sleep with your arms above your head and your mind filled with images of guns and echoes of your dead brother’s voice. The next morning, Dad wakes us up at seven, which feels like it’s mere minutes after I’ve finally fallen asleep. My wrists are numb, my back is sore, and I have to turn my whole body to talk to people because my neck is stiff. And my heart, it’s breaking from looking at sweet, brave Zach and my mother’s sunken, swollen eyes.

When Dad takes me to the bathroom today, he stands in the doorway, giving me no chance to grab the toilet tank lid as a weapon.

“I need a shower,” I say, hoping Dad will leave me unattended. “I always take a shower in the morning.”

“Relax,” Dad says. “We’re camping. It’s okay to have a little dirt under your fingernails.”

Dad secures us to the kitchen chairs, the same as he did yesterday, leaving one hand free. I’m still the only one whose legs aren’t tied.

Breakfast is Cheerios in plastic bowls, both of which I hate. I can’t stand the taste or smell of milk in a plastic bowl. The morning is occupied by more puzzles. The Statue of Liberty puzzle has been put away unfinished, but we work on the forest puzzle until we fill in all but the pieces that are missing.

As we work on the puzzle, my mind drifts back to the day Matt died. After I had spent the afternoon making out with Ian and then rehashing the details with Lauren, Jay drove me home like Lauren had told Matt he would. On the ride home, we laughed about how Dan Watkins had fallen into the orchestra pit during the middle of last year’s play and how Matt had managed to cover for him by acting like it was part of the show. Now I wonder if Jay had been in such a good mood because he thought he was going to see Matt.

We were still laughing when we walked in the front door. I even forgot to worry about Dad being mad if Jay didn’t leave before he got home.

“I Had a Bad Day” was playing on the stereo.

“Not that song again, Matt,” I protested. “Turn it off and shoot some hoops with Jay here.”

Even though the music was loud, the house was quiet.

“Matt?” That’s when I saw the blood. “What’s on the—”

Jay tried to cover my eyes, to protect me from seeing what was left of my brother. But it was too late.

We had stood there together screaming and sobbing in each other’s arms. I thought Jay had been crying from the shock of what we’d just seen. I hadn’t known it was so much more.

“How about we go for a walk?” suggests Zach. “Remember when we used to go out walking and collect leaves?”

“No,” says Dad. “I don’t. I don’t think we did.” His eyes narrow. It’s as if someone has ripped a hole in Zach’s Matt mask. Dad picks up the gun and turns it over in his hands.

“It was pinecones, Matt. Not leaves,” I say.

The hole patches itself. “Right. Pinecones,” says Dad.

“Let’s go look for pinecones then,” I say.

“It’s too cold out.” Dad’s leg twitches nervously. “I know. Reading time!”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. I tossed the Stephen King book I had “packed” on the front lawn when we left the house. Dad turns toward the direction of the bedroom, where my duffel bag is. My palms start to sweat.

One step. Two steps. Three. He hesitates in front of an end table, then grabs three books.

I feel the color return to my cheeks.

Dad distributes the books at random. I get a Western. Guns again. My mom, a romance. Zach, a nonfiction book on wild animals. Dad’s book is on top of the refrigerator, next to the duct tape. He takes it down and settles onto the couch.
Surviving Alaska.
It’s the same book he had been reading at home.

Lunch is two cans of tuna, scooped onto individual plates and served with Saltines. Two pickles each. Tea.

Just as Dad hands Zach a fork, Zach looks at me and nods.
This is it!
We were going to make our move.
You have to get the gun, Sara. You have to do it!
I try not to look at it on the counter. I don’t want to make Dad suspicious. Zach takes his fork and stabs it into Dad’s arm. Dad jerks away and swings at Zach’s face. Zach grabs Dad’s arm and holds on.

That’s it. That’s my cue. I get up and run, dragging my chair behind me. I reach for the gun.

The chair I’m cuffed to yanks back and I fall to the floor. The gun, too. I cringe, expecting it to go off. Zach’s also sprawled on the floor and inching toward the gun. But Dad retrieves it in seconds, pulls back the safety, and aims.

At me.

I can’t breathe. My whole body trembles.
Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.
I close my eyes tightly, waiting for the boom. I wonder if I’ll hear the gunshot before it kills me.

Instead of a bullet, Dad’s voice says, “You try anything and I’ll shoot her.” I open my eyes. Dad is staring coldly at Zach. “And then I’ll shoot your mother.”

Zach freezes. Dad stares him down for a few more seconds. He puts the gun on the top of the refrigerator, cuffs both of my hands to my chair, and ties my feet. Then Dad cuffs Zach and my mom to their chairs, taking away any freedom we had had.

And with that, lunch is over. For everyone except Dad, that is. He stands at the counter and watches us as he eats his plate of tuna
and crackers. He doesn’t seem angry, just thoughtful, and I wonder if he’s deciding what he’s going to do with us.

Dad clears the table, our food untouched. He rinses the dishes but doesn’t wash them. Then he dries his hands on the kitchen towel. But when he hangs it on the handle of the oven door, he doesn’t straighten it.

Dad plays his guitar all afternoon. He plays the same song fifty times, or maybe it’s a hundred. Every so often he picks up the gun which is now on the coffee table in front of him, and flips it over once, twice, three times, then puts it back.

Dinner is the same. Dad eats tuna and crackers while standing at the counter and watching us. We have nothing.

Dad goes back to his guitar after dinner.

When someone finally speaks, it’s my mom.

“Ray,” she says, in a soothing voice, “the kids need to get back for school tomorrow. Why don’t you give the keys to Matt so he and Sara can drive home? Then you and I can enjoy the rest of our vacation here.”

What is she doing? Shut up, Mom!
There’s no way he’ll let us go. She’s just going to make him angry.

“This is a family vacation, Michelle. We should all be together. Aren’t you having a good time, Sara?” No mention of how we’d tried to escape.

I nod and try to smile.

“What? Speak up!”

“Yes, of course. It’s great.”

“Matt?”

“Sure Dad.”

“See, Michelle? They want to be here.”

“But Sara has a history test and Matt has play rehearsal.” Mom’s voice is strong.

Dad leans his guitar against the coffee table. The strings buzz. Dad glares at me. “Didn’t you tell me that Matt quit the play?” Dad asks. “Huh? Isn’t that what you said, Sara?”

“I—uh, yes, of course he quit,” I say. “Mom just didn’t know yet.”

Dad takes the gun from the coffee table and crosses the room to tower over Zach.

“Did you quit the play or not? Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“Yeah, I quit. Just like you wanted.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Dad slaps Zach across the face.

Dad seems especially agitated. A bad feeling spreads through me. Something feels different. Like Dad’s about to snap.
I have to do something, and fast.

“Stop it, Dad!” I shout. “That’s not Matt, it’s Zach! Matt is dead!”

Dad turns toward me. But the blank look in his eyes tells me that he hasn’t processed what I said. Or that he doesn’t want to.

“Come on, Sara, let’s go,” Dad says, cold and matter-of-fact. He unties my legs and unlocks my handcuffs.

“Dad?” My voice sounds shrill to my own ears. “You know that’s not Matt. It’s Zach. Let him go home!”

“Mr. Peters,” Zach pleads. “I’m sorry I let you think I’m Matt. Can’t we all stay here and figure things out together?”

“Ray!”

My dad, his face expressionless, doesn’t answer. Instead he drags me out to the camper, opens the door, and pushes me in the back.

I try again, pleading in my quiet voice. “It’s Zach, Dad. It’s Zach.”

“Get under the table,” Dad barks. He cuffs me around the table leg again.

God, what’s happening?
Does Dad understand what I told him? Does he know that it’s Zach inside the cabin and not Matt?

Dad slams the camper door behind him.

“Dad!” Panic overwhelms me.
Where is he taking me?
But Dad doesn’t climb in the front seat of the camper. Is he going to bring Mom and Zach along? Or is he going to hurt them? My blood turns ice-cold.