What We Knew (22 page)

With every minute that passed, I felt what little courage I had evaporating.
I don’t have to do this,
I thought.
Banana Man doesn’t exist. The man from the woods is gone. I can walk out that door
—But Foley put his hand on my knee, squeezing. “She knows it’s bad,” he said. “She’s stalling, but she needs to hear this.”

Just when I was beginning to suspect Mrs. Grant of fleeing out the back, she returned with a tray and cups. “Sorry it took so long,” she said. “I had to wait for a new pot.”

As she slid back in, I caught a whiff of smoke. She’d gone out for a cigarette.

“If this is about Larry,” she said, reaching for the sugar dispenser. “I know what happened. He told me everything.”

I watched Mrs. Grant calmly stir her coffee and add another cream. I frowned. In the mirror behind her, Foley’s eyes met mine. He shook his head ever so slightly. Mrs. Grant placed her spoon on the saucer and continued: “Larry said he slapped Lisa pretty hard. He feels terrible. He didn’t mean to lose his temper with her, but you know how Lisa pushes his buttons.” She sighed.

Foley raised his eyebrows insistently in the mirror.

“It’s more than that,” he said, squeezing my hand under the table.

I might’ve found a better way to say it. I don’t know. I should’ve used stronger words than “think” and “suspect” because they created holes of doubt, holes big enough for Mrs. Grant to try and crawl through. I should’ve found softer words for “molest” and “rape.” Mrs. Grant stared at me the same way the man in the woods had—pleading for me stop.

I was killing her.

“No-no-no-no-no,” she cried quietly at first, and then louder, gasping for air as she put two and two together—and more. Things so horrible I hadn’t even thought them yet:
Was the baby even Gabe’s?

Mrs. Grant’s coffee cup fell to the floor, but it didn’t break—those cups never do. But she did. Trying to stand, it was as if she’d forgotten that the seats don’t move or that the tables are bolted to the floor. She hit her head on the pendant light above and went down and then tried standing again. I reached for her, but she was like a frightened animal caught in a chute, struggling to free herself. Foley pushed me out of the booth. He was going to help, but Val came rushing over and steered him out of the way. “What’s going on?” she asked Foley, and then, “Sharon, are you okay?”

Collapsing against the seat back, her breathing hard and jagged, Mrs. Grant cried, “Val, it’s Larry. He’s been hurting…” Val lowered her ear to Mrs. Grant’s lips and listened, her face curdling with disgust, until she collapsed, too, squeezing Mrs. Grant. My ring tone chimed. Val shot me a dirty look. But it was my brother. I couldn’t not answer. I grabbed my phone and ran outside.

“Jesus, Scott. What took you so long? I left you a thousand messages!”

“Shut up and listen,” he said. My anger swelled. I was about to hang up when he said, “Lisa and Katie are with me.”

I stopped pacing the rectangles of light shining from the windows and stared down into a storm grate. “What are you talking about?” I said.

“That’s why I didn’t call. This morning I had all these messages from you
and
Lisa. Lisa said she and Katie were at the bus terminal, so I called her first. She needed to figure things out, so she asked me not to call you. She was afraid you’d go jumping on a bus, too.”

“Did she tell you about Larry?” I asked hesitantly.

There was a long pause before he answered quietly: “Yeah. She did.”

“Where are they now? What are they doing?”

“I just made them spaghetti. They’re eating.”

I pictured Lisa at the table, frowning at her plate. Not Lisa now. Lisa from sixth grade, back when Scott was working on his merit badge for cooking and used us as guinea pigs. I smiled at the two of us choking down dry eggs and burnt toast until a dark shape rose up and swallowed Lisa. Was that when it started for her? I got a sick feeling as I realized how it was going to be—now and forever—with my brain superimposing Larry’s shadow over every memory.

“Where are you?” Scott asked.

“I’m at the diner. I just told Mrs. Grant.”

Scott paused, and then echoed my words to Lisa. I listened for her reaction, but a tractor trailer shuddered past and I missed it.

“Does she want to talk to me?” I asked.

“Not right now,” Scott said. “Maybe later. She’s calling her mom. I’m gonna bring them home. There’s a bus that leaves at eleven something.”

“I’ll meet you at the station.”

“No, Trace. Don’t. Lisa doesn’t … We’ll talk when I get there. Warn Mom that I’m coming.”

Tears spilled from my eyes as I thumbed the power-save button. I stood there forever just trying to breathe until Foley grabbed me around the waist, startling me.

“Lisa just called her mom,” he said. “They’re okay.”

“I know.” I raised my phone. “That was my brother. They’re with him.”

I turned toward the door, but Foley pulled me back. “Don’t go in there,” he said, shaking his head. “Mrs. G asked us to leave.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

Lacing his fingers through mine, Foley assured me I’d done the right thing. If I’d done the right thing, then why was everyone treating me like I was radioactive? Walking in silence, side by side, our strides perfectly matched, the distance from the diner to my house had never seemed shorter. We stood for a moment in the blue light filtering from my living room window—my mother was home—and then went around back. Foley’s bike was against the garage. I traced a crack in the driveway with my toe, and said, “You know what’s crazy? This time last night we were hanging out at the coffee shop.”

Foley whistled. “Wow,” he said. “It
has
been a long day.”

I glanced up at the stars. “It’s been a long summer.” Leaning on our car, I caught myself thinking about the night I’d slept in one. As Foley wiped chain grease from his ankle, I asked stupidly, thoughtlessly, “Adam’s not back yet, is he?”

Climbing on his bike, Foley kissed the top of my head, and said, “I don’t know, Trace.”

Watching him coast down the driveway, my instinct was to follow, but my tires were flat and it was late. I wanted to catch my mother before she went to bed and tell her Scott was coming home. I used the front door expecting to find her curled up on the couch in her robe, but she was at the kitchen table, still dressed from her date, thumbing through a book in her hand. Katie’s diary.

“I found this in the garage,” she said. “What’s going on in that house? What’s all this stuff about Katie being stalked by some monster—Banana Man, or whatever you guys call him?”

I stared at my feet, trying to find the words to start. Some things never get any easier. How do you tell your mother that your best friend’s stepfather is the worst kind of monster, the kind that devours little girls, devours his own daughters? I could almost feel his putrid breath on my shoulder as I whispered, shivering, “It’s bad, Mommy. Really bad.” I looked up. She knew. I didn’t have to say it. She had this pained look on her face. I dropped down beside her chair and put my head in her lap. My mother stroking my hair was all it took. Something in me broke and everything tumbled out.

“Oh, Tracy,” my mother said. “He never tried anything with you, did he? You’d tell me, right?”

My head on my mother’s knee, I stared into the dark space beneath the kitchen table and asked, “Do you remember that kid from Troy?”

“Jerrod McKinney?” my mother said brightly.

I winced. “Jerrod McKinney raped me,” I breathed.

I knew how it looked, how my mother would see it. It’s not like I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when it happened.

Alone with a boy …

In an empty house …

My shirt unbuttoned …

I raised you better than that, Tracy Louise.

But sometimes my mom surprises me. Sometimes she knows just what to do. Like pulling me up onto her lap like an oversized doll and rocking me gently, whispering softly, “I’m sorry, Tracy. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” Like telling me it wasn’t my fault and I could’ve told her, should’ve told her.
I’m your mother.
And then letting me stay like that—curled up against her—until my tears dried and my breathing calmed, and then saying she would get me help, whatever I needed, to work through it. That it was my decision.

“I used to be so normal,” I said. “We all did. What happened?”

My mother didn’t have an answer. “It’ll be good to see your brother,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I miss him. I miss Daddy.”

For the first time she didn’t get all weepy and say “Me, too.” Instead, she kissed me on the head and said there was chocolate cake from her date with Jim. She brought over the container and a fork and then picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. Scott, I figured. He didn’t answer, and a few seconds later she was leaving a message. But not for Scott. For my dad. She said she knew he was at work, but would he please come over in the morning.

“There’s some stuff going on we need to talk about,” she said, combing my hair with her fingers. “It’s Tracy. She needs you.”

twenty-six

Voices in the kitchen. Hushed and familiar but just out of reach, fragments from a lost dream. Mom. Dad. Scott. The three of them talked easily, back and forth, the rhythm of normal conversation. Scott said something and our parents laughed. Snuggled deeply in my bed, I savored the sounds of my broken family gathered together until the smell of pancakes drew me from my cocoon.

“If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty,” Scott said, standing over the griddle with a spatula, waiting for the batter bubbles to pop. He looked the same, except for the shaved head. I rubbed his stubble. My father had shaved, too. The stupid beard he had the last time I saw him was gone. “Come here, kiddo,” he said, handing his coffee mug to my mom. “Give me a hug.”

My dad’s not always good with words, but he didn’t need them. He wrapped me in his arms, and I pressed my cheek to his chest. He was still in his uniform, which meant he hadn’t wasted time changing. He’d listened to my mom’s message and come straight over. How many times after he’d left had I wished I could trade him for Larry? I cringed thinking about it. My dad would never hurt me. Not like that. His chin on my head, he squeezed me tighter and said, “Your mom told me everything.”

I stiffened. Locking eyes with my mother, I questioned her silently.
Everything?

“I thought it’d be easier if I explained about Lisa and Katie,” she said, pulling a plate of bacon out of the microwave. I relaxed. My mom knowing about Jerrod McKinney was painful enough. The thought of my dad knowing was too much. I wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Scott plunked a stack of pancakes on the table and said, “I’m starving. Let’s eat.” But then we all just stood there, eyeing the four chairs awkwardly until my mother went to get the butter and my dad and I traded spots. For once I didn’t mind sitting next to my brother. I had a million questions.

“No police yet,” Scott started, drowning his breakfast in syrup. “Their mom was at the station with their grandmother. That’s where they were going last night—their grandmother’s.”

The bacon went around the table and then the juice. I knew where their grandmother lived. I could get there by bus, but it would take an hour and a couple of transfers. I asked Scott to drive me.

“Don’t go trying to see her just yet,” he said.

My parents nodded in agreement.

Scott leaned sideways in his chair and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Tattered and yellowed, one side said MISSING with a photo of a cat. The other side was filled with Lisa’s bubble print. I started to read, but my eyes got all blurry.

“Aren’t you gonna eat your breakfast?” my mother called as I rushed down the hall to my room.

I closed my door and sat on the floor, trying to still the paper between my trembling hands.

Do you remember the first time we went to Hillhurst Park alone? Remember how we felt like big girls? For the first time it was just you and me without my mom or your mom or Scott. We were such dorks back then! We actually planned our outfits! I wore all pink—of course. And you wore your new sandals, the ones that stained your feet blue. Remember?

I did. We were in seventh grade. Too big for the swings and the slides, we hung out in the band shell, singing our hearts out, oblivious to everything except the echo of our voices.

I had strict orders from Larry to be home at five o’clock, on the dot, not one second later, but then that huge storm rolled in. Remember how we huddled in the band shell, waiting for it to pass but it just got worse and worse? There was thunder and lightning crashing all around and that insane wind that was blowing the leaves right off the trees. It was the worst storm in twenty years, or something crazy like that, and I was freaking out because I was afraid I’d be grounded if I didn’t make it home on time. “I have to go,” I kept saying. “I have to.” I know you were terrified, but you linked your arm with mine and told me I wasn’t going anywhere without you. I loved you for that. I still do. For sticking with me.

Do you remember the water? How deep it was at the bottom of Bradley?

How could I forget? My mother freaked out when she saw the flood marks around my knees. It’s funny how at that age you worry about the dumbest things. For me, it was ruining my sandals. For Lisa, it was losing her TV privileges. But it was my mom who made me realize the real danger we’d risked. Drowning. Electrocution.

Someone knocked on my door, but I kept reading:

God, I was stupid. But we made it. We survived. That memory has gotten me though a lot, Trace—pretty much the last four years of my life.

Scott poked his head in and wrinkled his nose. “What smells like feet in here?”

I shoved my Cons under the bed. It was time for a new pair, even if they were just getting good.

“Have you read this?” I asked.

He nodded. “She wrote it on the bus.” Plunking down beside me, he hugged his knees to his chest. “She wanted to write more, but she ran out of room.”