Disappearance at Devil's Rock (35 page)

Elizabeth texts Kate and Janice:
Sorry I've been here so long. I'm on my way home.

On the walk out of the station, to the parking lot, and during the ride to her house they don't talk. Tomorrow will be for discussion and the official identification of Tommy's body, and Elizabeth will insist upon seeing his actual body and not just photographs, and she will look at those too, and as one of her final and most important acts as his mother she will bear witness to what happened. She won't flinch from the smell of his rotting body and she won't turn away from his bloated and destroyed face, a face with two pennies for eyes, a face she once saw late at night in her bedroom and then again on a piece of paper. Elizabeth will be told that Rooney pressed the pennies into Tommy's eyes postmortem, as though that makes it better. She will ask Allison if she thinks the picture Tommy drew looks like his body and she will ask three times before Allison finally answers with “It does.” There will be days ahead where Elizabeth will be able to remember Tommy for the beautiful boy he was and not what happened to him. But there will be days where she can't think of anything else but his body and his ruined face and life, and then spiral into a blow-by-blow reimagining of how he got to be that way, and the uncanny picture he drew, and what it was Tommy saw that night in Borderland.

Allison pulls into Elizabeth's driveway, as far up as she can go, and parks next to Janice's car. The headlights flood her backyard. Busy moths and gnats float in the electric light above the tall and sagging grass. She shuts the car off, the spotlight disappears, and the secret nocturnal life of the backyard retreats into darkness again.

Elizabeth opens her door, careful not to ding Janice's car. There are two news vans parked at the edge of the front lawn. Allison puts herself between Elizabeth and the news crews as they walk to the front door. Shouted questions echo in the emptiness of the sleeping neighborhood.

“Don't listen to them. Keep on walking. You're doing fine. You're a strong, amazing person, Elizabeth, truly, and Kate is lucky to have you. . . .” Allison drones on in a low, tremulous voice that reflects a lack of confidence, anger, or discomfort, Elizabeth isn't sure which. How Allison sounds registers with her, though, and she is grateful.

On the darkened front stoop Elizabeth takes Allison's hand, squeezes it, says, “Thank you,” and then opens the door. It's unlocked.

Inside. All of the lights are on in the kitchen and the living room and the main hallway and Elizabeth will later find the bathroom and bedroom lights, desk and reading lamps included, are all on, too. The house is as bright as it can be and everything is still.

Janice and Kate stand together in the living room, in front of the couch but not so close that they can sit down without having to take a few steps backward. Neither is in her pajamas or nightclothes. They both are wearing jeans and a sweatshirt; Kate's is thin and green, the hood missing its drawstring, and Janice's is a faded navy blue, hoodless, and too long in the sleeve. They are holding hands and they are already crying.

J
une 20, 7
P.M.
of the day before the longest day of the year.

The slowly setting sun hovers over the treetops across the street. Elizabeth sits on the front stairs, drinking a bottle of warm water (she'd left it in the car this afternoon), and talking to her mother on her cell phone. It's almost ten full months after the discovery of Tommy's body.

Elizabeth: “It was hard to listen to. It's all hard to listen to.”

Janice: “I'm sorry I couldn't be there. It'll only get harder.”

“Yeah. It will. Anyway, they started late, went through some procedural BS, and then it was lunch, and after a long lunch the defense interviewed expert witnesses and they talked about Rooney's childhood and what happened to him when he was a teen and that kind of stuff.”

“Waste of time and money. He's a monster.”

“Mom . . .”

“What? He's not a monster?”

The prosecution spent the previous week plus presenting the case
that Rooney was indeed a monster, a sane monster—a manipulative, highly intelligent sociopath of sound mind who understood what he was doing and understood the consequences of his actions.

Elizabeth: “No, no, he is. But, I don't know, at the same time, he's not.”

“Okay, Elizabeth, but—”

“Can I give you the quick recap, Mom?”

“Yes, of course.”

Eight days into Rooney's trial and sharing the recap is her way of trying to understand why Tommy was drawn to him, would become friends with him, and try to see what it was he saw.

Elizabeth: “They talked about his criminal record and all those break-ins but he never took anything, or never took anything of big value. He even broke into the mayor's house in North Adams. He didn't take anything but just stood there, watching the mayor and his wife sleeping.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. They talked about how those break-ins, or they called them home invasions because people were home, should've been a big warning sign that even though he hadn't done anything violent yet, he was capable of it and was on that path. The last expert witness was a child psychiatrist, and she said that Rooney claimed he was sexually abused by strangers who would come and go in his mom's apartment. He'd tell his meth-head mom about it, and she would then send him to the church youth group his uncle led, the kind of group that paints the abused as tempters and sinners.”

“She said that?”

“No, I'm saying that. But that's what she was implying. They showed the court some of the hellfire-and-brimstone kind of literature from those youth groups. Just awful stuff. And Rooney was part of those groups for years, and they would travel around to other churches and carnivals. Rooney tried to commit suicide twice before he was
even fifteen, and his mom was arrested and the court took him away from his mother. His uncle took him then, but that was short-lived. His uncle was forced out of his parish—well, not his parish; his uncle's evangelical, not Catholic or whatever—but you get the idea. He was taking money from people he claimed he could heal or tell their future. Kind of like how Rooney told the boys he was a seer. Anyway, he got booted. Rooney was on his own for a little bit, bounced around foster homes for a few years, and that's when he started breaking into places, and he eventually went back to live with his uncle, who had relocated to Brockton. And I don't know. I don't know why I need to tell you any of this. It doesn't change anything.”

“You don't have to go and listen to all that.”

“Yes I do. I want to be there and hear it all. I do. Everything they have to say and show. But then after, I can't keep it all inside. I need to get it all out of me.”

“I understand, totally, dear. You can tell me anything.”

“I'm calling it psychological bulimia. That's the name of my band.”

Janice laughs politely, as did Elizabeth's therapist when she made the same joke earlier in the week.

Elizabeth says, “I sat in the back today. As far back as I could go. Wore my sunglasses, too, which made it a little better. Spent most of the time looking at the back of Rooney's head, waiting for him to turn around and look at me, but not wanting him to. He's just a kid, Mom. It's all so fucked. Or I look at the back of Josh's and Luis's heads, their parents, sitting there in suits. It's all fucked. Totally fucked. And, I don't know. I should go. I think I heard Kate shut the vacuum off.”

“I'm sorry you were there by yourself today, but I'll be there tomorrow, I promise, and we can talk more if you like.”

“Mom, you really don't need to be down here until after the closing, which is at 2
P.M.
The trial is taking the next two days off, making a long weekend of it, apparently.”

“Okay. Text me the address of the new place, I'm sorry I misplaced it already, and I'll meet you over there after the closing.”

“Great. Will do. Thanks. I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too. Tell Kate I love her.”

“I will.”

Elizabeth walks into the empty house. Half of their stuff is packed on a moving truck and the other half thrown out or donated. Kate didn't want to throw out anything. She even wanted to keep the nasty rug from the living room. Elizabeth was ruthless in her packing efficiency and mandates of what was tossed and what would be saved. It was the only way she could get through this move without screaming. When they cleared out Tommy's room Elizabeth stoically fought to remain on task while Kate picked at the piles of stuff, said, “I'm keeping this,” and flittered in and out of the room like a bird gathering random scraps for a nest.

The Sandersons are downsizing to a two-bedroom condo in a newly built complex on the southwest side of Ames, close to the Mansfield border. There are ten units in total, and the association has a pool, a duck pond, and a tennis court. Against Elizabeth's better judgment, she acquiesced to Kate and agreed to stay in Ames. Kate made it clear that she did not want to move to a different town and that she wanted to continue to go to the Ames middle school and be with her friends. Given the impossible circumstances, sixth grade for Kate was a miraculous success both academically and socially. But at that school the sixth graders are kept separate, secret, and safe from the seventh and eighth graders. In September, she's to be thrown in the deep end of that water. There will be sharks. Elizabeth hopes that the familiar faces will continue to rally and support her.

She fears the emotional baggage of what has become the town tragedy, the town scandal, the town lore, and she fears the rumors and whispers will continue to grow in volume and power, adding yet
another ring to the hell that is middle school. Kate has already told her some of the rumors she's heard, including the most popular one: Tommy was a human sacrifice (some say a willing sacrifice) in a satanic ceremony and that the shadowman still walks the park at night. There's a shadowman Twitter hashtag that gets multiple entries per day, spiking during weekend parties. The high school kids drink and then swim out to the island with spray paint and permanent markers and they write notes and draw symbols on the rock pile where Tommy's body was found and they post their pictures of them standing next to the rocks or crouching down between them to Instagram and there was one kid who had a picture of him writing “Satins Rock” go viral and result in his arrest. Kate reports it all to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth asks, “How's it going in here?”

Kate sweeps the empty living room floor. To start this summer, she's gone all blue with her hair and makes noises about keeping it for the fall, too. Her last baby tooth fell out in February. She'll need braces at some point with her upper jaw canines poking out higher in her gumline than the rest of the crowd of teeth. She can smile this thin, tight smile that shows off the whites of those canines. She calls it her vampire smile. In the last ten months her weight has fluctuated wildly and she has grown an inch and a half, getting her to five foot one. She's very proud of the one.

Kate says, “Just about done.”

“Don't go too crazy. Doesn't have to be spotless. They're going to gut the place anyway. I heard them talking about knocking down walls, new floor in the kitchen, new paint, the works.”

“I really want to see what it looks like when they're done. Do you think they'll let us come see the place when they're done?”

“I don't know. That might be kind of weird for them, don't you think?”

“Why? We didn't do anything wrong.”

Kate's therapist made it clear to Elizabeth that while she should of course continue to parent, set limitations, and say no to Kate as she sees fit, she does need to validate Kate's emotions and thoughts throughout the grieving process. Kate has really connected with Dr. Jennifer Levesque, often quoting her advice and aphorisms. Kate has not shut down, gone near catatonic, as Elizabeth had feared she would, and as Elizabeth did herself for the first month after Tommy's death. Kate has instead become an open book, unfiltered and raw in saying what she's thinking, feeling. While Janice gamely struggles with Kate's emotional honesty, the newly unfettered, unedited version of Kate has saved Elizabeth. Someday, maybe soon, she will tell Kate that she has saved her. Elizabeth's own therapist doesn't want her to put that kind of pressure on Kate; Kate shouldn't have the burden of being her mother's strength in addition to everything else she's dealing with. So maybe she won't tell her. But, selfishly, Elizabeth wants to, because she doesn't know how long this sometimes painfully open level of communication with her daughter will last. She irrationally hopes that it will last forever.

Elizabeth: “I will ask them tomorrow at the closing.”

“I think they'll say yes. The wife likes me.”

“What about the husband?”

“He thinks we're creepy and sad.”

Elizabeth laughs. “You know this how?”

“Because we are creepy and sad?” Kate smiles and rolls her eyes, so clearly sarcastic, commiserative, and directed at the couple buying their house, Elizabeth guffaws and snorts.

Elizabeth says, “I'm only creepy when I snort-laugh.”

Her amazing daughter seems so confident and adult now, but she's still only twelve and won't be thirteen for another four months. Elizabeth's new worry on the ever-expanding list of worries is that Kate has bypassed teendom altogether and she'll be doomed to be an outcast
for the next six years of school. How can kids her age possibly relate to her now?

Kate says, “The wife. What's her name again?”

“Carrie.”

“She saw my lax stick on their last walkthrough and asked me about it. The husband stood there with a lame lets-go smile.”

They carry the vacuum, broom, and dustpan out to the rental truck and deposit them in the back of the cab. None of the neighbors are out to say goodbye. Which is fine by Elizabeth.

Elizabeth: “One last look?”

“Definitely.”

“Will you hold my hand?”

“Only when we're inside.”

“Deal.”

Kate says, “And we have to talk. We have to say what we're thinking.”

Elizabeth doesn't respond. She doesn't want to make any promises that she can't keep.

They walk back into the house. It is so quiet and empty, and with the light fading and filling the house with soft shadows, Elizabeth isn't sure she will make it through this. She lets Kate lead her, pull her along from room to room. In each room Kate details some memories and what she'll miss.

Living room: “I'll miss sleepovers on the couch, watching
Pacific Rim
with Sam. And spying on the boys playing video games.”

Kitchen: “I'll miss being the first one up and eating cereal, the cold floor on my feet, and Tommy always spilling his orange juice, you standing at the counter asking him if he needs a sippy cup.”

Hallway: “I'll miss hallway dodgeball. And turtle races. I still have like this little scar on my knee from them.”

Her bedroom: “I am going to miss my room. All of it.” Kate doesn't say anything more.

Elizabeth's room: “I'll miss running in and jumping on the bed to wake you up on Sunday mornings.”

Elizabeth looks at Kate. Elizabeth is crying. Kate is not. She is resolute. Has the look of a person with a plan, determined to see it finished.

Elizabeth says, “I will miss that, too, but you can do that and wake me up in the new place.” She will not miss this room, not at all. It's become a box of sleepless nights and endless nightmares, both waking and not. The night she and William moved in, they didn't even sleep in this bedroom. They were spooked by how quiet it was and dragged a mattress out into the living room and slept with the curtains open. Leaving the rest of the house behind is difficult. Leaving behind the memories created in this bedroom is necessary, a matter of survival: the shattering arguments with William; the late-night phone calls, one for her ex-husband, one for her son; the past year's worth of secret tears, hidden from Kate; the interminable hours hoping that because they'd found Tommy, he'd come back to see her one last time; staring at the empty space between the chair and the end table, which she never moved or rearranged despite promising herself that the next morning she would move the furniture, and that promise, that lie to herself, was the only way her body would allow her to fall asleep.