What She Left Behind (24 page)

“Matt, grab the cooler,” Dad had said, stepping in the canoe.

“Get it yourself,” Matt said, only Dad never heard because I pretended to swallow wrong and have a coughing fit. I picked up the cooler with one hand and grabbed Matt’s sleeve with the other, dragging both to the canoe. Even though we’d been doing this for years, Matt and I still didn’t paddle to Dad’s satisfaction. Dad was always shouting, “Other side, Sara!”

Dad drops a plastic bowl on the table, startling me back to the present.

“Chips, anyone?” Dad asks. We all put on smiles and dutifully push our plates forward.

The gun lies on the counter next to the bag of chips, the barrel pointing straight at me. As my dad refills the chip bowl, I wonder what would happen if he bumped the gun off the counter. Would it go off? Would someone get hit?

As we eat, Dad prods us each in turn to talk about our day. Mom’s reply, spoken in her fake-cheery voice, sounds rehearsed and strangely familiar. “Call volume was up today. We were running a special on the Autumn Splendor sets. I showed you one of the plates, right, Sara?”

“Uh, yeah, right,” I say. No wonder it sounds familiar. That’s the exact same thing she said the day before she disappeared.

I look at my Dad, wondering if he’s caught on. Apparently not. He nods and smiles.

I get the feeling that Mom’s been saying the same thing every night. Maybe because she’d figured out that it’s safe. That there’s nothing she’d said to make my dad upset.

“How was your day, Sara?”

I take a deep breath and repeat what I’d said last Monday night too.

“Fine, I guess. Rachel spilled hydrochloric acid on herself in chem and had to use the emergency shower.”

On cue, Mom adds, “She’s okay, I hope.”

“Yeah, she’s fine.”

“Matt?”

We all look at Zach. The wild card. Would he say the right thing? Would he remember Matt’s schedule? More important, would
Dad
remember Matt’s schedule?

Don’t mention Spanish class. Whatever you do, please don’t mention Spanish class. Or the Dairy Dream. Or play rehearsal. Especially not play rehearsal.

“I, uh, had a test in math?”

Dad nods. “And?”

“And I did good. Uh, ninety-two.”

Watch it, Zach! Matt would never have done that well.

“It’s graded already?” Dad’s voice sounds suspicious.

“Not everyone’s. Just mine. I thought I’d done well, so I asked if she could grade it for me after school.” He’s starting to talk really fast. I have to stop him before he says the wrong thing. “Then I—”

I drop my fork on the floor, hoping it looks like an accident.

“Damn it, Sara! Can’t you be more careful?” shouts Dad.

“Sorry,” I say. “Go ahead, Matt. You were saying you had history tutoring after school.”

“Uh-huh,” says Zach, without missing a beat. “That’s about it.”

Dad stands up rather abruptly. “Okay. Everyone hand me your plates.” As Dad carries Mom’s and Zach’s dishes to the counter, I try not to look at the gun.

This is insane. How many days are we going to spend like this, reliving the same meal over and over? We can’t rely on Dad to keep us alive. We’ll have to get ahold of the gun.
I’ll
have to get ahold of the gun. And then—this is where my mind freezes—
If you take the gun, Sara, you have to be ready to use it.

“Your plate, Sara,” Dad holds out his hand expectantly.

“Here, sorry.” Flustered, I almost drop my fork again.

Washing the dishes takes Dad about five times as long as it would have taken my mom or me, but it doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Each dish is scrubbed carefully, then rinsed.
Front-back-front-back-front.
Drying is
hold-swirl, flip, hold-swirl,
place on counter.
Hold-swirl, flip, hold-swirl,
place on counter. When he’s done, he passes the dishcloth around so we can each wipe off our part of the table. Then he sends around the drying towel.

Apparently Zach didn’t make the proper number of rotations, because Dad flicks him in the face with the towel and hands it back shouting, “You call that dry?”

Once the dishes are done and the table’s cleaned, Dad announces, “Puzzle time! Which one should we do today?” He walks over to the bookcase and pulls down the stack of puzzles. “Mount Rushmore? Forest scene?”

“Is the Statue of Liberty one still there?” Mom asks.

If Dad remembers our trip or smashing the glass statue, he shows no sign. “Statue of Liberty it is.” He brings the box to the table and dumps it out in front of us. “Who’s doing what? Michelle, you still doing the borders?”

She nods. “Sure.”

“Matt and I will do the statue,” I volunteer.

We all work quietly. Mom, a little too quickly, as if she’s already done the puzzle every day for a week.

“Don’t you want to join us, Ray?” Mom asks.

Dad ignores her. Instead of doing the puzzle with us, Dad paces behind us, gun in hand. Each time he passes behind me, I tense, waiting to hear the click of the safety. I start to wonder how much
food is left and what Dad will do when we run out. Leaving my mom tied up here alone is one thing, but all three of us? I shake the thought away. We won’t be here long enough to run out of food. I’ll find us a way out of here before that.

I snap the last piece of the torch into place on the puzzle. The last time we were here, Matt and I had been working on the Niagara Falls puzzle.

“Why don’t you try out for the play this year?” Matt asked. “It’s always a blast. I can even work it so there are Ritz Bits backstage for you.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. But you know I hate people staring at me. Besides, it’s much more fun being in the audience watching your shenanigans.”

“You’re in the band. People stare at you when you’re in the band.”

“Not really. People are staring at the
band
; they don’t actually notice the individuals.”

“Whoa there,” Matt teased. “Don’t go getting all philosophical on me now.”

“Oh, please,” I said, giving him a little shove.

Dad came in and opened the refrigerator door. “Who put the yogurt in here? It’s all over the place. It goes on the second shelf, on the right-hand side. Just like at home. Not scattered all over the whole refrigerator!”

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Matt muttered.

We both knew what Dad would say next. Matt mouthed the words as Dad said them: “And make sure you turn the labels out to the front.”

“Sara, I noticed you cleaned the bathroom ahead of schedule. Good
job. Just make sure you keep on top of it, what with all four of us using the same bathroom.”

“Wouldn’t want to have any water in the shower,” Matt muttered. Dad made us wipe the shower walls dry after each use.

“What? Matt, speak up. No keeping secrets!” Dad went to the sink and filled a glass of water. Then he got a paper towel and wiped a drop that had gotten on the floor. “Matt, what are you doing goofing around with that puzzle? I told you to mop this floor first thing this morning!” I followed my dad’s gaze to a light footprint by the window. “This floor is filthy! What in God’s name were you thinking?”

Don’t say it! Whatever you do, don’t say it. Just apologize and get right to it.

“That it’s only nine o’clock?” Why did Matt always have to make things worse for himself?

Dad gave Matt a shove, and it wasn’t at all like the one that I had given him.

I shake my head and try to concentrate on the current puzzle because I don’t want to remember all the yelling and Matt’s bruises that didn’t fade until well after the vacation was over.

“Okay, folks, ten o’clock. Time for bed,” Dad announces.

The puzzle is done except for the face of Lady Liberty.

Damn it.
I still haven’t figured out how to get the gun away from him.

“We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

I can’t imagine what.

“Good news, kids. You can go to bed without brushing your
teeth tonight. And without changing into your pajamas. We’ll just make a pit stop. You first, Sara.” He releases me from the chair, and leads me to the bathroom.

“Can I have some privacy, please?”

Dad wrinkles his forehead. He stares at me uncertainly for a few seconds, then lets go of my hand. “Of course.” He backs out of the bathroom and closes the door partway.

This is my chance. What do I do?
I turn on the faucet to cover the noise of me opening the medicine cabinet. I find Band-Aids, mouthwash, and a trial size of baby shampoo. Great—there isn’t even enough to squirt in his eyes. I look around the rest of the bathroom for a weapon. No razors anywhere—just toilet paper.

With no weapon in sight and no window to escape through, I figure I had better at least use the toilet. I flush. The toilet tank lid! It’s large and awkward but also porcelain, perfect for knocking someone out. I taste the adrenaline rushing through my body. I start to lift one side up when the door bangs open. I let the lid slide back into place.

“Okay. Hurry up and wash your hands,” says Dad. “You’re not the only one who has to go.” Before I have a chance to dry my hands, he leads me to one of the bedrooms down the hall. “Take your shoes off and get in.”

I lie down on the lumpy mattress. Dad clicks the handcuffs around the slats of the headboard and then ties my feet to the footboard. He has rope everywhere in this place. Then he pulls a musty blanket up to my chin. “Good night, Sara,” he says, and kisses me on the forehead. The last time he did that I was probably seven.

Dad disappears for a few minutes and comes back with Zach. He repeats the whole procedure, tying him to the other twin bed and kissing him on the forehead.

“Tomorrow we have to get that gun away from him, Sara,” Zach whispers after Dad turns the lights off and leaves. “He’s never going to let us go any other way.”

“You’re right,” I say softly. “When one of us sees an opportunity, we’ll just do it.” I shift my weight, trying to get comfortable.

“I can’t believe I was so stupid! I thought Mom was out finding us a new place to live, or that Dad had killed her. I never thought that Dad tied her up in some cabin we don’t even own … Saturday, when I had Alex driving me around in search of my mom’s imaginary lover, I should have thought to look here.”

“You’re mom’s
what
?”

“I found this florist card stuffed in one of my mom’s shoes. There was this heart on it and a name. Brian. So Alex and I tracked down some guy my mom used to work with, thinking maybe she was with him.”

“Brian?” Zach’s voice gets this high-pitched crack in it like when he was back in eighth grade.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Zach turns his face away from me.

“What?”

Zach still won’t look at me. “I don’t think that card was for your mom.”

“What do you mean? Some guy sent flowers to my dad? That would be the day. He’d have flattened him.”

Zach clears his throat. “You know the play your brother was in before he—”

“Yeah—”

“Remember the lawyer character?”

“You mean the guy Lauren’s brother played? Sure, the character’s name was Brian. But what does that have to do with anything? Are you saying that Jay sent the flowers as some kind of a joke?”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Don’t be insane. Jay Weston, captain of the basketball team and king of the jocks, sent my brother flowers?”

“Yes.” Zach’s voice is serious.

“You mean he
liked
my brother?”

“It was more than that.”

“Are you saying that Jay and Matt—we’re talking about my brother here now—that they were in some kind of relationship?”

Zach clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

“Goddamn it, Zach. Answer me.” Tears trickle out of my eyes. “Unbelievable. You knew? You knew and I didn’t?”
I don’t believe this, Matt. I am so incredibly pissed at you right now.

I close my eyes. Dad’s voice plays over and over again in my mind.
That goddamned sissy-ass play.
“Is that why Dad wanted him to quit the play so much? Dad knew? And Mom?”

“Yeah,” Zach says softly. “Your mom was supportive. But your dad, he said if Matt didn’t quit the play and stop seeing Jay, he was going to kick him out of the house. And that he could never come near your mom or you again.” Zach swallows hard and shakes his head. “I should have done something. With all that shit your dad
said to Matt, I should have known what Matt was going to do. I could have stopped him. Matt would still be alive and your dad wouldn’t have flipped out like this.”