The Girl I Used to Be Page 3

  “Then why did you say ‘murders’?” I’m sweating all over now. Even the bottoms of my feet feel slick.

  “Is it okay if we sit down?” Nora is already lowering herself to the steps, which are shaded by a tall oak tree. “I’m feeling a little light-headed myself today.”

  I sit next to her, glad to have something between me and the white ball of the sun.

  “The story’s been all over the news,” she says. “That’s why I thought you knew. My friend Sharon used to live in this house with her daughter, Naomi, and Naomi’s little girl, Ariel. But almost fourteen years ago, Naomi and her boyfriend, Terry, went out with Ariel to get a Christmas tree and never came back. Someone killed Naomi in the woods. Not here.”

  I try to think of how a stranger might react. “Oh my God. That’s terrible. Who killed her?”

  “Naomi and Terry fought sometimes. For years, everyone thought Terry must have snapped and killed her and then just took off. But now his jawbone has been found in the woods. And the police think both of them were murdered by someone else.” In a near whisper, Nora adds, “And I spent all those years thinking he did it.”

  I understand far better than she can imagine. “But you said everyone thought that. Not just you.”

  “I was too quick to judge.” She sighs. “Anyway, Naomi dying just about broke Sharon’s heart. In fact, she died of a heart attack a few years later. I’m sure it was losing her daughter that did it.” She falls silent. Her lower lip trembles. “I’m the one who’s supposed to have a bad heart. Never thought I’d still be here all these years later.”

  Will Nora put two and two together if I ask about myself? Then again, if I don’t, I might seem cold. “What happened to the little girl? Your friend’s granddaughter? Was she killed, too?”

  “She was found three hours away. After the police figured out who she was, Ariel ended up back with Sharon. She was too young to say what had happened. We asked her and asked her. All she would say was ‘Mommy’s dancing.’ After Sharon died, Ariel went into foster care. I heard she got adopted up in Portland. I tried to take her in, but the state wouldn’t let me because of my age and my heart. Her dad’s family wanted her, too. They showed up at Sharon’s funeral, and there was a big fight about it. But of course the state wasn’t going to say yes. Not when Terry’s family refused to even admit he’d killed Naomi. Child Protective Services was worried Terry would sneak back into town and his family would just hand Ariel over.”

  Everything stops.

  So the argument at Grandma’s funeral wasn’t about how people didn’t want me, but about how they did? It’s happening again, the vase turning into the faces and then back into a vase. The center of my chest aches. With difficulty, I concentrate on what Nora is saying.

  “We were all so sure we knew the truth, but we were wrong.” She takes a deep breath. “Terry’s funeral starts in forty-five minutes.”

  I nod, figuring out just now that Nora must be going. How am I going to go to the funeral without her wondering why I’m there?

  She twists her hands again. “I don’t know if I’ll make it, though. I don’t feel real sharp today. It’s not that far, but I’m not sure I’m up to driving.”

  I realize Nora is both the problem and the solution.

  “Why don’t I give you a ride?”

  CHAPTER 7

  WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

  After opening the car door, Nora plops into the seat sideways. Turning, she slowly lifts each leg in, then finally closes the door and tells me which way to go. The cemetery is less than a mile away. The funeral home, a sprawling white building, sits on top of a small rise.

  The parking lot is full. I hadn’t expected more than a handful of people. I follow the drive around to a back lot and finally find a space. Someone has left a shopping cart full of junk at the end, but my car is small enough that I can tuck it in.

  I should have let Nora out at the door. “Want me to go back and drop you off up front?”

  She doesn’t answer, just opens her door.

  I hurry around to help. Nora’s swung her legs out, but she’s still sitting. I lean down, grab her forearms, and haul her upright. She grabs the crook of my arm, and we start to walk.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. Nora’s using me for more than just balance.

  “I need to do this,” she says, which isn’t really an answer.

  Despite her long legs, Nora’s steps are short and slow. I match her pace. Around us, rows of flat metal grave markers are occasionally broken up by benches, marble statues, or little ponds. It’s pretty here. Peaceful.

  Maybe the woods where my dad has been all these years are peaceful, too. For a minute, I picture white snow lying like a fluffy blanket under evergreens so tall they crowd the sky.

  I stop short.

  Where did that come from? Was it even real?

  Nora tugs my arm. “I’m not dead yet, honey.” Catching sight of someone, she waves her arm. “Frank, you old geezer!”

  An old man walks back to meet us. He’s about my height, five foot seven, but as solid as a fire hydrant.

  “Good to see you, Nora,” he says, and then looks at me expectantly. I don’t know what to say, but she does.

  “This is Olivia. She’s my guardian angel. This morning, I told God I didn’t feel strong enough to come, and then Olivia turned up.”

  Outside the wooden doors, about a dozen people are chatting. Everyone’s wearing dark colors, but no one looks like a movie mourner. My black T-shirt and pants aren’t too out of place.

  Frank is holding the door for us when a wiry old man with a cigarette calls his name. “Ladies,” Frank says, before turning back.

  The lobby is full of people milling around. Who are they? A lot of them look like they’re about the ages my parents would be if they had lived.

  The doors to the chapel stand open. In front are upholstered chairs, and behind them two men in suits are hurriedly setting up dozens of metal folding chairs.

  In the center of the entryway stands an easel with a big photo of my dad wearing a cap and gown. His Adam’s apple sticks out above the knot of a tie. Scattered around the room are more easels covered with snapshots. Some people are adding their own photos.

  I walk straight to the nearest easel, my eyes darting from photo to photo. The only pictures I’ve seen of my dad are the ones on America’s Most Wanted. I’ve never even thought about him as a kid. But here’s my dad on a tricycle, a skateboard, a motocross bike. Holding a plastic bat. Always grinning, sometimes with missing baby teeth.

  The pictures aren’t in any order, so there’s also one of my parents at the prom, standing stiffly next to a white pillar. And a photo of me holding my dad’s hand at the beach. I wonder if it was taken the same day as the photo on America’s Most Wanted. I have the blond springy curls I’ve only seen in photos. I’m fingering my dark waves when Nora’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Honey, would you mind terribly if I asked you to stay and give me a ride home?”

  I turn back. “No problem at all.”

  She hesitates. “Only if you’re sure. I could probably get Frank to take me.”

  “After hearing what happened, I’m curious.” It’s not really a lie, but still, I don’t meet her eyes.

  Nora takes my arm. “Do me a favor and help me get a seat before the mob rushes in.”

  In the chapel, the folding chairs are now all set up, and some people are already taking seats. Nora sits in the last row of upholstered chairs, then plops her purse onto the chair next to her. “I’ll save this for you. Go look at the pictures. I saw some of my friend Sharon.”

  Back in the lobby, I bite on the insides of my cheeks to keep my face neutral, a trick I learned a long time ago.

  My father at birthday parties, at restaurants, holding a blue can of Pabst.

  Holding a silver fish, grinning.

  Holding a limp deer by the antlers, grinning.

  Maybe he liked to kill things. Maybe it hadn’t been such a stretch to think
he’d killed my mom. Or maybe this is just the kind of small town where people hunt and fish. I feel like I swallowed a stone. Who was my father, really?

  A man’s loud voice interrupts my thoughts. “Remember that time we were all in Terry’s old car? Going a hundred and five miles an hour?” I turn. Even though most people are dressed casually, this guy has taken things one step further. Skinny, but with a barrel chest, he’s dressed in flip-flops, shorts, and a multicolored Hawaiian shirt.

  “It was a Trans Am, right?” The other man looks Asian, or maybe only half, with dark, straight hair and eyes that turn up at the corners. His charcoal suit, cut close to his slender body, boasts a gray silk pocket square. He doesn’t look like he belongs in Medford, or even in Portland, but instead in Los Angeles—or maybe Tokyo.

  “Don’t you remember the Wasp, Rich?” Hawaiian Shirt Guy says. “Bright yellow with that black interior?”

  Rich doesn’t answer. His attention has shifted, as has everyone else’s in the room. A girl wearing a black dress and sandals has just walked in, but it’s not her clothes making people stare. It’s her purple hair. That and the silver chain running from a ring in her right earlobe to a second ring in her nose.

  “It’s a funeral, for gosh sakes,” an older woman behind me whispers. “She comes dressed like that to a funeral!”

  I decide she looks perfectly fine if you take away the purple hair and the piercings. Even just the piercings. Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to see past them.

  I look back at the easel, then suck in my breath. In what must be a Thanksgiving photo, my dad sits at the head of a long table, with a turkey on a platter in front of him. He’s joking around, looking maniacal, teeth gritted and shoulders hunched as he lifts his hand overhead, pretending to stab the turkey like a crazed slasher. Everyone else is laughing. Grandma and my mom and me on one side, Grandpa Jack and a young woman on the other. I’m sitting on my mom’s lap. My mom is a little blurred because she was just starting to turn her head away.

  The guy standing next to me looks at me curiously. He’s about my age, with curly black hair and those thick eyelashes only guys seem to come by naturally.

  “My parents had that exact same chair.” I point at a green recliner at the edge of the photo. It’s a lame excuse, but it’s the best I can think of.

  He follows my finger, looking a bit puzzled, and then we both go back to looking.

  “I didn’t think Sam would be here,” a woman next to me whispers to another. I look where they are. They’re not talking about a man, but a slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair and wide cheekbones. “Wasn’t she dating Terry before he started seeing Naomi?”

  “I heard it wasn’t just before,” the other woman says, her voice only slightly hushed. “She tried to get him to break up with Naomi.”

  She’s scrawny, I decide. Scrawny, and her nose is too long. Realizing I’m staring, I turn back to look at more photos.

  Me and my parents. I’m dressed for Halloween in a ballerina outfit defeated by cold weather. My pink net skirt comes down to my ankles. Under the narrow straps of my dress I’m wearing a hand-knit sweater that makes me look like a cross between a ballerina and a lumberjack. My mom is dressed in your standard cheap sexy nurse outfit. My dad’s wearing red rubber hair and is made up like a clown. But I look happy. Happier than I ever remember being.

  Six weeks later, two of the people in this photo were dead.

  A man standing by the chapel doors clears his throat. “Okay, folks, if you could take your seats, the service will begin.”

  I’m at the easel farthest from the doors. As everyone shuffles inside, I unpin the photo and slip it into my back pocket.

  CHAPTER 8

  MY FATHER’S LOST BONES

  An usher hands me a program. On the front is the photo of my dad in cap and gown. I hold it carefully so it won’t get wrinkled. I’m going to leave Medford with two things—the photo in my pocket and this.

  That’s all of my dad I’ll ever have. That and a memory of an apple he might have peeled for me. And the long nose and square chin we share.

  I scoot in next to Nora, exchange a smile with her, and then look around. The cute guy is in the same row, but on the other side of the room. For a second, his eyes catch mine. I’m the first to look away.

  In the back corner is a guy with straggly red hair and a sunburned face. He’s wearing a heavy coat that even across the room looks filthy. He must own the shopping cart my car is sharing a spot with.

  Sam, my dad’s maybe-ex-girlfriend, is sitting three rows ahead of him. Her head is bowed, and one of her hands is over her eyes.

  The purple-haired girl is sitting in the front row, next to a woman whose photo I recognize from the Medford Mail Tribune website. It’s my dad’s sister, Carly. My aunt. So that girl must be my cousin. A man with silvered temples sits on the other side of Carly.

  An organ begins to play, but it’s a recording. A door hidden in the front wall opens, and a middle-aged guy in a suit with a white banded collar walks up to the podium. The music stops with a click.

  “Good afternoon,” the minister says. “We are gathered here today to remember Terry Weeks. While I never had the pleasure of knowing Terry, I have learned a lot about him this week. Terry was a friend. A neighbor. A coworker.” He pauses between each pronouncement, his eyes surveying the chapel. “A brother.” He nods at Carly, then at her daughter. “An uncle.” His gaze sweeps over the rows. “A son. A boyfriend. A father.”

  I fight the urge to turn away as his gaze slides over me. The palms of my hands are sweaty. He doesn’t know who I am, I remind myself. No one does.

  “Let us pray.”

  I bow my head as he asks for comfort for the people here and eternal peace for my father’s soul. As he prays, I wonder where my father’s jawbone is. I imagine it in a white cardboard box marked EVIDENCE. Dirty and gray. Waiting to be reunited with the rest of his lost bones.

  After the amen, the minister says, “The family has asked that we keep this memorial informal. They’d like to hear your memories of Terry, stories they can treasure as they heal. So please, come up to the microphone, introduce yourself, and tell us how you knew Terry and how you’ll remember him.”

  After a pause, Sam walks up to the microphone, moving so stiffly it’s as if her knees don’t work. Head down, blond hair falling over her eyes, she turns to face the crowd. Her voice is hoarse and soft. “If you wanted to have fun, all you had to do was hang out with Terry. He loved football games, concerts, parties, and, of course, going down to the river. I can still see him standing on the shore in his orange swim trunks, yelling out, ‘Where’ve you guys been? I’ve been waiting for you for so long!’ That’s how I’ve felt about him for the last fourteen years.” Her shoulders round over, shaking.

  I watch and wonder. That detective said my mom might have been stabbed so many times because the killer knew her. He even said it could have been a woman. What if Sam killed my mother in a jealous rage and then turned on my dad when he tried to stop her?

  My eyes sweep the room. Is everyone really here to mourn my father? Or does someone know—or guess—who killed him? Could the killer even be here? The press of bodies and the warm air make me feel claustrophobic.

  The businessman walks up and gives Sam’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then takes the microphone from her. “I’m Richard Lee. Terry and I used to pal around back in the day. He loved animals and the outdoors, but most of all, he loved his family. He loved his dad and you, Carly, and of course Naomi, and their daughter, Ariel. I pray you will finally find peace.”

  The guy in the Hawaiian shirt is up next. “Hey. I’m Jason. You guys all probably know I was Terry’s best friend. I’ll always remember that big grin of his. And he was forever telling those stupid jokes that took way too long to tell and ended with punch lines like ‘Arty Chokes Three for a Dollar.’” People laugh.

  Jason’s expression turns serious. “I was going to be the best man at Terry and Naomi’s wed
ding. They hadn’t set a date, but I’m sure they would have done it. Maybe even had more kids. Sure, they had their daughter way too young. But Terry stepped up. And he was so proud to be a dad.” He falls quiet for a moment, and the microphone picks up how his breathing hitches. “No one knows what happened in the woods that day. But I’ll tell you one thing: I know in my heart that Terry died trying to protect his family.” He looks up at the ceiling. “I hope we’ll meet at a party up in heaven, dude.”

  So proud to be a dad. The thought warms me.

  Nora and I exchange a smile, although she probably thinks I’m smiling at Jason’s use of the word dude.

  For years, I’ve felt so alone. Abandoned by everyone. By my mother, who was stupid enough to have a child with a man who would soon kill her. By my father, who was worse than dead. By a woman who said she wanted to be my mom but who couldn’t see how much I was hurting.

  But those first two things weren’t true. And now I’m sitting next to an old woman who loved my grandmother. Who loved my mother. Who once loved me.

  Here, things feel like they fit into gaps I didn’t even know I had. An empty space shaped like the golden hills that hold this valley. A hollow filled by the woman next to me, a woman with silver hair and crowded teeth. Maybe there are even three missing pieces shaped like my aunt and uncle and their purple-haired daughter.

  The next man at the microphone wears a uniform and badge. Even without them, I would know he’s a cop or a soldier, with his squared shoulders and too-short brown hair. “I’m Stephen Spaulding, the chief of police. I’d known Naomi since kindergarten, and I met Terry when they started dating. After they went missing, and again when Naomi’s body was found, I was part of the group called out to search for them.” He looks up, his face reddening. “Terry, brother, I’m sorry we didn’t find you.” He blows air through pursed lips, and his face is sad. “I promise you’re not forgotten. Neither one of you.”

  A tall woman with auburn hair and pale skin has been waiting for her turn at the microphone. “I’m Heather. I was Naomi’s best friend. She and Terry started dating in high school. They were in love from the moment their eyes met. But being in love never stopped them from fighting. And when Naomi was found, I thought the worst. I spent years hating Terry for taking her from us.” Heather glances up at the ceiling. She’s another person with something to say and no one to say it to. “I’m sorry, Terry. I was wrong to ever think that. I hope you can forgive me.”