Oblivion (30 page)

He chews his bottom lip for a few seconds. “Yes.”

“Okay.” I grab a tissue and swipe it over my eyes. “That’s good.”

“We’re getting closer. You’re doing fine.”

I
’ve signed a release form, enabling Ewing to disclose the information I dug up during this afternoon’s session, which means the weeks ahead of me are going to be full. Thanks to the day I cut, the one I spent in the nurse’s office, our trek out to the Point last night, I didn’t finish my twelve-page paper. Mr. Willis gave me a two-day extension, and it’ll be at a five-percent penalty. Calc is kicking my ass, and
je ne parle pas le Français
. At least not
bien
.

But instead of planning and studying ahead—midterms are right around the corner—I’m sitting on John’s living room floor, staring at unfinished homework, while he, sucking on a Tootsie Pop I offered him, researches missing children on his Carmel-issued iPad. So far, he hasn’t found
any that definitively fit the description of the remains found on Highland Point. “It’s hard to pinpoint,” he says. “Until we know exactly how old she was when she died, until we know how long she’s been there … it’s like picking dust out of pepper.”

Aromas waft from the kitchen—beef stew—where his sisters Abby and Rachel are cooking. I glance in their direction; they’re chatting and laughing.

The guitar propped in the corner keeps drawing my attention. Is it the same one I’ve seen in my mind?

“The guitar, the rosary, the watch,” I say.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t take his eyes from the iPad right away, but when he does, he pulls the lollipop from his mouth. He’s wearing an expression—eyes wide with something that looks like disbelief, slight smile—which tells me we’re on the same page.

“All three of them draw a potential connection between your cousin and my mother. And if your cousin was involved with my mom and suddenly disappeared … and if it’s safe to assume Palmer is responsible for Hannah’s kidnapping, it means he’s capable …” I don’t want to draw the conclusion—that John’s cousin met with foul play by Palmer’s hand—but judging by John’s nod, I don’t have to. He’s already considered the possibility.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“I think Guidry listened to you that day you brought me to the station. I think he’ll reevaluate your cousin’s case.”

“It’d be nice to have closure,” he says. “Not necessarily for me. I mean, I have glimpses of memories, pieces … I was three years old when he disappeared … but for, you know, my dad. He chose him to be my godfather. They had to be fairly close.”

“Yet your parents know nothing about him having a woman in his life, so maybe we’re wrong.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “He wasn’t living nearby when he left. He’d been staying up the coast of Lake Michigan, at our family’s cottage. It’s feasible he could’ve had a girlfriend and no one knew.”

“In that case, it’s unlikely it was my mom. She never went very far from home.” I’m exhausted with attempting to piece together smidgens of an age-old epic, exhausted with not knowing what happened and how it all relates to Hannah.

And I can’t, no matter how hard I try, concentrate on calculus with all these bits of information spinning in my head.

“Cottage.” Suggestions of memories tumble—the white rug, the gauzy draperies, the fluffy towels in the old, built-in linen cabinet down the hall. I wonder … “You wouldn’t happen to have any pictures of this cottage, would you?”

“Sure.” He reaches across me and pulls a photo album from an end table. He deposits the heavy book in my lap.

I flip through pages. I don’t recognize the exterior of the large house, but something about the view of the lake
in the distance is familiar to me. I turn another page and study a picture of John’s immediate family posing in what appears to be a living room. The floors are dark planks of wood, blanketed with a white area rug. The sofa they’re piled on is white-on-white striped. But is it the same place I keep remembering? I can’t see enough of it to tell.

John looks to be about eight or nine in the picture. He’s adorable. They all are. He’s from good-looking stock, and they all look alike. I lean into his space. “So, who’s who?”

“Oldest”—he points—“Tracy. Then Christina. And you know Abby and Rachel.”

“What?” one of them says from the kitchen.

“Nothing,” he calls back.

“I heard my name.”

“Hey, I’m studying over here,” he says over his shoulder. Then turning back to the album: “And me.”

I’m sort of in awe with the size of the clan. Their oversized house makes sense now that I know he’s from such a big brood. Unlike the Hutch estate, this one is filled to the brim—or was at one time. “Your relatives could outnumber the population of Montana. You know that, right?” I look back to the picture. “What’s it like? Having such a big family?”

“Compromising is a big part of it.” Without turning to look at it, he points to the wall behind the sofa against which we’re leaning.

Compromise
is lettered directly on the wall.

“I can’t imagine.”

“You should come to the anniversary party. You can meet Tracy and Chrissy, and my aunts, uncles, cousins …”

“I’ll never remember everyone’s name.”

He chuckles. “Hell, even I don’t know half my cousins’ names.”

A sense of warmth surrounds me. Immediately following is a pang of envy. Even if I want to, I can’t share this sort of thing with him. I don’t have baby pictures, save the occasional grainy snapshot of Mom and me, and I think those are packed away with my mother’s belongings at the Meadows, as I haven’t seen them since she went away. There are no longer any rooms stamped with my mother’s fingerprints; nothing reflects her essence the way the
Compromise
reflects Mrs. Fogel’s, if not the place above the Vagabond, and it’s empty now. I don’t know if I’ll ever walk those floors again. Whatever roots I’d managed to vein into Lake Nippersink have been strangled and cut off.

If Hannah’s still alive, I think she must feel like I feel right now, as if survival is dependent upon adjustment and adaptation. She’s an endangered species, and until we find her, part of me is missing, too.

“I was scared, you know,” he says. “That day after Hannah’s service, when you disappeared, and you didn’t call me back. I thought you’d run away again, that you were missing. I kept seeing that web page in the back of my
mind: missing and exploited children. The one with your picture on it.”

I fold my hand around his arm, just above the elbow, and I lean into his shoulder.

His eyes fall closed for a long moment, and when he opens them, I feel as if they’re staring directly into my soul.

John touches my right wrist, runs his thumb under the band of his watch, still fastened loosely at the cuff of my Land’s End sweater.

“When my cousin left, he left the watch behind, and in the note, he’d indicated he wanted to start over, so the police deduced he must’ve left willingly.” He shrugs. “But like I said, lots about that theory doesn’t hold water. I know it’s crazy, but now that I’m old enough, I keep looking for him, expecting to find him someday.”

“It isn’t crazy.” I shake my head. “I’ll keep looking for Hannah until we find her.”

“Yeah, but I think Hannah wants to be found.” His hand comes to rest on my thigh. “My cousin … I don’t think you find someone who chooses to disappear. But if he’s alive, someone would’ve seen him by now. Somewhere.”

“Maybe. It was a long time ago. He probably doesn’t look the same.”

“Would you ever run away now? Knowing what it’s like on the other side? The waiting? The wondering?”

I’ve never thought of things this way before, what my mother must’ve been thinking, when I ran away. “I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“It was just too hard to stay.”

“It must’ve been hard on your family.”

“I’m a ward of the state.” I say it as if he knows, as if it’s common knowledge, but then I remember that I dodge the question whenever he asks about my relationship with Lindsey. I don’t like to go into the explanation—Elijah’s the only one who knows everything—but he probably deserves to know. “When Palmer committed my mom, the state placed me with him because his name was listed as father on my birth certificate and because I’d known him my whole life. Paternity tests confirmed it.”

“You didn’t know he was your father?”

“She’d never told me I had a father, but he’d been in my life since birth. It seemed a logical placement.” An aching sensation settles around my heart. He’d been strict with me, with all the children of the congregation, before the state placed me in his care. But he went berserk with power when he had ultimate control over me. The scar on my shoulder burns and itches.

I have to see my mother. I need answers. Answers to questions I’ve never known to ask.

“Hey, Romeo,” Abby calls from the kitchen. “Time to feed your Juliet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Sisters.”

W
hile I’m inside my mother’s cell-slash-bedroom, thumbing through a notebook, John’s in the waiting room, researching on his iPad. I was hoping to bring him in to meet her, but the nurse on staff said she had to clear it with Mom’s psychiatrist first. They’re going to escort him down in a few minutes.

My mother blends graphite into paper.

“What are you drawing today?” I ask her.

“Palmer.”

“God, why?”

She sighs. “Part of my life, baby.”

I glance at her sketch. It’s a decent likeness. Not necessarily accurate, but decent.

“The police were here, you know. They say you found the door.”

My fingers still. “What do you know about the door?”

“I told you to leave it alone.” Her gaze flickers up to mine, but quickly returns to her drawing.

“Was that baby yours?”

“You’re my baby.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean there weren’t two of us.”

“I went crazy, knowing they gave you to him. I told them everything. The police. That detective. I told him not to leave you with him. Crazy man. Thought he was God.”

Coming from a crazy person, I can understand why Detective Guidry didn’t put much stock in her testimony. “Guidry knows now,” I tell her. “He knows you were telling the truth.”

“That conclusion comes a little too late, don’t you think?”

“Palmer had rights, Mom. As my father. There was no one else to take me.”

“Tell me he never … took you.”

My stomach lurches when I realize what she’s getting at. Slowly, I shake my head.

“If you ask me, the man deserved what he had coming, and he’s lucky I missed! He’s lucky that knife hit his thigh. I aimed to chop it off! So he could never hurt you the way he hurt me!”

“Why would a man …” I feel like I’m going to throw
up. I lean against the wall to ward off dizziness. My phone is buzzing with a text message. I ignore it. “He must’ve known I’m his daughter. He wouldn’t have—”

“Not if I’d chopped it off. It was only a matter of time. I knew that. After you were born, Holy Promise cured him for a while. But when I started to notice the way he was looking at you …” She sighs. “It was only a matter of time. I made a deal with him.”

“What … what kind of deal?”

“I promised I’d stay. Do what he wanted. As long as he didn’t touch you.”

“How did you get messed up with him?”

“The church worked … for a while. He was a man of God.” There’s a faraway look in her eyes, as if she’s attempting to grasp something she’d forgotten long ago. “His charisma … he captured people, made them believe.” She shrugs, as if she’s contemplating eating another olive and can’t decide whether or not she should.

“Mom, do you remember a man with a guitar? The man with the watch?”

She’s shaking her head.

“You don’t remember?”

A tear crawls down her cheek.

“What’s the earliest thing you remember? How far back can you go?”

Her fingers draw lines around Palmer’s features. “I remember the day you were born. Palmer was furious; he
blamed me. I’d left him; he let me go. We stayed above the Vagabond.” She’s gazing into the wall behind me, as if it’s a canvas of a starry night. “I remember the day Cleo was born—”

“Cleo?” Slowly I approach her.