Sadie's Mountain (35 page)

“How’d ya keep the secret for so long?”

“My daddy blamed me. My dress was too short. They sent me away after about four months. I haven’t been back since.” Facts. I can do facts.

“Are you alright?” he asks. He genuinely looks concerned.

“I’m ready to make my statement,” I say. It’s all business from here. He asks me, and I tell. I have no feelings about it. I could be reading him a cereal box for all I care. They are just details after all.

He writes everything down, excuses himself for about ten minutes. When he returns he’s holding a typed version of my story. He asks me to read it. How surreal it seems. It feels hazy in this room, completely dreamlike that I’ve just shared my deepest darkest secret with someone, let alone a police officer. My secret is transformed into words, typed up, spit out with deep dark ink on white paper. If I felt anything, I’m sure it would be relief. Fear, too. Normal Sadie, she feels a lot of fear.

“Is everything there true to the best ‘a your knowledge?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Then, please sign here,” he says, handing me a grey pen. It’s see-through so I can see the tube of black ink waiting to prove I was here. I was raped. I was ruined.

“Is he angry with me?” I ask as I hand him the pen and stare at my signature smeared across the black line.

“Sadie, this ain’t your fault,” he says. I look up at him. His light brown eyes scream sympathy. I don’t need sympathy. I just want to go home. Tomorrow, after the funeral, I will. No sense in waiting.

“Can you just make sure he wants me to ride home with him?” I request, as if it’s completely normal that we should part ways at the State Police office. “I can contact my sister to come pick me up.”

“Okay. I’ll check,” he says, puzzled and disappears again. I hear voices from the room next door. My heart skips a beat, but goes right back to normal as I stare at a stain in the paint on the wall. An ink stain, I believe. It’s been wiped from the sterile grey wall, but where it was will never be the same unless they paint over it. Even then, it will be underneath, just covered up—kind of like my smiles.

I hear the click of the doorknob and I jump when I see Dillon standing in the doorway. He’s got red eyes, and creases in his forehead. He is a raging river of emotions squeezed into one perfect body. He hates me. It’s absolutely clear. He stands far away from me. The look on his face is that of abhorrence.

“I can call Missy if you want,” I say, as if this happens every day.

He stands there, puts his hand to his forehead. See, I told him. The girl he loved. That girl died that day. He just realized it right now. “I don’t want you going back to your Momma’s house,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Not ‘till he’s arrested.”

“It’s not up to you,” I state. “I just need to collect my things from your house. I’ll call for a ride from there.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks. His eyes are shaking. His blue eyes have morphed into a deep dark grey.

This discussion is going nowhere. I stand up, peacefully walk toward the door and wait a safe distance away so he can either move or open it. His hand turns the knob and the door opens. He lets me go first. He follows like a stranger behind me on a crowded street. I feel a pang of emptiness in that hole in my chest. But if I ignore it long enough it will go away.

“Sadie!” he yells, protectively.  I walk back toward the hallway. Both officers are speaking zealously to Dillon, who looks like an angry ocean in mid-storm. They must be reminding him not to go challenging Donnie to a fight. I walk closer. Sergeant Daniels says, “The best way to protect her is to control yourself. Let us take care’a him.”

“I know. I will,” Dillon says, through gritted teeth before they both pat him overly hard on his already heavy back. I can’t read his expression as he walks slowly toward me. We walk silently toward the car.

I face the window on the drive home. When I glance up at him, he looks stern. Taciturn. He looks like someone I don’t recognize. I look back out the window at the blurry trees, the deep set clouds that cover the blue sky that must be up there somewhere.

Random songs play on his iPod, but when Adele comes on singing about
‘Turning Tables,’
I have to bite my thumbnail until I leave bumpy teeth marks in the pad of my thumb. I feel dizzy. I lay my head back onto the headrest. Close my eyes to let sleep soothe the tired that creeps up swift and easy.

The sound of falling water rushes through that moment between sleep and awake. I smell the water, hear it rushing along. I smell the pine oil in the trees as it makes contact with my senses as I open my eyes. I stretch my neck and realize I’m alone in the car. I’m covered with a blanket.
Dillon must have covered me.

 The windows are both cracked down. The doors are locked.
How long have I been sleeping?
It’s dark out already.

We’re parked along the river in front of the Kanawha Falls. I know this place well. The sad brick buildings that seem to hover above the water just at the edge of the falls look so alone. Although they are together, they feel solitary, especially the one on the end. There’s no pretty façade for it to hide behind. It reminds me of how I feel.

Out in the distance in the dim light, Dillon is standing at the edge of the water next to a stump that used to be a tree. I can see the silhouette of his fine features as he stands there. The wind is churning his hair around like how my stomach feels.

I touch my tummy. Maybe I’ll have a piece of him to take with me. If so, not all is lost. Maybe he or she will look like him, that way ten years from now I won’t find that I’ve missed the color of his eyes, or the feel of his hair, or his laugh, or his smiles—all of the different ones . It’s a gloomy condolence, but it will have to do.

I watch him in the distance. Distant.

 It’s okay
, I tell myself. I look down at the center console. There’s a white bag with little grease spots leaching through. I look inside and find a sandwich made with thick bread. The scent of the bread, the cheese, the lettuce, and the tomatoes makes my stomach rumble in anticipation.

I open it to check. No meat. It must be for me. There’s a drink, too. I stick my straw into it and before I take a breath, I’ve downed half the liquid in the paper cup. Famished, I eat in big bites until the sandwich is nothing but a few crumbs in the sagging arch of the white paper.

With a heavy tummy I fumble around with the seat until it reclines. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the rushing water. It’s strange how something in such turmoil, this water upheaved and in constant movement, is also so peace inducing in me. I let it rage for a moment and feel the ease on my heart. I pull the blanket up to my chin and then the next thing I know Dillon is helping me walk up the stairs of his house.

“I need to go to Momma’s house,” I protest.

“I already stopped by there,” he says. “I got your box.”

“What box?”

“The one with all your clothes,” he says. He sounds puzzled or frustrated. I can’t tell which.

Once inside his room, I feel like I don’t belong, so I stop as he walks in and closes the bathroom door. I’m so tired. I have no phone to check the time. There’s no clock in here. He uses his phone as his alarm clock. I shuffle toward the couch. I could sleep here for the night. My last night here.

He comes out of the bathroom and walks right by me. I take off my boots, but don’t feel comfortable changing into my nightgown out in the open. I change in the bathroom and when I come out he’s set a box on the floor near the couch. Those must be the clothes Jenny sent from my house. He’s not here, though. Maybe he wants to sleep downstairs somewhere. Still, I lie down on the couch, pull the soft blanket from the back over my legs, my arms. He should have the bed.

My dreams are filled with music, sad, melodious, and soulful. When I open my eyes Dillon is sitting cross-legged on the bed. He’s wearing no shirt or pants—just his boxer briefs. On his lap is the dulcimer, and he’s singing a song I’ve never heard before. It’s about a river, about peace—finding peace. About heaven.

I close my eyes again, but the song plays over and over, like a day that never ends. When I wake up in the light of day, Dillon is still in the same spot. His eyes are red, there are deep circles under them. His face is unreadable, but it’s clear he’s been watching me sleep.

“Why did you sleep on the couch?” he asks.

“So you could have the bed,” I say, as if there could be no other reason. He shakes his head, moves the dulcimer off his lap, and looks out the window.

“What time is it?”

“Time to get ready for your momma’s funeral,” he says, his jaw clenched, his eyes anywhere but here. His voice is raspy from no sleep, and probably from yelling at the police yesterday.

How has the reality of the funeral eluded me? Just too much going on, I guess. Aunt Lotty will be here today. That’s good. It will be nice to see her.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, walking to the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. As I do, I watch Dillon through the slight crack of the door. He’s still looking out the window. It will be easier for him once I’m gone. He can go back to his girlfriend, Miss Robbins—Claire, I mean. Only this time, he won’t have the ghost of perfect-me-who-doesn’t-exist hovering over his happiness. Now he knows why things between us would have never worked. It was a good thing that we met again. Knowing him helped me face my fears. Helped me realize I might be capable of more than the life I’d boxed myself into.

While Dillon is showering, I peruse the outfits Jenny’s dutifully placed in garment bags.  Missy must have packed some of my clothes in here from the closet in my old room, too. There’s the faded jeans. The jean shorts. A few t-shirts and the boots. The ones I was wearing that fateful day, and the day I met Dillon again on the mountain.

I choose the flowy black silk dress, and the grey cardigan. I put on the dark tights, the dress, the heels, and the black silk scarf. I apply some minimal make-up and wait for Dillon downstairs.

I’m sipping coffee as he comes into the interim kitchen. He looks so distinguished, and handsome in a black suit that fits perfectly—like it was made just for him—a white shirt, and a black tie. Some men would look stiff, but he looks like a model in magazine, like casual sophistication. His hair is slightly damp. Although he won’t look me straight in the eye, I can see they still look red, deep set. He’s holding his dulcimer case. I don’t question why.

“Are you ready?” he asks, looking impassively at me, at my dress and heels. I nod my head. My stomach feels as empty as an air bubble. It rumbles, but I don’t want to eat. “He’s going to be there,” he says, his jaw tight, his eyes skittish.

“I know.”

“I don’t want him anywhere near you,” he says, puffing his chest out.

“He’s not going to do anything unless he thinks you know. Unless he suspects something.”

“How do you know?” he asks; his hands are fists.

“Because he’s afraid of some evidence I have. He’s scared I’ll...” I look at him sideways.
Shouldn’t I just tell him the truth?
He knows now—he knows how ruined I am. How much mud covers me in my dreams. He can probably see me that way now.

It’s too late to take it back—too late for a lot of things. It’s not like I can play the recording for him anyway. They took my phone. “He’s scared I’ll publish a recording on my blog of him threatening me.” I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell Dillon he threatened him, too.

“Holy crap? You threatened him? You recorded him and then you threatened him?” He says, putting his hands on his hips.

“Yes.” He starts pacing. His chest is tight. The muscles in his neck are strained.

“When?” he asks. He looks so full of angst it could spill over onto the floor like glass marbles.

“The night of the presentation.”

“That’s why you were standing by him?” His eyes are looking far off into the past.  “You were staring at him all night. That’s why you were so scared when he caught us kissing. You tried to catch him that night. “

There’s nothing to say, so I just look at the floor. When I look back up, in his eyes I see questions. It’s the first time he hasn’t looked just plain angry since yesterday. “How did you...?” he starts to say, and then he turns from me, walks toward the doorway and stands there with his fist up to his mouth. He coughs loudly—a nervous cough to hide the feelings festering deep in his gut.