Diane is standing at the stove, stirring the soup, which smells really spicy and
good. She glances over at us. “You look a little pale, Franny. Are you okay?”
“Just super tired,” I say. “Um, last night? I was at the hospital and—”
“Of course,” she says. “Your father. How is his ankle?”
“He has to stay off it for a while,” I say. “But, uh, there was a…my parents… um…”
She waits, holding my gaze. The look on her face—steady, patient—is the exact same
look I often see on Leah’s face. Right down to the blue-green eyes and the head tilt.
It’s a little freaky how alike they are. I take a deep breath.
“One of the things they do at the hospital is abortions,” I say. “And this week we’ve
been getting some threats.”
Diane looks shocked, but I can’t tell whether she’s shocked by what my
parents do
or by the fact that someone is threatening them. “He called our house,” I say. “Last
night.”
“Oh no,” she says. “You poor dear. You were home alone, weren’t you? You should have
stayed here…”
“So I went to the hospital.” I plow on, just wanting to get this all over with now
that I’ve started. “And he’d called there too and said he’d left a package in a restroom.”
Her eyes widen. “A package? Like… not a
bomb
?”
“A warning,” I say. “To show us he’s serious. Next time it’ll be a real bomb, he
said.”
“Oh, Franny.” Diane turns off the stove element. “You poor thing. How scary.”
“It’ll be in the news,” I say. “Because they’re trying to find who did it.”
Leah tips a heap of sliced avocado and red pepper into the salad bowl and
carries
it over to the table. “Franny thought you might hear about it,” she says. “And she
wanted to tell you herself.”
I swallow. “I know I just said my parents were doctors. I don’t usually get into
what they do because—well, because people have different feelings about it, and it’s
no one’s business anyway. But I didn’t want you to feel like I was hiding things
from you.”
Diane takes four bowls from the cupboard and puts them on the table. “I appreciate
your telling me,” she says.
“Telling you what?” Jake says from the doorway.
“Nothing,” Leah says.
Diane ladles soup into the bowls. “Sit down, all of you. Let’s eat.”
We sit, and Diane says a quick grace. From across the table, Jake’s gaze locks onto
mine, his jaw tight and eyes
narrowed, and I wonder how much of our conversation
he heard.
Maybe Diane’s reaction wasn’t the one I should’ve been worried about.
“So what were you all talking about?” Jake asks, heaping salad onto his plate.
I guess he’s going to hear anyway. “My parents have been getting harassed,” I say.
“Phone calls at home, making threats. And last night someone called the hospital—”
“Why would someone do that?” Jake asks.
“Anti-abortion terrorists,” I say. I refuse to call them pro-life because they’re
not. If anyone is for
life
, it’s my parents and the nurses at the clinic, saving
women’s lives every day. The person who’s threatening to kill us? Yeah, he’s not
so much about life at all.
Jake raises his eyebrows. “Calling them terrorists is a bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“Um, threatening to kill people and leaving bombs in hospital restrooms
is
extreme.”
I put down my fork. “Anyway, what’s the definition of a terrorist? Someone targeting
innocent civilians and using terror to accomplish a political goal? Check.”
“Your parents aren’t exactly innocent though,” he says. “Not if they’re doing abortions.”
“Jake,” Diane says, a note of warning in her voice. “Let’s change the subject.”
Jake turns to her. “You can’t be okay with this, Mom. You can’t support this.”
She sighs. “Jake. Please. Just drop it. My personal views are beside the point. Franny
is our guest and—”
“Because she’s lied to us,” he snaps. “We’ve been taking money from them, Mom. Her
horse’s board has been paid for by them, with money they made killing babies. You
don’t have a problem with that?”
“Shut up, Jake,” Leah says. “Just shut up. You don’t know anything about it. You’re
just saying that because it’s how Dad used to think.”
I stand up, my heart beating so hard I think it might explode. Diane grabs my arm.
“Sit down, Franny. And Jake, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“But you—” he starts.
Diane cuts him off. “I may not agree with abortion, but I certainly don’t think Franny’s
parents or anyone else should be in danger because of what they do.”
“But Mom, they—”
“Enough, Jake. That is
enough.
” Diane raises her voice. “Go to your room. Now.”
Jake doesn’t move. He just laughs. “I’m twenty-three, Mom. You can’t give me time-outs.”
“I’m leaving anyway,” I say. The room, their three faces—it’s all a blur through
the tears in my eyes. Tears of anger. If I don’t leave, I’ll hit him. I’ve never
in my life wanted to hit someone like I do right now.
Diane stands up to. She looks like she is about to cry. “Please excuse my son’s rudeness,”
she says. “I am so, so sorry.”
Leah gets to her feet. “Oh, Franny… I’m coming with you.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
I can’t get out of there fast enough. I run down the driveway, fumble with my keys,
get into my car and floor it. I can barely see through my tears, and I
know I shouldn’t
be driving right now, but I don’t care.
I just want to be back in my own house.
A couple of hours after I get home, Mom calls up, “Franny? Leah’s here.”
I open my bedroom door and yell down the stairs, “Come on up.”
I can hear the low murmur of Mom and Leah talking and then Leah’s footsteps on the
stairs. I flop back down on my bed and wait.
Leah slips into my room and closes the door behind her. “You haven’t told them? Your
parents?”
“What, that your brother thinks they’re murderers? No, I didn’t think they really
needed to hear that right now.” None of this is her fault, but I feel angry with
her anyway. I wish she hadn’t come over.
“I don’t blame you for being upset,” she says carefully.
“Oh, that’s generous of you.”
She flinches. “Franny. I can’t help what my brother thinks, okay? I don’t agree with
him. You know that. And I don’t know if he even agrees with the stuff he’s saying
himself. He’s just mad because he doesn’t like me being with you, so he’s spouting
the kind of stuff Dad used to say.”
I sit up. “The
kind of stuff
he’s saying is the
kind of stuff
that gets people like
my parents killed.”
She shakes her head. “It’s just words. He’d never—”
“Just words? JUST WORDS?”
“Shhh,” she says. “Your parents will hear.”
“You don’t get it,” I tell her.
“I get it,” she says. “My brother is a jerk. I don’t blame you for being mad.
But
don’t take it out on me.” Her eyes shine with tears.
“There’s no such thing as
just words
,” I say. “Seriously. Saying that my parents
murder babies? That kind of language is what makes people do crazy stuff.”
“Only if they’re already crazy.”
I snort. “There’s no shortage of crazy out there.”
“I know,” Leah says. She reaches out to me, runs her fingers over my eyebrows and
cups my face in her hands. “It’s scary. But my mom was okay, right? She didn’t freak
out.”
“No. Jake kind of took care of the freaking-out side of things.”
“I know. I’m really sorry.” She bites her bottom lip. “He’ll get over it.”
“I’m not so sure I will,” I say.
“You don’t have to.” Leah kisses my forehead, my nose, my lips. “As long as
you still
love me, even though my brother’s a pain in the you-know-what.” She hesitates, pulls
back and studies my face. “You do, don’t you?”
I laugh. “I do. Even though you can’t even say
butt
.”
But after she leaves, Jake’s words still echo in my mind.
Killing babies. Murdering
babies.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Something feels…off, somehow. I replay the conversation
at the Gibsons’ dinner table and realize what it is. Jake didn’t seem in the least
surprised about my parents being abortion providers.
Maybe he’d overheard me telling Diane.
Or maybe he already knew.
Maybe that’s the real reason he’s been so cold to me. Maybe it isn’t just about me
being involved with his sister.
And then I remember that low, muffled voice on the phone. Those same words.
Baby
killers.
What if it isn’t just a coincidence?
The next day is Saturday, and despite my nervousness about seeing Jake, I spend the
morning at the barn as usual. I groom Buddy, muck out his stall and clean my saddle.
Jake is teaching in the arena, so it’s easy to stay out of his way. I’m helping one
of his students—a tiny girl with long black braids—find
the right bridle for the
pony she’ll be riding, when Leah walks in.
“Hey,” she says. “Here you go.” She hands me a mug of coffee.
I send Black Pigtails on her way and take the coffee, wrapping my cold hands around
it and enjoying the warmth. “Thanks. What are you up to?” I ask.
“Homework.” She makes a face. “Boring. Are you going to ride?”
“Yeah.” I notice that she’s dressed for riding, in an old pair of beige breeches
and riding boots. “Want to join me?”
“Sure. I need a break, and Snow needs exercise.”
I pull my gray leather chaps out of my tack box and zip them over my jeans. “Let’s
do it.”
But I can’t stop thinking about Jake. Can’t stop thinking
what if, what if, what
if
. We’ve only gone half a mile or so when I make up my mind. I pull Buddy to a halt
and jump off quickly, running my hand over his fetlock. “It’s not warm or swollen
or anything,” I say. “But he’s definitely sore. I’m going to walk him back.”
Leah gives me a sympathetic look. “That sucks. I’ll see you back there, then?”
“Yeah.” I wave to Leah and lead Buddy back toward the barn. “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy,”
I say, stroking his shoulder. “Sorry about your trail ride, pal. I bet you’re wondering
what the hell is wrong with me, huh?”
Back in Buddy’s stall, I take off his saddle and bridle and give him a quick brush-down.
I can hear Jake’s voice from the arena, calling out instructions to his eleven-o’clock
class. “Ashley, more legs!
Don’t let him be lazy. Keep those gentle hands just like
that, Jude. Nice transition there, Matt! Kaylie, your leg position’s looking good,
but let’s see a little more weight in your heels…”
He’s a good teacher. Patient with the kids, gentle with the horses.
It’s hard to fit the way he treats me—and the things he said about my parents—together
with this other, kinder side of him.
When I listen to him with his students, I think there’s no way he could be the anonymous
caller. I’m being paranoid. I wish I could talk to Leah—share my suspicions with
her—but it’s a bad idea. She’s blindly loyal when it comes to family. We’d end up
fighting.
I can’t believe I just lied to her. That I pretended Buddy was limping. I feel slightly
sick thinking about it.
But what if it
is
Jake? What if I ignore my suspicions and something
happens to my
parents? How do I live with that?
I look up the driveway at the Gibsons’ house. Diane’s car isn’t there, so she must
be out.
Leah’s riding Snow.
Jake’s teaching…
My breath catches in my throat at the thought of what I’m about to do.
The front door is unlocked. I let myself in. “Diane?” I call out, just in case.
No one answers. I tug my boots off and pad down the hall, my heart racing. Leah’s
bedroom and her mom’s are both upstairs, but Jake’s is on the main floor. His door
is closed, and as I push it open, it creaks loudly and I practically jump out of
my skin.
Chill, I tell myself. Jake’s lesson goes for another twenty minutes, Leah’s off in
the woods somewhere, and if
Diane comes home, I’ll hear her car and make up some
excuse for being here.
I slip into Jake’s room. Narrow bed against one wall, desk with computer on it, a
tidy bookshelf, guitar leaning against the wall, music stand…I scan the books on
the shelves—a few old math texts, some books on
HTML
programming, a stack of music
magazines. Biographies of musicians. Some thrillers and mystery novels—Stephen King,
John Grisham, that kind of thing. No
Dummies Guide to Bombs
or anything of that sort.
No Bible with conveniently marked passages. No books about the evils of abortion.
I don’t know what I expected to find.
I’m turning to leave when I notice a roll of wrapping paper in the corner behind
the door. Birthday theme—cake and candles.
Of course, he could just be going to a party.
On the other hand? Two nights ago, someone delivered a gift-wrapped bomb threat to
the hospital.
I tear off a corner of the paper and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans. Then
I leave Jake’s room, close the door behind me and sprint back down the driveway to
the barn.
Jake is still teaching. I check my watch—five minutes until the lesson ends. I slide
open Buddy’s stall door and lean my head against him. He ignores me, contentedly
munching on his hay. “What should I do, Buddy?” I whisper. “Should I talk to Leah?
Or is that a really bad idea?”
He lifts his head and looks at me, blowing out a long breath through fluttering nostrils.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re probably right.”
I can’t just ignore my suspicions. But suspicions are all I have.
And wrapping paper,
which is hardly evidence of a crime. Just because Jake’s anti-choice—and an obnoxious,
ignorant jerk—it doesn’t mean he’s done anything illegal.
I know what Leah would say. I can hear her voice in my head already:
No way. Jake
wouldn’t do anything like that.