I am leading one down from the pasture, trying to avoid the clip of its teeth, when your father passes by on his ATV. He slows to smile radiantly at me and say, “We’re so happy you’re here.”
It unbalances me for the rest of the day. We’re so happy you’re here. I can’t put my finger on it, but those words are like a fissure in my spine, a tickle in my toes. I feel dizzy with the oxygen and heady with the view—the river below and the mountains above—and my body aches, my joints feel locked, and it haunts me: We’re so happy you’re here.
To my surprise, a vet appears that evening. He drives up in a big black truck. It sends a shiver down my spine and I watch him closely. His name is Moroni. He’s thin and wiry with pale orange hair and a patch of crusted red skin on the back of his neck. Hank Williams Stage 2.
He greets your parents warmly, exclaiming over how well they look and how good the ranch looks and how does your mother get her plants to grow? Where did they find that particular shade of red to paint their shutters? How nice the air is out here!
“It’s like you bought your own special atmosphere!” he trills dumbly as they show him all the new additions.
They take so long about it that I wonder if he is the vet at all, but eventually, they lead him to Belle Star. The blood has dried in a dark slash down her lips
Moroni hobbles into the pasture and confirms what your father said. “It’s just a cut, inside her nose.” Belle Star is lame from the shoulder. He says she probably strained a muscle in a fight with another horse.
“I don’t think the other horses like her,” I say. Your mother sniffs. “Maybe we should leave her here.”
“That’s an idea,” Moroni says, noncommittal.
He shoots the shit with your parents for a while. Eventually I put together that he is friends with your brother, Homer, that they go to the same church, a church your parents used to go to, but they stopped because of the goddamn liars and people in that town.
I want to talk to Moroni alone, to ask him about you, but I need to be careful. Your parents are watching.
I decide to excuse myself early, even though I don’t want to miss anything, so I can double back and wait for him outside his truck. It’s parked on the other side of the lodge, out of view of your parents’ house. I should be able to talk to him alone. Still, there is a chance one or both of your parents will walk with him, so instead of waiting out in the open, I duck into one of your mother’s gardens.
I recognize the gate from the website, the careful swirl of the wrought iron. But in the pictures, there were roses and baby’s breath and wisteria. Now there are blackberry bushes, tangled inside the fence, choking the gate, curling up the stand of a birdhouse and stuffed inside like a thorny nest.
This garden is a blackberry stronghold, so thick and high at the center, like it covers a blackberry planet. And along the edges, the vines bleed out, reaching farther and farther, so insidious, you don’t see it at first, the way it curls along the edge of the barn, twists in a vine over the fence of a nearby pasture, stretches in a chain beneath every guest cabin.
It pricks my ankles, my arms as I duck down. The smells of mud and rot are warm around me. It is amazing how much life smells like death.
I wait. My left leg falls asleep. Then I hear footsteps approaching. I peer over the brush as nerves twinkle under my skin.
Moroni twists to look behind him, lips poised over a joint and a match. With a rush, I realize that I have seen him before. I recognize the mottled back of his neck. He’s the guy from the coffee shop. The one that threw his arms around the woman who broke the teacup and said, Where have you been? He is alone. He lights the joint.
I stand, my leg encased in pins and needles. I untangle my feet from the branches that claw my ankles and step out of the garden. “Hi.”
He lifts his chin. He doesn’t ask why I was hiding behind a bush. He doesn’t even look surprised. Instead he spews a massive cloud of herbal smoke, then shakes his head. “I can’t stand that fucking bitch.”
I am taken aback. Ever since he arrived, he has been praising your mother up, down and across: her gardening, her housekeeping, her taste. “Sorry?”
“That woman,” he says, like we are on the same page. “I can’t fucking stand her.”
I step back. Something in his tone makes me physically afraid. He stalks to his truck. He grabs the handle and swings open the door. I need to ask him about you before it’s too late. “Did you know her daughter?”
“Rachel?” He snorts. “That bitch was crazy.”
My stomach burns, but I force myself to keep a cool exterior. “Crazy? How?”
This stumps him for a second. He holds his joint inches from his lips. “Well, first of all, she hated men.” And just like that, I hate him.
“That’s—” I bite my tongue. “Why do you say that?” My voice is saccharine, so I sound like a woman who likes, or at least tolerates, men.
He cocks his head. “Never had a boyfriend.”
“I would imagine there weren’t a lot of people to choose from.”
“No. Not if you hate men.”
“Did she have any female friends?”
“Nope.” He rubs the lizard skin on his neck. “She just kept to herself. That’s what I mean: psycho.”
“How is keeping to yourself psycho?” He looks at me like I’m psycho, then climbs up onto his seat, happy to leave. How do men do it so fast? They make you feel like a “crazy woman” with one look. “What happened to her?”
“Ha!” he says like we both know what that means.
“What?’
“Well, look at her mother. You want to know what happened to her, look at her mother. It’s obvious.” I don’t know if he means she hurt you or if she drove you insane. Or both.
“Do you think she did something to her?”
“Hey.” He pinches his joint in an “okay” gesture. “I gotta say no more.” He shuts the door behind him. “Probably? Rachel got outta here. Probably? She’s on a beach somewhere sipping a margarita. Or else?” He points two fingers and the joint. “That psychopath peeled her face from her skull. But you didn’t hear it from me!” He trills gleefully and the engine guns and he zooms past me, past the lodge and past your mother’s house, out onto the highway.
I hear your voice, telling your story: He told her exactly what happened, down to the grisly details. He warned her. But like so many witnesses before her, she didn’t believe him. If only she had . . .
Episode 25:
Secrets We Keep