I had the gold watch James took off Coach’s wrist, a little cash, and a duffle bag with a few of my belongings.
James became the lead suspect quickly and I was a suspect, too. They called us the “Oak Hill High teen killers,” and a tabloid ran photos of the two of us side by side on the front page.
I knew no one would believe me if I told the truth and said James summoned Coach to the office and swung the bat before I even knew what was happening.
Of all the images of the night of the attack that I keep replaying, there’s one I go back to the most: James setting the bat down on the floor, then looking at me as he grabbed Coach’s limp arms and dragged Coach deeper into his office, leaving a trail of smeared blood.
James’s eyes were as gentle and untroubled as if we’d just finished making love.
His eyes were the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.
When I saw them, I began to tremble so hard my teeth chattered. I tried to pick up the phone on Coach’s desk to call an ambulance, but James pulled me away.
Never leave fingerprints, he told me as he wiped down the bat with his T-shirt. Then he gave me instructions: We’d go home and grab whatever valuables we could—the old lady he boarded with had a safe in her bedroom James wanted to break into—then we’d meet at Pizza Piazzo at midnight. We’d run to a place where no one could ever find us. We’d be gone tonight.
James paused in yanking the gold watch off Coach’s wrist and stared at me.
He asked if I was going to come with him.
When I didn’t answer immediately, James let Coach’s arm drop roughly to the floor and he moved closer to me. I glanced at the baseball bat, still within James’s reach.
If I thought I’d been terrified before, now I knew true fear.
I blurted that of course I’d meet him at the restaurant.
James held up the watch close to my face and pointed to the twelve at the top of the circle. I heard the faint sound that would grow to haunt me: tick-tock, tick-tock …
James slipped the watch onto my wrist and told me not to lose track of time. He said he’d see me at midnight.
But I ran alone.
You were already growing in my stomach by then, even though I didn’t know it yet. I’d probably gotten pregnant that very first time with James, under the stars.
You gave me a new purpose, one that burned through me and kept me going during all the hard, scary times ahead. I knew I had to hide for the rest of my life. It wasn’t merely self-preservation. My goal was to keep you safe, too, Catherine.
Everyone would know you were the daughter of the teen killers. You’d be a curiosity, and worse, a pariah. And when James and I were both sent to prison, as we surely would be, my mother and father would probably be given custody of you. For long hours every day, while my father was at work and Timmy at school, you’d be alone with my mother.
I needed to do whatever it took to break the pattern.
Even if it meant that in a way, I would die, too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CATHERINE
Diagnosing Alzheimer’s is a slow, methodical process. Symptoms appear gradually. At first, they’re typically overlooked or minimized. When they reach the point of undeniability, other potential culprits—brain tumors, strokes, hydrocephalus—are ruled out. In a small number of cases, genetic tests provide certainty, and brain scans can help afford a level of surety. But usually it’s a jigsaw method; individual pieces are put together until the picture becomes clear.
I know the exact moment I began to fear my mother might have Alzheimer’s. It was three weeks ago, when I called her cell phone to find out why she wasn’t home from the drugstore yet. She’d gotten lost. She didn’t say so, not exactly, but it was obvious.
After that, I watched her closely. The signs piled up so quickly it seemed impossible I’d missed them before.
Still, I didn’t catastrophize. I knew simpler reasons were likely the source of her symptoms.
I insisted she make an appointment with her general practitioner. That was the protocol. When no obvious factor emerged to explain her brain fog, we proceeded to the next level and saw Dr. Chen.
That morning in his office was when the puzzle pieces clicked into place—seamlessly, ruthlessly. The picture was undeniable.
It’s past midnight now, and I’m in bed, wide awake. My mother is on the other side of our shared wall.
I walked around for hours after leaving Ethan’s bar. I was in such a daze I have no memory of what path I followed, and I didn’t notice blisters forming on both of my heels because I was wearing flats instead of my usual sneakers. I only turned toward home when I knew my mother would be asleep.
I can’t bear to see her.
I should be exhausted, but I’m as wired as if I just drank a pot of coffee.
I almost can’t believe what Ethan revealed, that my mother might have drugged him. That she tried to ruin my relationship with him.
Almost.
Our apartment is as quiet as a graveyard now. I slip out of bed and pull on my robe.
I walk out of my bedroom, my footsteps light, using the flashlight on my cell phone to guide me. I enter the living room and begin to search.
Everyone keeps something from their past—a letter, a memento, a photo. If my mother has a talisman, she must have hidden it well.
Even if she doesn’t, some object I’ve seen a thousand times before could hold new meaning now that I’m seeing my mother in a different light. I want to examine the tangible things that compose our lives.
I begin in one corner of the room and work my way through a kind of search grid. I look under the carpet. I lift up every sofa cushion. I even peek behind the prints on our walls.
There’s nothing.
I carry a chair into the kitchen so I can stand on it and peer all the way in the back of the high cupboards. There’s nothing unusual there, other than a dusty box of Rice Krispies I wasn’t aware we had. I step down and work my way through the lower cabinets. Our usual staples are there: rigatoni, pasta sauce, black beans, brown rice, granola bars, chamomile tea. I’m checking the storage drawer at the bottom of the oven when I hear the creak that means my mother’s door is opening.
I turn off my flashlight as goose bumps rise on my skin.
I can’t tell if she’s coming my way.
There’s no reason to feel afraid. I could say I’m getting a glass of water. It’s not like she hasn’t ever walked in on me in the kitchen and seen me doing just that.
But my mother knows me so well.
I can’t shake the sense that if she sees my face, she will instantly know what I’m up to.
I hear the sound of the toilet flush, then, a moment later, my mother’s door closes.
I wait a few breaths, then resume my search.
My mother seemed to have materialized at the age of eighteen, when she had me. It’s as if we were both born at the same time. She conceals her past well, but nobody moves through the world without leaving a trace.
I can’t find one in the kitchen, though. I walk back through the living room and see my mother’s purse hanging on the hook by the front door.
I walk toward it and lift it off, then carry it into my bedroom.
I close my door and wait. I think I hear a faint rustling sound on the other side of the wall, but I can’t say for sure. There’s no way my mother would need something from her purse at this hour, I assure myself.