Page 127 of Gone Tonight
It’s a balmy, beautiful Saturday afternoon. Below me, people mill about on the cobblestone street, and happy notes of reggae music play in the distance.
My new place is in Fells Point, only a block from the water. Cafés, funky little stores, and bars are all within a stone’s throw. There’s a raw vegan restaurant around the corner and a coffee shop called The Daily Grind I know I’ll be frequenting often. My apartment isn’t far from Hopkins, where I start work on Monday at 8 a.m. sharp.
Tonight, I decide, I’ll venture out and explore my new city. Maybe I’ll head to the Inner Harbor and find a restaurant with outdoor seating. There’s also Little Italy if I decide I’m in the mood for a bowl of homemade pasta. Or I could just find a neighborhood place, somewhere with beer on tap and crispy French fries and a good veggie burger.
I guess I’ll see where my feet take me.
As I pass my bookshelf on the way to my closet, I pause. The old picture of my mother as a teenager and me as a baby, the one she framed more than twenty years ago and gave to me, is off-center. I move it an inch to the left, balancing it, then step back.
Better,I think.
I love my mother, but I’m still angry with her. It isn’t the kind of quick, hot anger that boils away with a speed equal to its formation, either. I understand my mom was faced with impossible situations and choices. I also believe she could have done things differently.
But now I’ve broken free from the old secrets that ruled both ofour lives. I intend to call my mom once or twice a week, but I’m going to wait awhile before I invite her up for lunch or dinner. I need distance from her.
It’s time for me to get acquainted with myself as an individual. To finally chart my own course.
I walk to my closet and open the door and pick out a black sundress that leaves my shoulders bare. I pull off my sweaty T-shirt and unbutton and step out of my cutoffs, deciding to take a cool shower before I head out for the evening.
I’m twenty-four years old, and my life is opening up before me.
Maybe I shouldn’t feel so carefree right now. Four days ago, I took a man’s life—and not just any man. I killed my biological father. My mother and I buried the body in a remote wooded area in West Virginia. My mother was still pretty weak, so I dragged it away from where we parked off the highway using an old sheet as a sled, taking frequent stops to catch my breath, while she followed.
My mother got physically sick when I dumped the first shovelful of dirt onto James, even though I’d covered his face with the sheet. I guess she’d hit her emotional limit. Burying him was too much.
I told her to go back to the car. I could handle it alone.
Afterward, she was quiet the whole drive home.
Those final few days in our apartment, I kept catching her staring at me, as if she was trying to gauge how I was affected. She asked me lots of questions. She wanted to know if I was experiencing any PTSD. If I wanted to find a therapist. If I had nightmares.
It’s almost like she’s worried because I’m not more upset—like she wants me to cry or stop eating or wake up in the middle of the night screaming. Maybe she thinks I’m suppressing my emotions.
But I’m not upset or traumatized.
Quite the opposite. There’s a new sensation thrumming through me, a high-pitched kind of thrill that makes me want to leap out of bed every morning. Maybe every young woman who moves to a new city and embarks on a fresh, wide-open life feels this way.
My conscience is sparkling clean. James would have killed my mother if I hadn’t stopped him.
I did what needed to be done.
I sleep well at night.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIXRUTH
The field where I once flew a kite with my dad and Timmy is nearly empty at dusk. But I swear I can almost hear the jingle of that ice-cream truck from long ago.
In the distance, I see a man walking his dog and a group of women jogging on the paved trail that cuts through the wooded area bordering the park.
I stand alone beneath the branches of a giant oak tree in the center of an expanse of emerald grass. It’s the same tree where Timmy got his kite caught long ago.
I look up high into the branches, searching for an old scrap of red-and-white-striped fabric. But even though I crane my neck until its muscles grow tired, all I discover is a chattering squirrel.
When I lower my head, I see the man with the dog walking toward me. The animal, a cute mixed breed with black spots on its white fur, is pulling at the leash, like he knows the man’s destination and wants to hurry him along.
They draw closer. I straighten up and remove my sunglasses with a hand that has begun to shake.
My heart is pounding so hard it’s almost painful.
