Page 95 of Gone Tonight
We glide past rooms belonging to a dozen clients, all dimly lit and quiet. The last door on the right is the one I’m seeking.
It should be empty. Staff members are always notified when family comes for an overnight visit, and when I subbed in for a shift earlier today, there was no mention of guests on the Memory Wing arriving tonight.
I twist the knob and peek inside. All clear.
I step aside so my mother can enter, then I pull the door closed behind us.
We’re safe in the family quarters—for now.
I grab a towel from the rack by the shower, then roll it up and place it by the crack in the bottom of the door so no one will see light spilling out. If we avoid making loud noises, we should be able to evade detection. There’s no reason for anyone to check this room, or even walk to the very end of the hallway.
My mother takes a step toward me, whispering, “Catherine, I—”
I lift my hand to stop her. “I need to use the restroom.”
I go into the bathroom and flick on the lights, then lock the door. I close the toilet lid and sit down.
My mind is swimming and it’s difficult to catch my breath, like I’ve just finished a long, punishing race.
In the past few days, I’ve learned my mother’s identity is a fabrication. Now she tells me the person I always imagined my father to be—a selfish, immature boy—is a myth, too.
I drop my head into my hands.
Some of the pieces floating around in the puzzle that composes my mother are beginning to fit together. Maybe my father stalked her when she ended their relationship. She could have changed her identity to hide from him. All of our abrupt moves to different towns, her lack of connection to anyone from the first part of her life—it makes sense in that context.
But why wouldn’t she have told me?
Now that I’m on the verge of learning about her past, it feels like I’ve hiked to the edge of a precipice. I’m gripped with the urge to back away.
But I can’t. I am seconds from literally holding the truth in my hands.
I reach into my purse and pull out my iPhone.
I type new search terms into Google. NotVirginia,butMaryland.Panthers. James. Pizza Piazzo.
That’s all it takes.
The first few hits are the website for the restaurant and Yelp reviews.
Then news stories flood my screen.
The first headline I read is,Oak Hill High Killer Paroled.
Nausea rises in my throat as I view the images attached to the story.
It’s him, the man I saw in the restaurant just a few hours ago, minus the wig and glasses. His full name is James Bates. He’s a murderer.
He’s also my father.
I drop my head between my knees and suck in shaky, shallow breaths.
It isn’t only my mother’s entire identity that is a lie.
Mine is, too.
I force myself to begin reading the article. Midway through I have to close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to pass, but I press on.
I understand the words on my screen, but they are hard to comprehend, like I’m trying to translate a language I don’t speak fluently. Nothing I’m reading computes with the tidy, quiet life I share with my mother.
