What She Left Behind (19 page)

“Find anything?” Zach asks.

“Not yet. Does ‘Carter’ mean anything to you?”

“No. I’m not doing much better over here, either. A bunch of brochures and files in the top. Looks like giveaways in this drawer—rulers, tape measures, mini-screwdriver sets.”

He slams the drawer shut and opens the last one. “Uh, I think this might be it.”

I cross the room and peer into the drawer. A pint of Jack Daniels. And next to it, a thick navy blue notebook. Dad’s log. It’s a bit like the notebook Dad used to carry around when he was a cop, only steno-size with the spiral on the left. Dad’s logs all look exactly the same except for the year, which he prints on the cover’s top right-hand corner.

I reach for it, then jerk my hand back.

Clean! Are your hands clean, Sara? Of course they are. Stop freaking out.
I just washed them after rescuing Sam. I reach back into the drawer, and slowly pull out the log. My heart pounds. I’ve never looked in Dad’s log. No one has. I carry it carefully to the desk and
sit. Taking a deep breath, I open it and turn the pages. Most seem to be rather mundane entries about lumber orders and meals. Then I get to Tuesday, the day Mom disappeared.

There’s nothing. Just a blank page. The entries stop there. My dad, who never misses an entry, has not made one in nearly a week. My ears buzz and I get the same scared taste in my mouth that I get when I hear my dad’s truck door slam and I realize that there is something I’ve forgotten to do before he got home.

I turn the page, and then the next and the next, just to make sure.

Slow down, Sara! Don’t bend the pages! There must be a logical explanation, just slow down and think!

“What? What’s the matter?” Zach comes over and puts his arm on my shoulder.

“There are no—there are no more entries.” I keep turning, blank page after blank page.

Slam!
A car door! Or is it a truck?
Please don’t let it be a truck!

Zach and I both freeze like rabbits. “Oh my God, is that him? Is he here?”

Shit! Move, Sara, move!
I close the log and slide it back into the filing cabinet. Had it been touching the right side or the left? Right. No, left. My dad will expect it to shift a little when he opens and closes the drawer, won’t he? I try to close the cabinet quietly, but it still makes a reverberating clang.
Hide, run, or confront? Hide, run, or confront?
I want to crawl inside the filing cabinet, even though I know I won’t fit.

“What do we do? What do we do? Do we go out the back door?” I look to Zach for answers. His eyes get big.

Do we try to make it to the car? Or do we forget the car, go out the back door, and just run?
God, why did the store have to be so far out of town?
There’s too much open space! Either way we’re screwed. Dad knows the make, model, and license-plate number of all of our friends’ cars. He’ll know it’s Zach’s car in the parking lot before he even comes in the building.

“Okay, what are we doing here? Why are we here? What possible reason can we have for being here?” I stammer, my heart thudding.

“Birthday? Your Dad’s birthday? Decorating for his birthday?” Zach suggests frantically.

“No, won’t work. July.”

“You needed something for the yard. Something so you can fix up the yard?” Zach’s talking even faster now.

“Shovel. Rake. Hoe. Sprinkler. Trimmer. Shit. Just look. Is it him?”

Zach peeks around the doorframe. “It’s the cops.”

“Oh God. Now what?”

“Take a deep breath and act natural,” Zach says. “Remember, it’s your dad’s store. You have the keys.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself, too.

Yes, my dad’s store.
Just please don’t let them call him.

We go into the main part of the store.

The door opens. The officer doesn’t have his gun drawn, but his hand hovers over the holster. “Afternoon,” he says, looking us over. “This store’s supposed to be closed. Can you tell me what you kids are doing here, please?”

“My dad—Ray Peters—owns the store. He sent us here to pick up a paper he forgot. This is my friend, Zach.”

“Afternoon, Officer.”

“You have any ID?” he asks, turning to me.

“In my purse.”

“Go ahead and get it out.”

I fumble through my purse, hands shaking. I find my license and take it out.

“So you’re Ray’s daughter,” he says. “Sorry to frighten you. I was driving by and saw a car I didn’t recognize here after hours.”

“No problem. I’m sure my dad would appreciate your checking.”
Is there any cop in the whole county that my dad isn’t friends with?
I put my wallet back in my purse. “We were just leaving.” I take a step forward, then freeze in midstride.
Sam!
He’s still in the office!

“I left—I just gotta get—something out of the office.”

Too bad Sam isn’t going to fit in my purse.
I take my time returning to the front of the store. The officer is still there.

“It’s for—it belongs to my little cousin,” I say, gesturing to my stuffed dog. “Let me just set the alarm and we’ll be off.”

The officer holds the door open for us.

I flip off the lights and try to set the alarm while my hands are shaking.
Beep.
It’s set. I pull the door closed, insert my key, and turn. Then I make a big show of testing the knob to make sure it’s locked.

Our feet crunch against the gravel as we walk to the car.

“Thanks again, Officer,” I call out just before slamming the
door. He doesn’t answer, but at least he doesn’t try to stop us. He just stands there and watches us pull away, his arms folded.

“That was close,” Zach says, sounding relieved. He shakes his head and turns on the radio. “You think that guy’s going to call your dad?”

I pull my seat belt tighter and squeeze Sam to my chest. “I’m doing my best not to think about that.”

My dad completely flipped out over the glass of water on his dresser and the pack of cigarettes in my pocket.

If he finds out I was at his store without his permission …

That I was looking at his log …

I’ll be in trouble.

A-trip-to-the-hospital kind of trouble.

Maybe even dead.

M
onday morning I ask Zach to walk me to history. Alex is standing outside the door. When he sees us together his jaw tightens and he shakes his head. Then he takes off.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Zach asks, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” I say. “Not at all.”

I didn’t do as good of a job trimming the bushes yesterday as Matt would have done. A few stray branches poke out. I’m about to go out to the barn for the clippers when I remember that I never put them back. Good thing Dad didn’t notice. Where are they?

Think.

There they are, tucked behind a bush. I clip the problem areas, then trudge out to the barn to put them away.

As I open the side door, a bird flaps its wings and crashes into a wall. I leave the door open, hoping it will fly out.
Bam!
The bird crashes into the superclean tractor (Dad washes it after every use). Poor thing.

I scan the pegboards and the tools hanging on them, looking for the gap where my clippers should go.

I find the spot. But there’s another empty spot near it. My dad’s very neat with his tools. Meticulous, even. For one to be missing is a bit odd. I try to figure out what it could be. Plastic rake. Metal rake. Hoe. Saw. Ax. Hatchet. Pitchfork. Post-hole digger. What’s missing? I stand in front of the empty spot. As if that will help me remember.

Prickles spread across my arms. Shovel. The shovel is missing. Wooden handle, black scooping part that looks like a Teflon pan. It should be here.

The gravel crunches and the truck door slams. I freeze. Maybe Dad won’t notice that the barn door is open.

No such luck.

“What are you staring at?”

Oh God.
“I—I’m, uh—I’m looking for the peg for the clippers.”

“It’s right in front of your face.”

“Oh,” I say. I hear my own voice shake.

“Put it back and get out of here.” My dad doesn’t like people messing with his tools or his barn, for that matter.

I stretch on my tiptoes and try to hang up the clippers. Instead I manage to knock the peg onto the floor.

Dad stands with his arms folded as I replace the peg and the
clippers. The bird flutters into a shelf. Nervous, just like me. As we walk out the side door, Dad slams it shut behind us. I want to tell him about the bird but figure I better not.

Inside the house, I keep thinking about the missing shovel. Where is it? In my mind, I see images of my dad, the shovel in his hand, digging. Picking my mom up in his arms and lowering her into the ground, sprinkling dirt over her body. I shudder. I have to snap out of it and start making dinner.

I turn on the oven and thaw some ground beef for tacos. Does beef always look this bloody?
Stop it, Sara!
There’s bound to be a logical explanation for the missing shovel, one that doesn’t involve my mother.

As we sit down to dinner, Dad once again asks, “Where’s Matt? He’s not at that goddamned play rehearsal again, is he?”

Let’s see. The last time I told my dad that Matt was at play rehearsal, I ended up making a long-distance call to heaven. I wasn’t going there again.

“No,” I say. “He quit.”

Dad smiles, which is weird. I should try changing the past more often.

“So where is he?”

Crap.
Now what was I supposed to say? Matt loved being in plays. And basically Dad was okay with that. Except for Matt’s last play. Dad insisted that Matt quit a week before opening night.

Matt didn’t. He killed himself instead.

I think about telling Dad that Matt is at soccer practice. That should be safe. Then I have a better idea.

“He said something about a program Jack Reynolds told him about—some kind of seminar about the police academy.”

Dad buys it. “Hmm,” he says. “Sounds good.” Then he tells me that the tacos taste great.

The phone rings. It’s Mrs. Harper, from the riding stable. My heart beats faster.

“I’ve found someone who will take that horse we talked about. If you give me the address, I’ll arrange for a horse trailer to pick him up.”

I’m thrilled for Chester, but a little anxious for me, since it means I have to go see Mr. Jenkins again.

My dad’s in the basement with his trains, so I shout down that I’m going for a walk.

I stop at the barn and open the side door, hoping the bird that is trapped inside will find his way out, then I make my way over to Chester. He’s limping so badly I want to cry. I blow him a kiss and cross over onto the neighbor’s property.

Amazingly, Mr. Jenkins opens the door after just one ring of the doorbell. “About your horse … I know someone who would be interested in taking him—” He starts to close the door.

This is what I shout at him in my head:
If you don’t let him go, I’ll report you to Animal Cruelty!

Here are the words I actually say: “They’ll pay.”

The truth is that the only “they” who will pay is me. I fan some of the money I’d cleared out of my savings account in front of him. “Not enough,” he says, closing the door further.

“Wait! There’s more!” I pull extra cash out of my pocket and add it to my money fan. This is crazy. What if Mom and I need this money? What if Mom never comes back and I need the cash to get out of Scottsfield?

The door eases open. Mr. Jenkins unhooks the screen door and snatches the bills. He doesn’t say
Thank you, good-bye
, or even
Sold
. He just shuts the door and turns the deadbolt.

I lean down and try to talk through the partially opened window. “Someone will be by in a few days to get him.” Then Mr. Jenkins closes that, too.

When I get back home, Dad is washing his truck. He’s kneeling in the bed of the pickup, scrubbing something with a brush. I try not to think about the missing shovel.

Don’t be ridiculous, Sara! If Dad were trying to cover up evidence that he’d had a dead body in the truck, he would have done that last Tuesday, the day that Mom disappeared.

Right.

The day that I didn’t come home until well after dinner. The day I found my dad alone in the dark, smoking.

To distract myself, I go inside and put on
The Winds of Change
. Julia, who’s felt sick all week, finally takes a pregnancy test. Now surely she’ll remember taking the same test once before and sharing the good news with her real husband. Instead there she is, jumping up and down next to Ramón. “We’re going to have a baby!” she shouts.