Deadly Little Lessons (7 page)

A
CCORDING TO EVERYTHING
I’ve researched online, Sasha was given up by her biological mother shortly after birth and adopted by the Beckerman family. Two parents, one cat, and thirteen built-in cousins.

One particular Web site maps out Sasha’s life from childhood to present. She grew up the only child of John and Tracey, in a warm and loving home in Peachtree. Good in school, voted most valuable player in soccer, and a loyal member of the art club and contributor to the literary magazine, Sasha kept a tight network of friends. But once she reached her fifteenth birthday and learned the truth about her parents (like me, she discovered it by accident, when she found her birth certificate in her mother’s keepsake box), everything fell to pieces, including her picture-perfect life.

I move my cursor up to the menu bar and click on the About Me link. It brings me to the bio page of the person who maintains the site. I recognize her right away: Sasha’s adoptive mother. I plug in my earbuds and click on a YouTube video Mrs. Beckerman has made, where she sits in front of the camera, urging anyone with details about the case to contact either her or the authorities. I stare into her pale blue eyes, wanting to know why she and her husband never told Sasha the truth about her birth. Were they concerned that Sasha wouldn’t love them anymore, or afraid that she’d want to find her biological parents?

Mrs. Beckerman continues to speak to the camera, trying her best to be strong: “Please know that Sasha wasn’t some reckless teen who acted out in school or went to underground parties. She was angry at her father and me, which caused her to behave in a way that was out of character. Sasha distanced herself from family and friends, abandoned her studies, and went to places she normally wouldn’t have—and with people we didn’t know. Her father and I understand that anger, and we will have to live with the choices we made on her behalf.”

I wonder if she thinks that Sasha’s already gone—if that’s why she speaks about her in the past tense. I grab a Twinkie from my stash in the drawer, flashing back to what Dr. Tylyn said earlier: that there’s no steadfast rule for when to tell your child that he or she’s been adopted.

But does there ever come a point when it’s
too
late to tell them—when the truth is a legitimate betrayal?

I spend the next hour eating junk food and learning more about Sasha, until she almost feels like a friend…or at least someone I already know. I read about the night that she disappeared. The people she was with claim to have been drinking. Supposedly, they don’t remember if she’d left the party with anyone, or what the guy she’d been talking to looked like. Why aren’t more people talking about him? Why is everyone just assuming that she ran off on her own?

As if in reply, the answer pops up in a small-town newspaper article, the writer of which interviewed the two friends that Sasha went to the party with, both of whom agree that Sasha had been threatening to run away for weeks and had even boasted about having a bag packed. The suitcase the investigators found in her bedroom closet contained a couple of sweaters, some old books, a few pairs of sweats, and a handful of travel products.

But if she
really
ran away, then why didn’t she take that suitcase?

I play Mrs. Beckerman’s video again, muted this time, because I don’t want to be influenced by her words, by the cracking of her voice, or by the part at the end where she gets so emotional that her speech becomes almost too muddled to understand.

Mrs. Beckerman’s face is creased with worry. There are times when she can’t even look at the camera—like she’s hiding something, or ashamed. By the end of the video, her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s huddling forward, curled up on the chair. She looks more like a little girl than like a parent.

I glance at the clock again, startled to find that I’ve been researching Sasha’s case for more than two hours now. Clearly, what started out as a harmless distraction has turned into a time-sucking obsession, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know more.

I decide to head down to my studio in the basement, hopeful that I might have a Sasha-infused premonition. I know it’s a long shot. I know I’d probably need to go to her house and be among her surroundings to actually sense something significant. But still, I have to give my power a try.

I
’
M ABOUT TO GO
down to the basement when my phone rings. It’s Adam. “Hey,” I say, picking up right away.

“Hey, stranger,” he answers back.

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Well, I’ve missed yours.”

“I know. I’m sorry for not calling you last night, but I’m a total train wreck, complete with lack of sleep and junk-food binges.”

“Just wait until your mom finds out,” he says.

My mom is a hater of any food that hasn’t been picked from a tree, vine, or the earth. She’s therefore made it her mission in life to rid the world of junk food, one whoopie pie at a time. During freshman year, she started a petition at my school against the cafeteria’s serving of any foods that contained artificial additives, preservatives, sweeteners, or food colorings, or that were bleached, overly processed (according to her standards), or genetically modified. The petition stated that those who signed would be more than happy to pay extra (up to double) for lunch in exchange for “whole food.” The idea was a flop; she got only seventeen signatures.

“Are you going to tell her about my stash of Oreos?” I ask him.

“Only if you aren’t nice to me.”

“Okay, but don’t feel
too
excluded, because I didn’t call Wes back, either.”

“So, you’re an equal-opportunity callback offender.”

“Something like that.” I smile.

“Anyway, I was thinking that maybe we could go to that drive-in movie place over in Lawston. We had such a great time there the last time we went. I mean, I know it’s no carnival,” he attempts to joke. “But it still might be fun, unless you’d rather…” His voice trails off. He seems slightly nervous.

I honestly can’t say I blame him, because my gut reaction is to give him a big fat no. I don’t want to pretend everything’s okay. I don’t want to have another carnival disaster.

“Camelia?”

It was just about a month ago that we went to that drive-in. It was John Hughes night, we saw a double feature of
The Breakfast Club
and
Sixteen Candles
, and Adam did the best impression of Long Duk Dong I’d ever heard. I laughed so hard I snorted out my root beer. Without a doubt, it was the funniest and grossest night I’d had in a long time. But still… “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I tell him. “Only because we had so much fun the last time we went to that drive-in… I wouldn’t want to ruin the memory with my depressing present state.”

“I just thought it might be good to take your mind off stuff.”

“Maybe we could get takeout and talk instead?”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll call you later and we’ll make a plan.”

“Sounds great,” I tell him, glad that he seems to understand. We say our good-byes. I hang up and then check my phone for messages. I have three: one from Wes, another from Kimmie, and a final one from Adam. They must’ve called while I was researching Sasha’s case, while I had my earbuds in.

I make a promise to myself to call Wes and Kimmie later, and then I go downstairs, still inspired by Sasha’s story. In the basement, I light a pumpkin-scented candle to mask the musty smell, all the while picturing Mrs. Beckerman in her video and replaying in my mind what she said. For just a moment, I wonder if it was her crying voice I heard while sculpting at Knead yesterday, but I quickly remind myself that the crying at Knead was different—quieter and more subdued.

I slice myself a thick hunk of clay and wedge it out against my board, focusing on Sasha—on the photos I saw, the articles I read, and a couple of YouTube videos that she was in (a Lady Macbeth monologue and a clip from the musical
Grease
). After several minutes, once again, a
t
pops into my head, but this time in more detail. I close my eyes to concentrate, and I see that it’s black, with sharp edges, and about six inches long.

I start to sculpt it, at first thinking that I’m wasting my time by replicating a piece I’ve already made, but then I hear the girl’s crying again: the soft whimper I heard at Knead. As I continue to sculpt, the crying gets louder and more distinct, and it almost sounds like she has the hiccups. I keep working, running my fingers over the
t
, perfecting the borders, and making the corners more defined. But soon the crying is too much to bear. And suddenly I find that I’m crying, too.

After a couple of deep breaths and a few final touches, I decide that the piece looks pretty finished. But now a new image surfaces in my mind, and I feel like I have to sculpt it, too.

I smooth out a slab of clay, and then I grab a scalpel to cut petals out of it—eight of them—as well as a disk. I put them all together, forming a stemless daisy.

My tears drip onto the sculpture. The crying in my head is so loud that I can’t hear anything else. I drop the scalpel, but it makes no noise. I bump my work board, but there’s no sound as it hits the table.

“Please,” I whisper, but I can’t hear my own voice. The crying sound is too loud, too big, too overpowering. I take a step back and pull my hands from my work.

After several moments, the crying seems to dissipate, becoming a slight whimper inside my head. I wipe my hands on a rag and cover the clues with a tarp.

Then I hear something else. A whisper. A word. I can’t tell for sure, but I think she just called out, “Mom.” The possibility of that—that she might be trying to communicate through me—compels me to go upstairs. I hurry into my room, check the computer screen for Mrs. Beckerman’s contact info, and grab my phone. With trembling fingers, I block my number and dial hers.

Mrs. Beckerman picks up right away; I recognize her voice from TV and from her video. “Hello?” she repeats. “Is someone there?”

My mind is racing; I have no idea what to say, or if I should simply hang up. “Is this Tracey Beckerman?” I ask, playing for time, all out of breath.

“Yes. Who’s
this
?”

“I can’t really tell you who I am, but I have reason to believe that your daughter Sasha is still alive.”
At least, I
think she is. At least I think it’s her voice I heard crying, and
that I still hear crying now.

“Who is this?” she demands again.

“Is there a plus sign?” I ask. “Or a
t
shape, or something with the letter
t
that might be a clue to her disappearance?”

“Excuse me?”

“Does Sasha like daisies?” I ask, aware of how little sense I’m making.

But it must make sense, because the other end of the lines goes church silent.

“Hello?” I ask, still able to hear the distant crying inside my head. I close my eyes and cover my free ear, trying to block it out.

“Please, tell me who this is,” she says.

“Is there a special daisy, or a daisy charm…? Were daisies her favorite flower?” I continue.

“Do you know where my daughter is?” Her voice quavers.

“No. I’m sorry.” My voice is shaking, too. “But I believe she’s still alive. I mean, I can’t say for sure, but—”

“Where is she?” she snaps. “Have you seen her? Did you call the police? Is there something that I need to know?”

“I don’t… I mean, I’m not—”

“Is it money you want?”

My heart hammers and my mouth turns dry. “No. I mean, I’m just…”

“Can I speak with her?” she continues. “Can you please just tell me if she’s okay?”

I’m tempted to hang up, but now I feel like I’m involved—like I’ve almost made things worse.

“Tell me!” she shouts.

My mouth trembles. I’m at a loss for words.

“Camelia?” Dad asks, sneaking up behind me.

Startled, I turn off the phone, wondering what he heard, and hoping that Mrs. Beckerman didn’t hear my name.

“What is it?” he asks, studying my face: the tears running down my cheeks, the blanching of my skin, the redness of my eyes.

“I have to go away for a while,” I tell him.

He glances at the phone, probably wondering what just happened. I’m wondering the very same thing.

“For a few weeks,” I say, correcting myself. “I want to do a summer art program. Spencer says it’ll help get me into college. I’ve already done the research.”

“Where?” he asks, somewhat taken aback.

“At Sumner College,” I tell him. “In Peachtree, Rhode Island.”