That Night (4 page)

Each memory was a fierce blow, the grief wrapping so tight around me I couldn’t breathe. And so I ran, over and over again.

My roommate and I didn’t talk much. The morning after Pinky grabbed my arm, she gave me a brief rundown of the routine inside. Then her expression turned sly, her eyes narrowing.

“You got parents sending you money? I need a few things from the canteen, just until my old man sends money in a couple weeks.”

“I can’t buy you anything. Sorry.”

We held eyes and I knew she was trying to intimidate me, but she was also nervous about it, her gaze darting around to see if anyone had heard us—no one was in the hall, and the women in the cell next to ours were loudly arguing. I had a feeling she’d timed it that way so she could save face if I turned her down.

“Don’t matter none, if you’re going to be like that.” She turned back to her bed, muttering, “Just keep your shit tidy.”

I didn’t talk to any of the other inmates, just stayed to myself. I sat in a corner for all my meals and focused on my tray in the line for chow, but from the side I checked out the other women. They were mostly white, with some First Nations, and a few Asians. There were women who looked like men, short haircuts, broad bodies, a way of swaggering, sometimes grabbing at their crotches, which freaked me out. And some really hard-looking women who might have been bikers or druggies—those ones scared me the most. But the biggest surprise was how normal a lot of the women looked. A few of them were even kind of dowdy. Many were overweight, their skin sallow, their teeth stained. I saw plenty of tattoos, some really exotic and cool but others rough and faded. I didn’t see many younger people, maybe a couple of women in their twenties.

None of them paid any attention to me until a big woman with gray hair pulled back into a long braid walked over to me one day. She held her head high, her shoulders squared, and walked like she was hoping someone would cause her a problem, but all the other women moved out of her way. She sat down beside me. “You in for murder, kid?”

My body tense, I studied her hands—each knuckle had a tattoo of an eye. Was she part of some gang? I glanced at her, then looked away. I remembered Pinky’s warning but I couldn’t stop myself from mumbling, “I didn’t do it.”

She gave me a poke in the ribs, a hard jab with her finger. My blood rushed to my face. I looked around for the guards, but they were talking to other inmates.

“Listen up, kid. I’m going to tell you how it is around here.” I met her angry stare, noticed that she had dried saliva in the corners of her lips. “No one gives a shit what you did out there. You’re in the joint now. Keep your cell clean and keep yourself clean. You need anything, you talk to me, not the guards. I run this place.”

She got up and walked off. I stared at her broad back, looking away when she glanced over her shoulder. I pushed my tray to the side, having lost what was left of my appetite. No one on the outside had cared that I was innocent, and no one cared in here.

The woman next to me said, “You going to eat that?”

I’d barely had time to shake my head before she snatched my juice cup off my tray and speared my hamburger patty. I felt someone’s gaze and looked up.

The woman with the gray hair was watching me.

CHAPTER FOUR

W
OODBRIDGE
H
IGH
, C
AMPBELL
R
IVER

J
ANUARY
1996

When Ryan dropped me off at home, it was late and I’d missed dinner. I came in the side door and noticed my dad tying some fishing flies in the garage. We used to go fishing all the time when I was little. We’d pack a lunch and spend the day out in the canoe. Now that I was spending most of my time with Ryan I didn’t go with him as often, though I still liked fishing. Ryan and I had a few favorite spots on the river, but half the time we just ended up making out. Dad used to take me to the job site too, and I liked working alongside him. When I was five he bought me my own tool belt and I’d follow him around, hammering things.

All last summer I’d worked for him to pay off part of the car my parents had given me—a Honda my mom inherited when my grandparents died. It was a little junky, but once we fixed a few things and got some new tires, it should last me a couple of years. I was hoping we’d have it ready by spring so I could insure it and get a real job. Working with Dad was fun, and hard work—it had given me strong muscles in my arms and a flat, toned stomach, which Ryan loved—but I wanted to try something else, something that wasn’t a family business.

Dad looked up when I came in the side door.

“Hi, honey. Where you been?”

“Over at Ryan’s.” My dad looked tired, his face pale, with bags under his eyes. He had a new subdivision contract and had been leaving early and coming home just before dinner. He had dark hair like me and Nicole—my mom was the only blonde—and olive skin that turned bronze if we were out in the sun for more than five minutes, so we looked more like him, in the face anyway. Mom was petite, with small hands and feet, narrow hips and shoulders, so we got our builds from her. She was tiny but she had muscles in her arms, and I was proud of having a hot, tough mom—you could see how toned her biceps were when she wore tank tops, and guys were always checking her out. Dad liked to tell people, “Pam’s small and wiry, like a rat terrier,” and she’d pretend to punch him.

Dad wasn’t very tall either, maybe around five-nine, but he was stocky and had a good build from working hard, the backs of his neck and arms always tanned dark, his hands rough and his skin smelling like some kind of wood, cedar or fir, clean outdoor smells. Dad looked more like he should be a schoolteacher, though, with his kind face and glasses, than a guy who ran a construction company.

“Your mom’s upset you didn’t call.” He was peering at me over his glasses now, admonishing.

“I told her yesterday I’d probably go to Ryan’s after school.”

“I think she’d appreciate an apology.”

And I’d appreciate it if she got off my back once in a while, but that wasn’t going to happen. My parents fought about me a lot. My mom thought my dad was too easy on me and that’s why I got in trouble. The reason I got in trouble was because she was always so damn hard on me. When it starts feeling like you can’t do anything right, there doesn’t seem like there’s any point. And it’s not like I was really bad. I just didn’t do things around the house as fast as she thought I should and I didn’t spend hours doing homework, like my sister. I still got okay grades—I just didn’t see the point in acing every test. Mom also didn’t like how I dressed, with my rock band T-shirts, ripped jeans, and flannel shirts, or how I did my makeup, my eyes ringed in smoky shadow.

She’d say, “I know you’re just trying to express yourself, Toni, but you might not realize the message it sends to people. If you dress like a hoodlum, that’s how they’ll treat you—like you’re bad news. You used to dress so pretty.”

Sometimes when Amy was over I’d see Mom eying up her army boots and her black nail polish. Later, she’d ask if I’d talked to Shauna lately, her voice kind of sad and hopeful. “Shauna’s such a nice girl.” Mom
really
didn’t like me hanging out with Ryan, who she said was “heading for trouble.”

When I’d tried to speak to my dad about how Mom was always on my case, he said, “She worries about you.” No, she just hated that she couldn’t control me, like she could control him and Nicole.

Dad was easygoing, which was kind of cool sometimes, like I could tell him stuff and I knew he wouldn’t freak out, but he hated confrontation. If there was a fight between me and my mom, he left the room. Mom was scrappy and didn’t take shit from anyone, which was embarrassing as hell when she was going off on a sales guy or a supplier. We’d always knocked heads, but it wasn’t as bad when I was little. She could be a lot of fun and had this crazy imagination—she’d tell us stories for hours. And she came up with fun new things for us to do every weekend, maybe taking a day trip down to Victoria and checking out the undersea gardens, or hiking around one of the gulf islands. Sometimes the two of us would drive around and drop off flyers for Dad’s business, then we’d get lunch and talk about all the houses we saw and who might live in them. I liked how excited she’d get about new ideas, how she’d ask for my opinion. She was also smart, and good to talk to if you had any problems, like she’d give advice—Dad would just tell you everything would be okay. She just didn’t know when to stop.

She was so overprotective all the time, worried that something would go wrong and something bad would happen. She didn’t trust me to figure stuff out on my own. Dad said it was because of her childhood—her mom was this super-anxious person, who was practically agoraphobic, and her dad was an alcoholic who’d disappear for days—and because she loved us so much. I tried to understand, but I hated having to answer a million questions, about my day, school, and friends, like she had to know every single thing that was happening in our lives, hated how she was always trying to guide me to do things her way.

Now that I was older, it had gotten worse. The more she tried to control me, the more it felt like tight bands were wrapping around me, sucking all the air out, sucking
me
out, which just made me want to do the complete opposite. But what bugged me most was that I could tell she didn’t really like me anymore. It felt like she was always disappointed in me, and kind of embarrassed, but mostly angry, like it drove her nuts that she couldn’t get me to be what she wanted. Sometimes I wondered if she even loved me anymore.

*   *   *

When I went in, Mom was doing some paperwork in the office. Dad was good with people and an awesome builder but he had no head for numbers, so Mom ran the business side of the company. She had her hair up in a loose ponytail, some of it coming undone. Without any makeup, she looked tired too, the dim glow of her desk light accentuating the hollows of her cheeks. She was wearing one of my dad’s T-shirts and a pair of jeans. She could look pretty when we went out for dinner or something, but she also spent a lot of time wearing work boots and talking to the guys at the construction site. One of the reasons it bugged the hell out of me when she was riding my ass about my clothes.

I tried to pass by without saying anything, but she heard my footsteps and turned. “About time you got home. Thanks for the call.” Her words were snarky, but she looked concerned, and I wondered if I was part of the reason she was tired, which made me feel bad. I wasn’t sure which annoyed me more.

“I was at Ryan’s. I told you that.”

“You mentioned you might be going, but I’d appreciate it if you actually phoned home and kept us informed. I didn’t know how much food to make.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” I walked down the hall.

She followed me out of the office. “No, it’s not
fine
. I’d like an apology.”

I threw a “Sorry” over my shoulder, then mumbled under my breath, “that you’re a control freak.”

“What did you just say?” She pushed open my bedroom door as I was taking off my T-shirt.

“Hey, a little privacy, please?”

“As long as you live in my house, you obey
my
rules, Toni. And we’ve asked you time and time again to call if you’re going to be late.”

I felt another wave of anger. She was always calling it
her
house, like we didn’t have a say in anything.

“I said I was sorry. Now can you leave it alone?”

“I don’t know what to do about you, Toni.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your attitude has gotten even worse since you’ve been seeing Ryan.”

“You’re just on my case because you don’t like him.”

It sucked that my parents couldn’t see how good Ryan was, how good he was to me—he’d saved up to get me a necklace for my birthday, a black onyx star on this cool leather cord. They didn’t see the sweet letters he’d write me, not trying to be all tough like some guys. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t talk about, embarrassing stories, our hopes and dreams. Ryan made me feel like I was
normal
, better than normal. My parents just saw that his father was an ex-con and that Ryan drove a big loud truck and listened to heavy metal music.

“Ryan’s the only good thing in my life right now,” I said.

She leaned against my doorframe, took a breath, preparing for a this-is-for-your-own-good lecture.

“That’s the problem, Toni. He shouldn’t be the only good thing. I know you have strong feelings for him—I’m just worried that you’re forgetting everything else in your life. What about your other friends?”

“I still see my friends, but they have boyfriends too. Ryan and I like to do the same things. What’s wrong with spending time with him? You just hate him.”

Ryan rarely came by the house. Even though my mother was polite, I felt tense and uncomfortable—like she might count the silverware after he was gone. Dad and he talked about fishing and hunting, guy stuff. But one night after Ryan was over for dinner my dad came to my room and said, “Ryan seems like a nice boy, Toni, but you know his father’s another story. They aren’t the best people for you to be spending so much of your time with. Just think about it, will you?”

I was sure Mom had put him up to the conversation, one of those see-if-you-can-talk-sense-into-her things, but I felt betrayed. I’d thought my dad would see Ryan for who he really was. It was so unfair—Ryan wasn’t anything like his father. I didn’t speak to my dad for a week, and we never talked about Ryan again, not like that. He left it to Mom now.

“It’s not about whether I like him,” she said. “I just want you to have a future.” She took a breath, paused for a moment. “Look, when I was your age I had fun too, dated the bad boys, but I got married young and never got an education.” I knew my parents had gotten married when they were still in their twenties, but I didn’t know it bothered my mom. She quickly added, “I don’t regret getting married, but I wished I’d done a few things first, like go to college, so I could get a career of my own. You have lots of time to get serious with someone.”