Page 86 of Trust No One

Tree branches grabbed my jacket sleeves. Another clawed my cheek. A root caught the toe of my foot, and I tripped. The path had vanished under fallen branches, logs, and thick piles of leaves. I paused and looked back. The trees had closed around me, extinguishing the lights of Edith’s house. A breeze whispered through the trees. A creek trickled. Easy to imagine troubled ghosts.

The day my mother died, she’d escaped her room and Hale House. We’d found her lying in the cool, muddy creek bed a mile upstream, her pale, sickly face staring up to the sky, arms outstretched. Her features were stricken, as if glimpsing death had terrified her. The doctor said she’d suffered a heart attack.

I stumbled. I took two large steps to catch myself. More branches grabbed the fabric of my jacket.

Panic swamped me. I walked faster, feeling the blackness closing.

Memories of Gabe and Amy pushed out of the mist. I’d stumbled home early on a random day. Gabe and Amy had been sitting in his pickup truck, parked in front of Hale House. She’d told me he’d offered to drive her back into town.

Her sincerity made it easy to believe her.

The black sky was crammed with stars. I felt small.

I shoved out a breath, raised my chin, and walked down the path. An animal dashed through the woods, breaking branches and crushing leaves.

When Hale House came into view, I wasn’t relieved. Hale House had never been welcoming. But it was familiar, and I’d settle for that.

I sat on the stairs, took off my muddy shoes. Up the front steps, chilled, I unlocked the front door. Inside, the air was cool.

I dropped my backpack and carefully hung Mom’s suit on a favored cedar hanger.

In the shower, dirt swirled around my feet and down the drain. The water cooled quickly. I shut off the water and grabbed a towel.

I slipped on an old robe that smelled of dust and age, brushed out my hair. I saw more of Mom. I backed away, almost laughing at life’s inevitabilities.

Whenever thoughts of Mom crept across my mind, I chased them away. I’d never win a Daughter of the Year award.

Earlier, I’d ducked quickly into the room and grabbed the suit. Now as I hung it back up, I paused, remembering her again.

Her jewelry box rested on her lap. Going through it had always been a favorite pastime for her. Each piece marked a happier moment in the past she could barely recall now as her fingers skimmed over the cool metal, cut diamonds, and smooth pearls.

“I’d like to give this to you,” Mom said.

I sat on her bed, fidgeting with my high school ring. “Mom, I don’t need pearls.”

“Darling, everyone needs pearls.”

“I won’t need it in school.”

Her gaze tightened with frustration. “Let me do something nice for you.”

“I don’t need anything.”

Her brow knotted. “You’ve never forgiven me, have you?”

Had I? No. But talking about it would scrape at a wound still fresh with puckering stiches. “Mom, it’s fine.”

“Forgive me. Take the pearls, so I know you aren’t mad anymore.”

I’d glanced at her outstretched hand and the small white pearls dangling from her thin fingers. I took the pearls, sliding my fingers along the smooth surfaces. “Better?”

“You forgive me?”

“What’s there to forgive?”

“If I’d been a better mother, you wouldn’t have done what you did.”

What I’d done.