I'll Be Watching You, page 10
When I reopen them, I look up at the dream catcher hanging over the headboard.
She brought it back from Phoenix when she vacationed with her dad for a week. Made from brown felt, silver wire, white feathers, and beautifully unique turquoise beads, she’d bought it from a Hopi woman on the side of a road. She informed me that it would keep her nightmares at bay. I wonder now if it did.
I also wonder if it would help with mine?
I dream over and over, when I actually do sleep, that Leah is drowning and I can’t save her. It’s a truth I’ll never escape. The look on her face as she reaches her arms out to me... I can’t shake it. Even if it wasn’t real.
But was it? Did she reach for me when she was drowning? Was she hoping I’d come and save her?
Her phone cord stretches to the bed, so I pick it up. I know the passcode, so with four clicks, I’m staring at her photo wallpaper—she and Skye on the beach, blue sky above, sand below them.
I click into her text messages, afraid, so afraid, of what I will find.
She has 402 new messages from Liam.
Puzzled, I click into them. They begin the day after she died.
I miss you.
I can’t believe this happened.
I want to say... I love you. You didn’t know it, but it’s true. I’ll never love anyone the same way. I’m afraid of that.
They go on in much the same way, for dozens and dozens of messages.
I know you won’t see these, but it makes me feel better to talk to you. Even if you can’t answer.
I miss you.
God, I miss you.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I stare at the screen, and my vision blurs for a minute. What is he sorry for?
Can it be... Liam? Is he the one?
He’s only older by a year. And from the posts that I read, Leah referenced a man, not a teenager.
The Liam I know is gentle, even if he wears black and acts like he’s edgy. We all know that people wear masks. As Derek said, everyone pretends. Liam is kind. I’ve seen it in his eyes. Could he hide something darker there?
There are no texts that are abnormal. Skye, Liam, Anna. All kids from school, all talking about innocuous things.
This phone is no help. I scan the pictures, too.
There’s nothing.
I know what I have to do. With trembling fingers, I open her laptop and find her blog.
It didn’t happen suddenly.
It happened slowly, like the tide turning. He listened to me. I mean, really listened. I’ve never really met someone who does that. When I said something, he turned his whole body toward me, and soaked up every word, like he’d rather die than not hear what I said. He watched my mouth, like he could hear better if he saw my lips.
He still does, you know.
He treats me like a Goddess, like I’m the most amazingly beautiful thing he’s ever seen. I know it’s wrong. And I didn’t choose this. I didn’t mean for this to happen. But it did. I don’t have any regrets, I just don’t want anyone to hate me.
Honestly, though, how could I help falling for him? He’s here for me when no one else is.
That last line impales my heart, and shatters it into pieces.
My daughter had felt so alone, and that’s my fault. I practically chased her into the situation. I’m to blame.
I curl up on her bed, her phone in my hand, and I sleep for the first time in days, breathing in my daughter’s scent, and surrounded by her memories.
* * *
It’s impossible for anyone else to understand the pain I’m in.
I decide this as I wait for the kid at the grocery store to bag up my lettuce and onions and tomatoes.
They look at me and smile, and ask how I am, and I see in their eyes that they’re scared.
They’re scared I’ll actually tell them.
“Have a good day, Mrs. Fisher,” he says, and I think he was a grade younger than Leah, and when he wishes me a good day, he cringes, as though it was the stupidest thing he could’ve said. He probably doesn’t think I’ll ever have a good day again, and he’s probably right.
Also, I think my existence scares people because it reminds them that they are mortal. If Leah can die—a beautiful, healthy girl—they can, too.
People don’t want to think about that.
As for me, sometimes, it’s all I think about.
The day that I finally get to die and see my daughter again.
There are times when I entertain the idea of just ending it now and getting it over with. But I can’t. I have to retrace Leah’s last steps, the last few weeks of her life. I have to know who she had been with. I have to know. Something inside me tells me that it was criminal, that the man had been of criminal age, and if that’s true, he needs to pay.
It becomes my driving force, the one thing I can focus on without wanting to cry. It turns my mind red with lust for revenge, it shields me from the pain, at least a little bit, because it gives me purpose. Without it, I’m just a mother without her child, which isn’t really even a mother at all anymore.
The inn is lonely and quiet when I unlock the back door and step inside with my groceries. I don’t know why I bothered. I’m not hungry much anymore. I abandon them in the kitchen, shoving them hastily in the fridge, and head back out toward Nico’s.
I notice the time on my way out, but I don’t care that it’s only 2:00 p.m.
I will do what I must to dilute the pain, and alcohol works as well as anything.
I might be developing a problem. I might not. I don’t really care.
I walk up the wooden pier steps into Nico’s, and for once, it’s pretty dead. Usually, even in the middle of the afternoon, tourists linger here.
Today, the bar is empty, with plenty of seats to choose from. I pick one near the end, beside the window so I can stare out to sea.
Nico comes in from the back room, wiping his hands on his pants, and when he sees me, he smiles warmly.
“Ah, bonita,” he says, grinning. “What a pleasure to see you today! What can I get for you?”
He leans against the bar, his face propped into his hands. Nico has a way of focusing in on you and making you feel like you’re the only person on the planet. Sometimes, it’s charming. Sometimes, like today, it just makes you feel like a bug under a microscope.
I squirm.
“I’ll have a whiskey sour, please.”
“You’re so easy.” He winks. “Coming right up.”
He makes a show out of pouring it, with the bottles held high in the air. All I notice is the whiskey he splashes onto the bar top. So wasteful. But that’s the innkeeper in me, I suppose.
When he hands it to me, his fingers linger on mine for a second. I roll my eyes at him, pulling the glass (and my hand) away.
“Nico, has your wife kicked you out yet?” I ask him, smiling sweetly.
He cocks his head. “Are you saying she should?”
“I’m saying I probably would. You’re a hopeless flirt.”
He laughs in delight. “But see, mamacita, my wife understands. She knows I’m a Cuban stallion.”
I’m frozen, though, by mamacita. “Mommy.” He’s called me that for ages, and I’m sure he calls every woman the same. But today, now, it hurts me.
I toss back the whiskey like it’s nothing.
I find that I like the burn as it blazes down my throat.
I like that pain. It distracts me from my real pain.
It’s odd how little everyday things are so noticeable now. So painful.
I shove my empty glass at him. “Another please.”
He lifts an eyebrow, then shrugs. “Of course.”
He pours it without fanfare this time, and hands it back, serious now.
“Should I make you a sandwich to soak it all up with?” he asks. “I make a delicious Cuban. I use the best meats.”
I think he’s almost worried now.
“I’m not going to pass out in your bar,” I assure him. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He waves his hand. “No, no. I wasn’t worried about that. I just noticed that you’ve lost weight. You’re starting to get the legs of a chicken now. I thought maybe I should feed you.”
I shrug, and look down. My chest does seem bony, and I suppose I have lost weight. I haven’t felt like eating. Sitting at my dinner table alone only amplifies my loss.
“A sandwich would be good,” I tell him. “Thank you. But can you wrap it up to go?”
He nods and disappears into the kitchen.
I wonder if it should alarm me that two whiskeys hasn’t affected me at all. My senses are a bit dulled. That’s all. A couple months ago, the room would be spinning.
I shake my head, determined not to worry about it. I have plenty of other things to worry about.
When Nico returns and hands me the bag with my sandwich in it, he also gives me a hug. Not a sexual hug, or even a lingering one where he discreetly feels me up. But a sincere hug.
“If you need anything, let me know,” he tells me, and his eyes are warm.
I nod. “Thank you.”
He watches me as I leave, and I inhale deeply when I’m outside. Bars always smell the same, even when they have open windows on the end of a pier. Like...old peanuts and neon lights, and felt-top pool tables and desperation.
I shake it off, soaking in the salt in the air instead.
My feet sink into the sand as I walk toward home and the sandwich actually smells amazing. I find that I’m a bit hungry, for the first time in days.
As I get closer, I notice something on the beach. Something white. I focus on it. Is it a heap of clothing?
That would be odd.
A few more steps, and I can see that it’s flowers. A heap of white lilies.
Left right on the beach, right behind my house.
Right where Leah drowned.
I gulp hard, drop my sandwich on the sand, and run inside.
Chapter Sixteen
July 9
Leah sat on her bed, sprawled out.
Her mother was working, of course, and she was alone in the apartment. The new cellphone lay on her lap; Ry had hidden it by the garage last night, and she’d retrieved it this morning. The thing was...she didn’t know how to take the picture.
She posed in one way, then another, and looked into the camera to see how it would look. But she couldn’t tell for sure unless...unless...she took her clothes off.
So, she did.
It felt strange to take them off in the daylight in the middle of her room, for a purpose other than to get dressed. The sunlight shone upon her skin, illuminating any peach fuzz that grew on her skin, and highlighting any bump. It was actually liberating.
She stood there for a moment, enjoying the sense of freedom, and then took two pictures before she could think twice. One standing, one lying down. She pressed the send button quickly, then put the phone away.
She got dressed, and paced, and sat, and paced, and sat, and paced.
When her phone buzzed, she almost leaped to get it.
Sweet mother, he answered. You are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. More please.
She grinned, her nervousness gone. How could she be nervous when he liked them so much? Photography was her favorite thing in the world, and so she could use her skill to her benefit. She took at least twenty more, in various angles, in various lighting, including one in her shower, leaning against the tile.
She sent them happily, secure in the knowledge that he was going to love them. And he did.
Leah, you’re killing me, he answered.
Her heart fluttered at his words. She felt heady with power, and she wished she could tell someone. It was so exciting, yet there was no one she could tell. Everyone would tell her that it was wrong, or they would be angry.
All she wanted was for someone to listen.
The idea of a blog came to her like a bolt of lightning.
Of course.
Surely no one from this island would come across it. She could pour her heart out, and she wouldn’t have to risk getting Ry caught or in trouble. It was perfect. The only thing she’d have to do was be careful her mom didn’t find it, but that wasn’t likely. Her mom never snooped. But just in case, she’d clear her history after every time she used it.
She felt a twinge of guilt over lying to her mom.
They’d always shared everything, but they couldn’t share this. Her mother would never understand.
She opened her laptop, and built a blog within minutes. It was incredibly easy to use a design template, and she was working on her first post before she knew it.
* * *
How it started, she typed.
It started easily, over a period of years. I didn’t know it had begun, and maybe he didn’t either. I knew him, he knew me. We liked each other. We teased, we joked. But nothing changed until recently.
I found him watching me once. I was with Skye, and his eyes were just frozen on me, like he couldn’t look away. I was at a football game, and I was cheering. After that, he was the only one I could look at in the stands. Every move I made, I made it for him. All of a sudden.
I felt guilty. I felt weird. But more than any of that, it felt right.
Don’t judge me, dear reader. I know it would hurt a lot of people, and I don’t pretend to think that I’m above worrying about that. I’m not. I worry about the consequences a lot, actually. The problem is, I want to be with him more than I worry about the damage it might cause. I hope I don’t burn in hell.
The cursor blinked, over and over, and she stared at the page, trying to decide if she wanted to write anything more. For a first entry, she thought this was pretty good. It was an introduction, after all. She could get more involved in the details later. She carefully chose tags for the post, so that it could get found by search engines. Older boyfriend. Minor girlfriend. Inappropriate relationships.
She hated that last one.
Inappropriate relationships.
Something that felt so amazing shouldn’t have a label so ugly. She closed the lid on her computer, and picked up her phone.
He had texted again, and she hadn’t heard it. When she saw the words, she sucked in her breath.
Touch yourself for me, Leah. Pretend your hand is mine. Let me see.
Her heart beat fast, then faster. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to ask for it. She loved that. She smiled as she slid her pants off once more.
Chapter Seventeen
August 23
“I don’t know why it bothered me so much,” I confide in Nate. “Seriously. I might be losing it. I should be happy that someone wants to remember her. But instead, seeing those flowers... It was like...it was like...”
Tears well up and my throat seems to swell. I swallow, then swallow harder.
“It’s like a reminder?” Nate guesses.
I nod, then remember that he can’t see me.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I feel the same way,” he tells me. “People here at the office have sent me cards or flowers, and I don’t even like looking at them. They mean well, and it’s so nice of them. But...”
“Yeah. I know.”
We’re quiet for a while. I hear him breathe, and I absently stroke Bo’s head.
“Do you need me to come back out, Emmy?” he finally asks. “Because I will. It wouldn’t be a problem. I can come help you box up Leah’s room, or whatever you need.”
“I’m not boxing up her room yet.” My answer is immediate and sharp. “It’s too soon.”
I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready. But I don’t mention that.
Nate is placating. “Of course. Whatever you want. But when you’re ready, just let me know. I’ll come out and help.”
“Okay.” I barely manage to get the word out. The mere thought of getting rid of Leah’s things—it makes me panicky.
“I still call her phone sometimes, to hear her voice mail,” Nate tells me. He sounds ashamed, as though he should be stronger than that.
“I still listen to the last voice mail she left me,” I admit. “Just hearing her voice...”
“Yeah. I know,” he says quietly. “The reality of it is setting in now. It’s so hard, Em.”
He’s crying, I realize. I hear the wetness in his voice, and the knowledge almost guts me. He never cries. Never.
“We’ll be okay,” I tell him, comforting him through the phone. “We will be. I’m strong, you’re strong.”
He calms himself, and is quiet.
“You’re stronger,” he finally says, and his voice is steady again. “You always have been.”
“I think I’m just better at pretending,” I answer, remembering Derek’s words from the other night. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“We’ll get through this, Emmy,” he tells me, and I agree. “Can you promise me you’ll get out of the house? Don’t just stay holed up there alone.”
“Hey, make up your mind,” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “First you wanted me to cancel the guests, and now you don’t want me alone.”
“I’m serious. Get out into the sunshine. Promise?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you later.” He hangs up, and I’m alone in the house again. It’s funny how you never realize how quiet the silence actually is until you’re the only one left in a home. Leah always filled up the space with singing, and laughing, and chatting on the phone. If she was home, the radio was on, or the TV. There was always noise.
Now, there is none.
