Complicit (10 page)

I swallowed hard. Okay,
I
looked miserable and pissed. Because I knew who these children were before I even turned the photo over and saw the words handwritten on the back in the prettiest cursive I'd ever seen.

My owl and my pussycat—Catie and Jim, Thanksgiving 2001

Oh, oh, oh.
I lost it then. I couldn't help it. I put my head against my knees, curled up like a pill bug, and wept. For this sorrowful scrap of fate I'd been born into. For my mom whom I'd barely known, but who might've died in some horrible way I no longer understood.

But most of all, for my sister who was doing God knows what and heading down a similar path of self-destruction.

TWENTY-TWO

Angie's email program opens right up. She has folders for personal stuff, business stuff, and her charity work. I look in the personal first, since I'm pretty sure that's the most appropriate. The charity one is tempting, but I know I'm just being a cynical dick when I think that. Adopting a child isn't charity toward the kid any more than brushing your teeth is charity toward your mouth. But it's not exactly comfortable living in a world that believes the opposite to be true. The things I've heard over the years have ranged from how lucky I am to live with the Henrys, to being asked straight-faced if it's easier knowing my mother didn't willingly give me up. To which I answered: (
1
) How would I know that? and (
2
)
No.

Most of the email correspondence I find is from Malcolm and Angie's family members. This includes Grandma Karlsson. We haven't seen Grammy K in years. She stopped traveling after Grandpa Karlsson's stroke, which has been just fine by me, if you want to know the truth. Angie also has a ton of emails from her friend Penny Parker, whom I hate. Penny's loud and rude, and worst of all, she's not half as funny as she thinks she is. She always insists on comparing me to her son Dane every time she comes over. It's like a 4-H competition that I'm destined to lose. This is because Dane, who's two years older than me, is perfect. He's currently a freshman at a nearby college where he plays lacrosse, has a hot-ass girlfriend, and never deals with things like idiopathic cataplexy or anxiety or a psychotic drugged-out horse-murdering sister blah blah blah, you get the picture. Dane's doing fine on his own, so I'm not sure what the point of making me feel awful about myself is. But there was some trouble between Cate and Dane a while back, which is why Penny does the comparison thing—to make herself feel better. Whatever. For all you hear adults talk about how insecure and attention-seeking teenagers are, I think they're the ones with the real issues.

Among the emails from Penny complaining about her tennis game and her divorce settlement and whether or not Dane's girl comes from a good enough family, I don't see anything from my sister. I quickly browse through her other folders, but there's nothing in those, either. The only folder I haven't looked in is the trash. I click on the icon. Sort the messages and search for …

I inhale quickly.

There they are.

Three messages all from [email protected] with receipt dates from the past three weeks.

All have the same subject line:

the owl and the goddamn pussycat

I look at the oldest email first.

My chest burns.

It's about
me.

TWENTY-THREE

That day more than three years ago when I sat in Cate's bathroom, gripping the photo of myself as a child, was the first day I truly understood the depths of Cate's illness. Her instability. Her bleak, lost future. But when you're thirteen
understanding
isn't the same thing as
empathy
or
compassion
or
a call to action
or any of those words that might actually be helpful. Back then, understanding was just a thing that made me scared. I'd lost my mom and now I was losing Cate. Who would I lose next?

Then a noise came from outside—a car door slamming shut in the driveway like a gunshot—and I jumped to my feet. I couldn't let anyone find me in here. I tore from the bathroom to the front-facing window of Cate's bedroom and looked down to see her wrapped in Danny Ramirez's arms. The art of contrast: He was dressed in dark jeans, hand-tooled cowboy boots, a wide-brimmed hat, while she wore fishnets and a black dress hiked up so high her garters showed. Cate leaned against Danny, hip bone to hip bone. She ran fingers down his cheek, his neck, his chest, a light territorial tracing, then said something to him. He laughed and pulled back. Tipped his hat to her.

Got into his truck and drove off.

I sprinted back to Cate's bathroom and gathered up everything I could, the papers, the pills. I couldn't hold on to the rum bottle, so I thrust that under her linen closet with my foot, then bolted for my own room, slamming the door shut behind me. I threw her things into my closet, then flipped on my keyboard and put my headphones over my ears. Heart jammering, I ran my fingers across the keys, forcing out some scales and chord progressions before settling into Brubeck's frenetic “Take Five.” It was the fastest song I could think of. I focused on the rhythm, foot tapping wildly against the hardwood floor.

Someone touched my shoulder.

“Gah!” Nerves quintupled, I leaped about five feet into the air before whirling around. There stood Cate, cheeks flushed with some inner heat and both hands placed firmly on her hips. Long rips ran up and down her stockings, but I knew she wore them that way on purpose.

I pulled the headphones off. We stared at each other. I couldn't remember the last time she'd come into my room voluntarily.

“How's Danny?” I asked lamely.

Her expression turned smug, like a cat standing over a bowl of milk that'd been poured for someone else. “He's good. Very good, in fact.”

“Isn't he, uh, going out with Gwen?”

She shrugged. “We'll see who he asks to the Winter Formal next month.”

“You know, I th-think Dane might like you.”

She snorted. “I think Dane might get his dick cut off one of these days if he doesn't watch where he's trying to stick it.”

“Oh!” I said, alarmed, although there was a tiny part of me, deep inside, that wouldn't have minded all that much if she'd actually gone through with that threat.

“So what are you up to?” Cate asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

More silence. Cate eyed me like the tigress she claimed to be, green eyes glittering and sharp. Like the turning blade of a knife.

“How did Mom die?” I blurted out.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why're you asking me that?”

“Well, they never caught the guys who killed her, right? Maybe—”

“Maybe what, Jamie?”

“Do you think she could have, uh, could she have, you know, killed herself?”

Then all of Cate's edges melted. She ran over and hugged me for the first time in months, all softness and warmth and a sort of ripe, sweaty odor that reminded me of old socks and made me think maybe she wasn't that clean.

“God,
no.
She would never have done that. Never. She loved us. She didn't want to die. Trust me.”

I felt like crying again, but didn't want to do that in front of Cate. “Did she … did she ever used to call me Jim?”

“Do you remember her calling you Jim?”

“Yes,” I lied. “I think I do. I think I remember that.”

A faraway look came over Cate. Like sorrow and satisfaction all at once. She kissed my forehead hard enough for her lipstick to brand my skin.

“Hey,” I said, leaning out of he gasp. “What was that for?”

She smiled her wide Cheshire grin, the one I'd never understood and never would. “For being you.”

TWENTY-FOUR

I take a shower before I go out. The hot water and soap feels good on my bare skin, lather and needly pinpricks slicing off the layers of dust and sweat that I've collected.

It's been a long day.

Too long.

I try to forget about Cate and those creepy emails and whatever the hell's wrong inside her head. The things she'd written to Angie were rambling and vaguely threatening and mostly incoherent. I didn't understand any of it. I didn't even understand the connection to “The Owl and the Pussycat” poem, which was something I'd looked up after finding the title of it written on the back of a photo our mother had taken. But it had all been nonsense.

Like Cate's emails:

(you can't pretend i don't exist angie)

(jamie's the one i want he was mine before he was yours and he'll be mine again)

(the past is what matters angie you've been brainwashed if you think otherwise)

(you can't hide him from himself not anymore)

(i'm coming for him)

(i'll show you)

(i'll show everyone)

(bitch)

Part of me is sad for my sister and part of me is angry. Angry that she's been set free into the world without any help for her weaknesses, for her sick, sick mind. Angry that Angie hasn't done more to reach out to her. Cate's her daughter, after all, no matter how she's disgraced herself and our family. A mother's love should be stronger.

But I'm also angry that Cate wants something to do with
me.

My stomach burns, nearly doubling me over.

Why didn't anyone tell me about Cate getting out sooner?

Why didn't someone
warn
me?

The voice inside my head returns.

You know why,
it says.

Because you deserve this.

 

 

I feel sick. I stumble from the shower and grab for the jar of Rolaids I keep on the edge of my sink. My insides have a way of getting bad when I'm stressed, which is another one of my body's depressing reminders of how constitutionally frail I am. It's like my stomach gets filled with acid or I swallow too much spit. I chew a chalky handful of the antacids, then drink a glass of water. Then another.

When I can breathe again without pain, I stand up straight. I close the cabinet door and wipe away the condensation that's gathered there. I've managed to grow a little stubble across my upper lip and along my neck so I'll have to shave if I want to look halfway decent when I show up at the party tonight. I pick up my razor and look at myself in the mirror.

What the
hell
?

I peer closer. I run a hand across my own face. Most of me looks normal, like what I am or what I've become: your average suburban white kid, one with brown hair and blue eyes, and who is remarkably unremarkable. I've had people tell me my lips are my best features, which is meant to be flattering but always makes me cringe. Some guys can pull that off, having more feminine features, but suffice to say I am not one of them. But that's not what I'm looking at right now. No, it's my
eyebrows.

Patches of hair are missing from my eyebrows.

A sliver of fear scrabbles up my spine.

I've been pulling at them again. That's pretty obvious.

Only I can't remember doing it.

TWENTY-FIVE

I drive myself to the party. Rock City's not close, but it is secluded, which is what matters. A steep cluster of stone caves line the western wall of Mount Diablo, north of Danville, and the whole area is hidden from the main road. During the summer, the state allows overnight camping, but only teenagers with nowhere else to go come up here during the other three seasons. For good reason. Ten years back some kid got drunk and fell while crawling out of one of the caves in the rain, pitching over the cliff and smashing onto the rocks below. Rumor has it his ghost still hangs around, waiting to shove other kids to their plunging death. But if you ask me, the most shocking thing about the tragedy is that it hasn't happened again. Trust me, there's usually a whole lot of stupid going on up here.

Dread and anticipation war inside my chest.

On the side of good, there's Jenny.

On the other, there's my sister.

My fears about someone starting up with me about Cate are not unfounded. I've had to deal with it for years now. It's not about having a criminal for a sister; it's about what happens when your sister makes a lot of people very unhappy.

Sarah wasn't the only one who spread rumors about Cate. Even before the fire, Hector Ramirez had something against her. He let me know about it not long after Sarah blabbed to me about the things Cate was up to in the woods near the Ramirez ranch.

The day Hector approached me, I was sitting in a library carrel reading Richard Wright's
Black Boy
during lunch. I'd felt unwell of late, since finding that photograph and the information about my mom's death. But who could I talk to about it? Talking about it meant admitting I'd stolen the items from Cate and the guilt from that made me feel so bad I couldn't stand it. So instead I sat in the library, straining to absorb Wright's hunger for food, for life, for
everything.

“Tell your tramp sister to leave my brother alone,” Hector muttered under his breath as he passed by.

I dropped the book and whipped around in my wooden chair. “
What
did you just say?”

He paused. “Your sister. She's all up on Danny these days. It needs to stop.”

“That's between her and Danny.”

“No, it's between me and you now. Danny's going places. He's
valedictorian.
He doesn't need to be dragged down by girls like that.”

“What do you mean, ‘girls like that?'”

Hector's eyes lit up. “Manipulative. Lying. A complete and utter bitch. Do I need to go on? I've heard about her, you know. What she lets guys do to her and what she'll do for them. She comes from trash. She's trash. Put her on a leash, man.”