Complicit (17 page)

He shakes his head. “Then why the hell would you ever want to go back?”

THIRTY-NINE

“I'm getting out now, Jamie. And so are you.”

We've been sitting in front of the Barrett Street house for ten minutes and Jenny's gone through practically the whole bag of Circus Peanuts. I sort of can't believe her. I'm pretty sure I'd throw up if I tried to swallow one. I might throw up anyway, which is not only a testament to how awful I feel, but I think it says something about Circus Peanuts.

Ducking around Jenny's arm, I stare at the house again. It's bigger than I would've guessed. Two stories of leaning brown stucco with a flat asphalt roof and a front yard filled with white sparkly rocks. No plants. Just rocks. Like an alien landscape. “I don't understand why I can't remember it. I mean, not at
all.
”

“A lot of people can't remember stuff from when they were a kid.”

I sit back. “Oh, yeah? What's your first memory?”

Jenny squirms in her seat and takes another bite of foam candy peanut. “I was riding on my dad's shoulders as he walked me to preschool. It was spring and there were blossoms on the apple trees and I grabbed for them. This was back when we lived in Monterey.”

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Four.”

I blow air through my cheeks. “I lived here until I was almost
six.
”

“Well, what's your first memory, then?”

“I … I sort of remember my mother. But I only remember certain things. Impressions. Like the warmth of the bed we shared, me on one side of her, Cate snoring on the other. Like the sweet, sweet scent of her cigarettes on her clothes. Or the soft way her dark hair would tickle me when she wanted me to laugh. I remember other things, too. Bad things. Like the drugs and the men and—”

Jenny touches my shoulder. “Hey.”

I look at her. “Only those aren't memories of events, are they? They're just
things.
Feelings.”

“Yeah, but there's something in the way you talk about her. It's kind of—”

“Kind of what?”

“Intense.”

“Wanting to remember my mom
is
intense.”

She softens. “I'm sure it is. What's the first event you remember?”

I close my eyes. Force myself back in time. “I was in a group home with Cate after our mom died. There were spiders on the floor and I was scared, so she snuck a Pop-Tart out of the kitchen and brought it to me.”

“That's sweet.”

My eyes fly open. “But I was six then! Why can't I remember things from earlier?”

“You think something bad happened to you? Something that made you forget?”

“Well, I know it did. My mom got shot. Right in front of me! I know it's normal to forget traumatic stuff like that and maybe that explains why I can't remember anything from before, but…”

“But?”

I drop my gaze. Inspect the cup holder between the seats. “Sometimes I still forget things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I don't remember pulling out my eyebrows. And then there are other times that…” I shake my head. I can't tell Jenny about passing out in the Peet's parking lot. I just can't. It's too mortifying.

God.

“Other times I just don't know,” I say.

“Get out of the car,” she tells me.

 

 

The barking starts before we even reach the cyclone fence, freight-train loud. I freeze, then take a step back as a monster dog comes charging down the driveway, right at us. It skids on all fours and crashes against the fence. White rocks and slobber go flying. There's a gleam of teeth. The dog's a pit bull, brindle and white, and it's got this enormous head that barks and barks and barks. I want to clap my hands over my ears, but instead I do an about-face, twisting my shoulders so that I'm facing the street again.

I start walking away. Quickly.

“Hey!” Jenny calls after me. “Hey!”

She grabs my arm and turns me around.

“It's okay,” she says. “You can do this.”

There's acid stinging the back of my throat and I'm shivering inside the rain parka I have on, but I nod.

Jenny marches us back up the steps toward the house. The monster dog continues to bark. Like Cujo or Beethoven or whatever that man-eating movie dog is called.

“Shh, boy,” she says, tucking hair behind her ear and leaning forward.

My heart lurches. “Jenny, stop that!”

“Oh, he's not mean. Just loud. Look.” She holds a hand out, puts it right against the fence, like a sacrificial offering. The dog sniffs it wildly.

I swear he wants blood. “Don't!”

She glances over her shoulder. “You're scared of dogs?”

“No! I just don't like them.”

“You look scared,” she says.

I scowl.

The front door of the house opens. An old lady with gray-brown skin and gray-brown hair sticks her head out. She doesn't say anything. She just stares.

“Maybe we should go,” I mutter. “I don't want to get shot.”

“Jamie!”

“Or mauled by a rabid pit bull.”

“You're being awful. Seriously. We came all this way—”

I raise my voice. “These are perfectly valid concerns. Seeing as my mother DIED. Right here!”

“Who died?”

I look up to see the old lady creeping down the steps to the cracked cement walkway that's slick with rain. She's wearing a black tracksuit and there's a baseball cap with an elephant on it perched atop her head. The dog swirls around her legs. I hold my stomach and bend over. Yeah, I get it. I'm being awful. But I'm also pretty sure I'm going to vomit. Right here. On Jenny's purple sparkle boots.

Jenny throws me an exasperated look. Then she turns back to the woman. “Do you know where apartment B is?”

Old lady hand goes to old lady ear. “Heh?”

“Apartment B! This address.”

“No apartment B, hon. Whole you looking for? Who died?”

“His mom. Her name was—”

“Amy Nevin,” I manage to say.

The woman gasps. Monster dog notices. It gives a low growl and drops its head.

“You're Amy's boy?” she says. “My God.”

“Yeah,” I say, still clutching my stomach. “I am. I'm Amy's boy.”

“This your sister?”

“Oh. No. This is my friend, Jenny. I'm Jamie.”

The old woman nods. “You were called Jimmy back then, you know.”

Now my eyes sting. But I'm able to stand. “I think I did know that.”

“You come here to relive old times?”

Jenny speaks up. “He doesn't remember his mom. He thought maybe coming here would help him remember.”

“You don't remember her?”

“Not really. Just a few things.”

“I see.”

“So you were here then?” I ask.

“I sure was. In and out. But this house has been in my family for sixty-four years. We used to rent out the basement, for cheap, you know, to help good folks who needed it. Like Amy. Only no one's lived there … since. That's why I didn't know what you were talking about with apartment B. There is no apartment B. There really never was.”

“Do you think we could see it?” Jenny asks. “The basement?”

The old woman's lips purse. She looks right at me. “That something you want to do, Jimmy?”

“Jamie,” says Jenny.

“Still the same person, isn't he? Doesn't matter what he's called.”

“It
does
matter,” Jenny insists.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes, I'd like to see it. If that's okay.”

The woman gives a deep sigh, then reaches up for the gate latch with one hand, while holding on to her dog's collar with the other. “Sure it's okay. I'm Darlene, by the way. Get down, now, Hippo. These are good kids. You don't have to worry. They won't bite.”

FORTY

I've never seen anything sadder than the basement of 356 Barrett Street. It consists of two cinderblock-walled rooms, with water pipes running across the ceiling and a foul-looking bathroom. The windows are cracked. The air is frigid and I see no sign of a heat source other than a hot water heater mounted in the corner that has a pan of rusty water pooling beneath it. The floor is a cement pad and exposed insulation sticks out from the walls. Probably asbestos and I don't think that's hyperbole on my part. Even Jenny looks freaked out. She's crouched in a corner by a cracked sink with one arm wrapped around Hippo's neck. The dog is licking her face.

I pace the perimeter of the room, peering into corners, running my hands over surfaces. I've already seen it all, but I need to keep moving. I need to do something to keep from breaking down.

I
lived
here.

Cate,
I think madly.
This is terrible. Why can't I remember this place? Why I can't remember anything?

What have you seen that I haven't?

What did that
do
to you?

“Darlene?” I ask.

“Yes, dear?”

“What did my mom look like?”

“She was just a girl, hon. Not much older than you are now. She was a pretty thing. Too pretty. You really don't remember her?”

I shake my head. “I have flashes. Like I know she had black hair like Cate. But long, like down her back. And I think she had skinny knees. She smoked, I know that, too.”

Darlene holds a hand up. “Whoa, whoa, that's not right at all. Your mama was a blonde. Waifish, too. Like your girl here. Don't think she smoked, either, least not in the house. I'd remember that. Ron—that's my nephew—he's got asthma, so we've always been careful. Couldn't fix the air outside, but inside, we did the best we could. But Amy was a lovely thing. Small, but
fierce.
And funny. Her laugh could make anyone smile. Except you. You were a very serious child, Jimmy. Your sister, though, she was like Amy. Happy. A joy to be around. Even when life was hard. Which it was.”

I feel like I've been punched.

“My mom was
blond
?”

“Yes.”

“Always blond? Or did she like, dye it?”

“Blond for as long as I knew her. You must get that brown hair from your daddy. You've got her lips, though. They're his best feature, don't you think?”

Jenny nods and smiles.

My heart stutters. “D-do you know who my dad is?”

“No, I'm sorry. Amy never said.”

I slump. “Well, did she, you know, was she with a lot of men?”

Darlene frowns. “Where'd you hear that?”

“I thought I remembered it. That she had men over. I always wondered if that was part of how she died. If one of the guys she knew did it. Killed her.” And covered it up. Made it look like an accident.

“You don't know who did it?”

I shake my head.

She scratches at her chin and neck. “I see.”

“Do you know?” Jenny asks.

The look Darlene shoots Jenny isn't a friendly one, but she warms when she turns back to me. “What I know is that Amy Nevin was a sweet girl who was in over her head. Twenty-four. No money. Two kids on her own. I don't know every detail about how she lived or how she died, but I know she loved you, Jimmy, okay?”

I nod, but my knees feel weak. My heart, too. Thoughts and questions rumble inside me, desperate ones like
why didn't you take us in? Why did we go to strangers? We didn't need private school or riding lessons. We needed someone to want us. My mother made you happy. My sister, too. Wasn't that enough?

But the voice inside my head is there, quick as truth, whispering:

You didn't make her happy, though, did you? You were no joy to be around. She practically said as much.

I bite my lip.

Darlene watches me. “How's your sister doing?” she asks.

“Not well. She got in some trouble a few years back.”

“Sorry to hear it. Worst thing there is, worrying about kids.” She lights up. “You know, I might have a few items of your mother's upstairs. You want to me to go check?”

I nod again. “Do you think you could leave, uh, Hippo, outside?”

“Sure thing, hon.”

 

 

Ten minutes later Darlene comes back down into the basement. Jenny's sitting on the edge of the crumbling cinderblock wall looking at her phone. I'm pacing.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I thought I had a few things of hers. I know I did because I cleaned this place out. Nothing valuable, but some small items, those stone statues.”

“Statues? Of what?”

“One was a tiger. The other was … I can't remember. Another animal, I think. I had them in storage for a while, but I forgot that woman came and got them.”

Disappointment slips over me like a suit of armor. “What woman? Angie? That's my mom. The one who adopted me.”

“I don't know her name. It was a white lady with curly hair. Sort of heavyset. With glasses.”

I freeze. Definitely not Angie. But what comes to mind is a long-ago car ride. Driving with the windows down, clutching Pinky in one hand and Cate in the other, while a bubbly woman smoked menthols and told us how lucky we were to have found parents whose children had died.

“Was it a social worker? The one who handled our adoption?”

Darlene shrugs. “Well, now that might be right. I don't really remember. That would make sense, though, wouldn't it? But that would mean the folks who took you in should have her stuff.”

FORTY-ONE

On the drive back, the rain starts up again as soon as we pass the cemetery.

“You okay?” whispers Jenny.

“I don't know,” I say. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you. That was weird.”

“Well, I'm glad you did. Bring me. You wouldn't have wanted to go alone.”