Never Knowing (8 page)

“But people are obsessed with serial killers—half the books and movies made are about them. If they find out I’m his daughter…”

“You know where the shotgun is and the key for the trigger lock—”

“The shotgun!”

“You’ll be fine. That site can’t have that many readers.”

“What if
he
reads it?”

“The Campsite Killer?” He paused for a moment. “Nah, there’s no way he’s reading a Nanaimo blog.”

“You really think it’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, I do. Let your dad’s lawyer handle it.”

“I’m just freaked out.”

He softened his voice. “I’ll be home soon.”

*   *   *

Before I dove into bed last night I couldn’t help peeking at the Web site and was happy to see the article was still gone. I also did a quick Google search and nothing came up. I went to sleep convinced Evan was right—it wasn’t going to go anywhere. In fact, it was good this happened because it forced things out in the open with my family—keeping things under wraps is not exactly a talent of mine.

This morning Ally sang Moose a song in between bites of toast and peanut butter. Ally and I are both peanut butter fiends, you wouldn’t believe how many jars we go through. After I dropped her off at school I grabbed a coffee and headed out to the shop to attack a new armoire. I was in the zone within minutes and didn’t stop for lunch. Finally, in the afternoon, I decided to grab a snack and refill my coffee. Before I headed back out to my shop, I snuck upstairs for another peek at the
Nanaimo News for Now
site. The article was still down. For peace of mind I did another Google search for Karen Christianson. This time a bunch of new hits popped up.

I set my cup down so fast coffee sloshed over the rim, and clicked on the first link. It was for a serial killer fan club in the States. In the forum someone named “Dahmersdinner” had posted that Karen Christianson was hiding in Victoria and using the name Julia Laroche. Her daughter, a woman named Sara Gallagher, lived in Nanaimo. I stared at the screen, my heart thumping loudly in my ear. There was nothing I could do, no way to delete it. Then I noticed there were comments—lots of them. I clicked on the tab and expanded the page. First they were along the lines of “I wonder if it’s true” and “Can you imagine what his kid looks like?” But then more members joined in.

Someone had gone to the university site and found Julia’s office information. Then they linked to articles she’d written and Web sites that had photos of Karen Christianson. One commenter actually Photoshopped her picture to make it look like the Campsite Killer was standing behind her with a bloody rope in one hand and his other on his penis. They talked about Julia’s looks, complimenting the Campsite Killer’s taste. One jerk said he wondered if I was as twisted as my father. Another compared me to Ted Bundy’s daughter, saying they should hunt these “bitches” down before they could spread the disease. I read every vile comment, sick with shame and fear. I felt ripped open, exposed to the world.

I clicked from site to site as fast as I could—the majority of hits were coming from true crime blogs and a couple of Web sites devoted to serial killers, including the one I’d already found on the Campsite Killer. The more legitimate sites were careful to just say that Karen was “rumored” to have a daughter. It was the commenters, always anonymous, who added my name and that I lived in Nanaimo. Then I noticed a University of Victoria Student Forum was one of the hits. My stomach in knots, I clicked on the link but couldn’t get in without a student ID number.

A wave of panic came over me.
What do I do now? How do I stop this?
The cordless beside me rang and I jumped.

Lauren said, “I have to tell you something.”

“Is it about the Internet buzz?”

“You’re online?”

I stared at the screen. “It’s
everywhere
.”

Lauren was quiet for a moment, then said, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t have a clue. But I think I should talk to Julia.”

“Do you really—”

“If she hasn’t heard, I should warn her. And if she has, she’s going to think I told everyone. But if I call to explain, she’ll probably just hang up on me.” I groaned. “I’ve got to go. I need to figure out what to do.”

Lauren’s voice was gentle. “Okay, hon. Call if you need me.”

*   *   *

After I hung up the phone, I collapsed onto the couch. Moose joined me, grunting and snuffling into my neck. My mind spun in a million panicky directions. The whole world is going to know the truth about my father. The Campsite Killer could find Julia—and me. Evan’s business could be ruined. My business could be ruined. Ally’s going to be teased at school.

The phone rang. I checked the call display. Private number.

Julia?

I answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

A male voice said, “Is this Sara Gallagher?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“I’m your father.”

“
Who
is this?”

“I’m your real father.” His voice sped up. “I read about it on the Internet.”

A jolt of fear ran through me. Then I realized the voice was too young.

“I don’t know who you really are or what you read, but—”

“Are you hot like your mommy?” I heard laughter in the background, then another young-sounding voice called out, “Ask her if she likes it rough too.”

“Listen, you little—”

He hung up the phone.

*   *   *

I phoned Evan right away, but his cell went straight to voice mail. I thought about calling Lauren, but she’d be scared for me—hell, I was scared, which made me even angrier. Some teenagers were calling me and pretending to be my father just for kicks. What if Ally had picked up the phone? I was pacing around, fuming, when the phone rang again. I was hoping it was Evan, but it was Ally’s teacher.

“Sara, do you have time to talk when you pick Ally up today?”

“What’s going on?”

“Ally had a … disagreement with a classmate who tried to use some of her paints and I’d like to discuss it with you.” Great, just what I needed right now.

“I’ll talk to her about sharing, but maybe we can meet another time—”

“Ally pushed the girl—hard enough to make her fall.”

*   *   *

That’s when I called you. There is no way I can meet Ally’s teacher without talking to you first. I need to wrap my head around the fact that everything’s blown wide open. I can’t shake those sick comments, that awful phone call. And I know her teacher’s going to suggest that Ally meet with the school counselor again to learn how to handle her issues. She’s had problems before—yelling at other children, arguing with her teacher—but that’s just when she feels rushed. Her teacher also said Ally has difficulty transitioning from one subject to the next, and that’s when she stresses out the most. I tried to explain there’s nothing wrong with her—she just doesn’t like change. But her teacher kept asking if there were any problems at home. Let’s just hope she hasn’t heard about the Campsite Killer being my father.

I hate it when I get this upset, hate how my body reacts. My throat and chest get so tight I can barely breathe, my heart rate skyrockets, my face feels hot, I start sweating, and my calves ache with unused adrenaline. It feels like a bomb exploded inside my head, and my thoughts are flying everywhere.

We used to talk about how my anxiety was caused from growing up adopted and having a distant father: my subconscious was afraid I’d be abandoned again, so I never felt safe. But I think it’s more than that. When I was pregnant with Ally I read that you need to be calm or your baby will pick up on your negative energy. I spent nine
months
inside a woman who was constantly terrified. Her anxiety flowed into my blood, into my molecules. I was born in fear.

SESSION FIVE

When I first started therapy and was trying to avoid talking about my childhood you said, “To build up a future you have to know the past.” Then you told me it was a quote from Otto Frank, Anne Frank’s father, and that you’d toured her house in Amsterdam. I remember sitting here—you’d gone to get us a coffee—looking around at the photos on your wall, the art you brought back from your trips, the carvings and statues you collected, the books you wrote, thinking you were the coolest woman I knew.

I’d never met anyone like you before, the way you dressed, all artsy elegance, sort of a bohemian intellectual, a sweater shawl tossed over your shoulders, your hair cut in all those crazy chunks of gray, like you not only embraced your age—you were
proud
of it. The way you pulled your glasses off when you leaned in to ask me something, your finger tapping on your crooked mug—which you made in pottery class because you were bored and you told me it was important to never stop learning. I studied every move, drank it all in, and thought,
This is a woman who isn’t afraid of anything. This is who I want to be.

That’s why I was so surprised when you told me you were also from a dysfunctional family and that your father had been an alcoholic. What I admired most was that you didn’t have any resentment or anger—you’d dealt with your crap and moved on. You’d built up a future. I left here feeling so hopeful that day, like anything was possible. But then later I thought about what you said— about knowing your past—and it hit me that I’d never be able to build a
real
future because I didn’t know my
real
past. It was like building a house on no foundation. It might stay up for a while but eventually it would start sinking.

*   *   *

When I got home Moose snorted and jumped all over me like I’d been gone a million years. After I let him out for a pee—poor guy only made it a foot out the door—I thought about calling the cops to report the prank call but decided to wait and talk things over with Evan. When I scrolled through the call display to see if he’d phoned while I was out, I noticed two private numbers. I checked my voice mail and they were from newspapers.

For the next hour I paced around the house with the cordless gripped in my hand, praying Evan would call soon. The phone rang in my hand once, making me jump, but it was just another reporter. After a while I made myself call Dad and tell him what I found online and about the calls.

He said, “Don’t answer the phone if you don’t know the number. If someone asks about the Campsite Killer, deny everything. You were adopted but your birth mother wasn’t Karen Christianson.”

“You think I should lie?”

“Damn right. I’ll tell Melanie and Lauren the same. And if any punk calls again, just hang up.”

“Should I go to the police?”

“They can’t do anything. I’ll deal with this. Send me the links.”

“Most of them are just forums.”

“Send them.”

*   *   *

I did as he said, then tortured myself by reading the comments again. There were ten new ones, each sicker than the last. I checked the other Web sites and the comments were just as bad. It shocked me that people could be so mean about someone they didn’t know—and it terrified me that they knew my name. I wanted to monitor the sites, wanted to defend myself and Julia, but it was time to go meet with Ally’s teacher.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Turns out the other little girl had been harassing Ally for a while—messing up her desk, taking paints while Ally was still using them—and Ally finally lost it. Of course, I said I’d explain to her that pushing wasn’t the way to deal with disagreements and she should tell an adult if she’s having problems, but I’d have said anything to get out of there. What Ally did was wrong, and I did talk to her about it, but frankly it didn’t seem like such a big deal compared to the fact that I’d just ruined Julia’s life, not to mention my own. Then I dragged my whole family into it. It was the last one that hurt the most.

*   *   *

The phone finally rang at eight. As soon as I saw Evan’s cell number I answered in a rush, “We have to talk.”

“What’s going on?”

“That Web site—it spread somehow, maybe they didn’t do a Google sweep. But now it’s on other blogs. It’s mostly about Julia, but there are all these disgusting comments—some of them mention my
name
. Then this teenager called and said he’s my father. Reporters are calling, but I’m not answering, and Dad said—”

“Sara, slow down—I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.” I took a deep breath and began again. At the end Evan was silent for a minute, then said, “Have you called the cops?”

“Dad said they can’t do anything.”

“You should still tell them what’s going on.”

“I don’t know … he said he’ll deal with it.” The last thing I wanted was Dad pissed at me for going against him.

“So let him, but get something on record.”

“He’s right, though. They can’t do anything about someone playing a joke.”

“You asked for my advice. Call the police in the morning—and don’t comment on any of these blogs.”

“Okay, okay.”

*   *   *

After I hung up the phone, I climbed into bed and watched late-night TV until I fell into a restless sleep. Early the next morning the phone rang. Without looking at the call display I reached over and picked it up.

“Hello?”

A male voice said, “Good morning. I understand you restore furniture?”

I sat up. “I do. What can I help you with?”

“I have a few pieces, a table, some chairs. I don’t think they’re worth much, but they were my mother’s and I’d like to give them to my daughter.”

“Value isn’t always what you can sell something for—it’s what it means to you.”

“This table means a lot. I spent most of my time there—I like food.” He laughed and I laughed back.

“Kitchen tables tell the story of a family. Sometimes people just want me to clean them up a little but preserve marks their children made, things like that.”

“How much do you usually charge?”

“Why don’t I have a look and give you an estimate.” I climbed out of bed and threw on a robe as I headed to my office for a pen. “I can come to your house, or a lot of my clients just e-mail me photos.”

“You go to strangers’ homes?”