Take Another Look (10 page)

Don't go there now.
Jane squirmed in her seat. Not here. Not in front of Hoppy.

But something about the dark, ramshackle building lured her mind back. A sign? No . . . a message written on a beam at the ceiling, either written in marker or etched in, she couldn't remember. She had seen it there when she'd been flat on her back.
Help me,
it pleaded.
Help me.
Who had written it? It felt too desperate and sad to be a joke. And the dark stain on the floor—had it been blood? The sickening smell—what had caused that? Frank had said that he'd chased out a raccoon, but Jane had never really bought his explanation. Maybe Detective Alvarez could make something of the information.

Meanwhile, Harper's crabbiness had given way to a pleasant smile. “I know Dad was pretty young when he died, but was there something he wanted to do in his life? Did he like, want to climb a mountain, or did he dream of a certain career?”

“He had a job.” Jane thought it might be as good a time as any to spring this small truth on Harper. “Actually, he was a police officer.”

“What?” Harper flicked her hair back. “Are you kidding? Wait . . . you're just saying that to make me show respect to the Mirror Lake cops.”

“I am dead serious.”

“Oh my God. That's so dramatic. Like a TV show. Emma is going to scream.”

While Harper sent another text to her friend, Jane finished her latte and cleared off the small café table. With any luck, that information about her father would be enough to tide Harper over for a few years. Jane had had enough of Frank Dixon for now. She'd had enough to last a lifetime.

Chapter 10

L
abor Day was blessedly uneventful. Jane was still in her pajamas at noon, when she woke Harper and Sydney for blueberry pancakes and bacon. The temperature was supposed to reach ninety, but the heat was inviting—the last wave of summer. The girls wanted to go to the swim park, and Jane was happy to soak up some sun.

“Mom, we don't need you to stay,” Harper insisted. “There are lifeguards, and I'm almost fifteen.”

“But I want to go. It's my holiday too.”

Harper let out a growl as she scraped her plate into the trash.

“I promise, I'll set up my own blanket and pretend that I don't know you.”

“Like that matters,” Harper muttered.

“My mom might be there, too,” Sydney said brightly. “You could sit with them, Ms. Ryan.”

“That'd be great. But I'll bring a book, just in case.”

The swim park was a slice of heaven at the edge of the cold blue lake. Most of the wedge of property on the lakefront was shaded by tall Douglas fir trees that formed a canopy of green overhead. The stone lodge at the park entrance contained rest rooms and a snack bar. Next to the lodge were Ping-Pong tables, shuffleboard courts, and a play structure with slides and monkey bars. Ribbons of pavement looped around the trees, creating paths that led to the lake. The waterfront boasted a kiddie pool, two swim areas sectioned off by wooden walkways, and a waterfront gazebo where paddleboats and kayaks could be checked out.

Harper and Sydney immediately devoured fifty-cent hot dogs and slushies (oh, to burn off that many calories) and then headed to the dock that overlooked the deepest section of the lake. Beside the high lifeguard stand, two diving boards reached out over the lake, relics of a bygone era when water skiers used to soar from platforms in the lake and public pools used to have slides and high-dives. The older kids usually congregated at the diving boards, where they sometimes rated dives, competed, gave tips on how to do a jackknife or a swan dive. And of course, there were the inevitable cannonballs designed to splash everyone sitting nearby.

Right now they were taking turns jumping off the diving board, turning, and catching a football in midair. Harper was currently tossing the ball, though she had been swimming. With her water-slick skin, she reminded Jane of a happy otter. It was amazing how relaxed those girls were around guys. At that age, Jane had been too insecure and too heavy to put herself out there, especially in a bathing suit.

Settled on a blanket in a patch of sunshine, Jane pulled a hat from her tote bag and lost herself in a book. A few couples with small kids were barbecuing across the path, but otherwise the park was fairly quiet. After today, the lakefront park would only be open for special events like the high-school picnic.

After an hour or so Jane leaned back on her elbows and let her book drop to the blanket as she tipped her face up to the sun. This place, the green shade, blue water, easy laughter . . . the town had been a haven for Harper and her. They had dodged a bullet; Harper might never have to know about the road not taken, but Jane would always be grateful to have found Mirror Lake when she needed a safe place to raise a child. The only thing missing today was Luke. She wished he could have come along to chat and laugh, to spread sunscreen on that hard to reach spot between her shoulder blades, to give her the courage to relax in the cold water of the deep, dark lake, where large bass and enormous turtles roamed.

Adjusting the brim of her hat, she glanced over toward the deep-water swimming area to check on the girls. A handful of kids were still diving off the board, and a teen couple sat close on the dock, legs dangling over the water as they watched their friends. Where was Harper?

Her scalp began to tingle as she recognized Harper's neon-green two-piece. That was Harper sitting with a boy, leaning into him. His arm dangled casually over her shoulders, as if he was familiar with the landscape of her body.

Harper liked a boy.

Jane dug her palms into the grass as she steadied herself. Why did the discovery hit her with such a jolt? Harper was almost fifteen. She was a beautiful girl who could hold her own in a conversation.

Maybe it was time for Jane to give up the wide-eyed girl who had dressed up as the Cat in the Hat for three straight Halloweens.

Who was the boy? Jane squinted against the diamonds of light flickering on the lake. Wet teens were harder to identify, but from the build and unkempt dark hair she was pretty sure the boy was Jesse Shapiro, a moderate bad boy of the sophomore class.

But it wasn't fair to put Jesse in the same category as Frank. Although the boy was known for smoking weed, he had a great love for the outdoors and an awesome gift for music. At last year's graduation ceremony he had played the trumpet in a duet that had received a standing ovation. There were worse boys than Jesse Shapiro. And although Jane had never liked the way marijuana made her feel, the pot smokers didn't get violent like drinkers. Was that any consolation? Jane had known some potheads who dropped out of college in the third year, lacking motivation to do much of anything beyond smoking and eating. She didn't want Harper to fall into that trap.

“What a neurotic mother you are,” she said aloud. Her daughter was sitting next to a boy, and already Jane was worried about their long-term prospects as a couple. If she could get past the worries, she had to admit that it was a little exciting. Harper's first boyfriend. It was a milestone, even if Jane wasn't supposed to know about it.

 

The next day, Jane stood at the back of her classroom and did a second count of the literature textbooks on the rolling rack. There weren't enough books to go around, so they were designated for use in class. A good thing, as they weighed a ton, too much to lug around in a backpack.

The bulletin board along the back wall made her smile. Harper had talked her into ordering movie posters from books that had been turned into films:
Romeo and Juliet, The Great Gatsby,
and
To Kill a Mockingbird.
In between the posters, Harper had pinned up the caption: F
IRST
C
AME THE
B
OOK.
The girl was not an academic, but she did get the big picture.

Everything was ready for tomorrow—the first day with the students. The first week was such an important time in a freshman classroom. Orientation. Building self-esteem. Establishing mutual trust. Freshman year was usually a time of physical and mental growth, and Jane was happy to shepherd the kids through novels and writing assignments that sparked fear in their eyes at first. By the end of the year, many of her students were reading for pleasure and signing up for the creative writing elective.

With the classroom squared away, she had some time to spend on her own schoolwork. Jane had completed her coursework for a Master of Education degree at Portland State. She'd enjoyed her classes. Now that her classes were done, her final thesis hung over her head like a heavy cloud bank. She slid a small student desk over to the window, where she could enjoy the sunshine and playing fields while she worked.

She opened her laptop and stared out at the softball diamond. The girls were setting up for a scrimmage, the fun part of practice for Harper. Brandi was pitching, and Emma was up at bat first. After one strike she got a piece of Brandipitch and landed a single. Harper was on deck, pausing to take a swing with her coveted bat, Blue Lightning, before stepping up to the plate. Jane loved to watch her daughter when Harper was in her element, poised to swing. Hoppy swung at the first pitch and connected with a clang.

“Yes!” Jane hissed as her daughter dropped the bat and flew around the bases while there seemed to be some trouble retrieving the ball from the outfield. “She's a home run hitter, and you're never gonna git her. Give it up. Give it up,” she chanted, enjoying the moment alone in her empty classroom. Despite her issues with Harper, she was proud of her daughter's athletic abilities. Harper was gifted, but she also worked hard, supported her team, and sacrificed vacation trips and sleep to dedicate herself to sports. No one could say whether Harper's athleticism would lead to a scholarship or a career, but Jane was glad Harper had the satisfaction of achievement to balance her academic challenges. Jane had always been an excellent student, conscientious and attentive. Eventually her work ethic was bound to rub off on Harper.

She opened the file for her current research paper. Dr. Kendris had already approved her topic: Criminal Behavior: A Result of Nature or Nurture? She had always been curious about the topic, and now, with Frank's family history, she had a case that she could write up. Did genetics play a part in antisocial behavior? Was psychopathy inherited? Harper's involvement in a few incidents last spring had sparked the possibility that Harper might share some of her father's issues. Well . . . those had been Jane's overwrought worries late at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering if her daughter felt the tiniest shred of guilt about losing her temper or cutting a classmate off a party list or taking cash from Jane's wallet. When confronted, Harper always had an excuse like “That girl deserves what she gets,” or “I knew you would give me the money anyway, Mom.” Jane reminded herself that teens like her daughter were finding their way in the world, pushing the limits, but Harper's cold, blue stare sometimes frightened Jane when she was looking for remorse and found none.

Frank's icy eyes.

The appearance of Detective Alvarez had brought Frank's presence back into her consciousness, although with the distance of time and miles, her perception of him was more objective. She now knew that Frank's family was beyond dysfunctional. The disagreements or addictions that usually caused family strife seemed minor compared to the violent behavior displayed by Frank's father, uncle, and grandfather.

“They're all crazy,” he'd said of his family. At the time, she'd assumed Frank was exaggerating, trying to blame his parents for his own malevolence. She had been wrong about that. Dead wrong.

Vigilantly, she had watched Harper for signs of her father's meanness. In the long, late-night hours spent walking her baby girl through fits of colic, she had worried that the baby's distress was the beginning of a wicked streak. But the colic had faded gradually after four months, giving way to a quiet but sensitive little girl who loved to spend hours in motion, climbing on the park play structure or tossing a ball toward a hoop. As a preschooler, Harper had demonstrated independence and self-reliance. Instead of throwing temper tantrums, Harper dissolved into tears when she didn't get her way. When Jane refused to carry Harper into the grocery store, when Jane had to leave her at preschool Monday morning, when it was time for Jane to leave Harper's bed at night, Harper's blue eyes flooded with tears that tugged at Jane's heart. “It sounds like she has separation anxiety,” Marnie told Jane one night when they were talking on the phone. “Who else is she comfortable with? A sitter, or one of her teachers?”

There was no one. Harper was not especially fond of her teachers, and her other attachments with Nancy's sons next door or the children of Jane's colleagues seemed to rely on having Jane present. Inadvertently, Jane had passed on her own feelings of fear and distrust to her daughter. On the recommendation of Harper's preschool teacher, Jane went cold turkey. She refused to pick Harper up and carry her around, even on cold, rainy days. She tried to numb herself to Harper's crying jags. Her only concession was at night, when Harper's sobs tore at Jane from the bedroom door.
I can give you this,
Jane thought, stretching out on the bed beside her daughter and drying her tears.
If it makes you feel safe and secure, I can spare a half hour or so each night.

Kindergarten introduced Harper to a new school as well as a new friendship group. Emma and Sydney were delightful, their moms a welcome wave of common sense. Harper's behavior was not an issue again until she hit adolescence and suddenly began to pick on Jane and complain about the inadequacies of life. While Jane could accept that her daughter's transformative years would be a difficult time, it was embarrassing when bad behavior flared up at school and the other teachers got an eyeful of the fledgling teen monster, who cursed, whined, and seethed at the slightest disappointment.

Not to point blame, but Jane had been a Goody Two-shoes when she was growing up—strictly following the rules. On the other hand, Frank had rarely acknowledged his own bad behavior. The rare apologies had been laced with explanations and redirected blame. No guilt. No show of feelings and emotions. And his composure had branded him a hero in the law enforcement community. That calm, cool attitude in the face of people suffering or bleeding around him, the self-possession that people had labeled as courage had actually been the apathy of a sociopath. He really didn't care if a woman died in his arms, as long as the paperwork didn't interfere with his plans after his shift.

Jane clicked to a photo of Harper. Sparkling blue eyes, heart-shaped face, and a smile that could light up a room. In this shot, the sun was behind her, and her brown hair was aglow in bright golden hues. Jane would be crushed if this beautiful young woman matured into a monster.

But Harper wasn't the only one susceptible to Frank's evil. There was Louisa.

Jane rarely allowed herself to dwell on the child she had given away. Thoughts of Louisa were forbidden fruit, a guilty pleasure, especially when Jane fantasized that the facsimile of her daughter was a model teen who treated her mother with respect. A girl who was kind to all the kids around her. An honest girl who did not blame others when things went wrong. How nice it would be to wake her daughter in the morning and not be greeted with belly-aching about how tired she was. Or to have a whole day when Harper wasn't having a fit about something so terribly wrong in her life like a snub from a friend, a bad call from an umpire, a hangnail that was throbbing. Was Louisa more like Jane—academic and serious-minded, obedient and affable? Jane liked to think that she had given Chrissy and Nick Zaretsky the good child, a daughter who would fill their hearts and thrive in their loving home.