Kill Me If You Can

31

With Brad’s impending arrival, my home became my enemy. I felt as if a scythe swung just above my head, ready to cut off my breath the moment I saw his face. Perhaps he’d show up for dinner. Or drop by to say hello. Or take a shift as bodyguard. Not wanting to appear interested, I’d avoided asking the details of his visit.

My waitress-training commitment provided an opportunity to escape the house, but I couldn’t bear to be around Brad’s sister. She’d burdened me with a guilt trip over the way I’d treated him. And my mind played right into it. I beat myself up over every perceived slight I’d given my good friend. Now, if he did show up, my only option seemed to be crawling under a rock and hiding in shame until he went away. Toss in Candice’s criticism of my friends and choices, Puppa’s suggestion that I needed therapy, and Joel’s scorn of my very existence, and suddenly I could see how the bottom of Mead Quarry might become an attractive proposition.

But ending it all wasn’t a fitting choice for me. I was a survivor. I prided myself on having lived through everything God and others threw at me. I just had to wait out this latest storm. Next time I poked my head from my hole, things would be better.

The key was getting away from my tormenters. I needed space, time to think, air to breathe—somewhere they couldn’t imply how bad I was, how I should change, how I should never have been born.

Friday morning I woke early to make my escape. Snacks, water, and bug spray would be my only companions for the day. The quiet house seemed to echo with even the slightest of my movements as I snuck to the kitchen and gathered my supplies. With a final, slow zip of my backpack, I reached for the kitchen door.

“Where you going, cuz?” Gerard’s voice halted me at the verge of freedom.

I froze, busted by the bodyguard on the sofa.

“Uhh, just going out for some fresh air.” Even the truth had a ring of fiction to it. What was my problem? I didn’t have to tell him where I was off to. I was an adult—and this was my house.

I turned the handle without waiting for a response. The porch squeaked under my boots. The door latched behind me.

Damp air, still full of the dew that covered the grass, rushed into my lungs as I put one foot in front of the other, faster . . . faster . . . until the gravel was a bouncing blur. Pavement appeared briefly, then was gone, replaced by the sharp incline of the bluff. Roots, thorns, bark, and bare earth —all passed beneath my fingers as I scrambled unthinking to the top. I paused only a moment for a glimpse of the bay. Leaves blocked the view. Before thoughts of those still sleeping could invade, I fled toward the forest, losing myself—and my mind—in the flat expanse of the Silvan Plains.

I returned in near-darkness.

“Where have you been?” Sam met me, hands on hips, at the door.

“Out for a walk.” I drank down a glass of water.

“We’re all worried about you. What’s going on?” Sam leaned in toward me, her expression changing as her eyes shifted to my hair.

“Nothing to be worried about.” I brushed past her to my room. Nice of her to show concern when she was the one to drive me from my home in the first place.

Twigs and thistles snarled my hair. I picked out the most annoying ones, then climbed under the covers and slept with my head under the pillow.

Saturday brought more of the same. I evacuated the area early, hoping to avoid brown eyes softened by those crinkles in the corners. Happy crinkles. Fun crinkles. The kind of crinkles that made you want to hang out with Brad for the rest of your life.

Sunday came. Instead of trudging to church in my negative state of mind, I trudged the plains. Every so often, my swampers sank in surprise springs, soaking my feet. I hardly noticed. At least the water washed off some of the mud caked on my jeans. And when did I tear that hole in my sweatshirt?

My slim digital camera, the one I used for before-and-after shots of my renovation projects, came along for the ride. My link to my mother . . . How would she have photographed the seed cluster clinging to that branch of the cedar tree? What angle would she have chosen to capture the circle of mushrooms in that sunny clearing? Which spring wildflower would have caught her attention and stolen her breath?

Snap. Click. I could only guess.

That night, a light supper from the kitchen. Then upstairs, exhausted. Bathe, sleep, dream. But as always, morning came. Out the door again, running . . . hiding . . . avoiding . . .

Monday found me at the Port Silvan cemetery a couple miles down the road. I meandered through headstones, reading names and dates, intent on finding one in particular. I started at the front near the highway and worked my way through family plots toward the back, like a wraith wandering over hallowed ground. Bouquets of plastic flowers, tiny American flags, and statues reminded the living that someone still cared. A few graves had elaborate displays of fencing and photos and even stuffed animals. But not the one that read elizabeth marie amble. I found it along the back row, in with the Nagy family plots. Grandma Amble had insisted on burying her daughter with the rest of her family, though Mom and I had only spent summers on the peninsula and the rest of the year in Escanaba. A simple rectangular slab of granite was inscribed with my mother’s name and the years of her birth and death. I crouched down. Somewhere, six feet below, lay the remains of my beautiful mother. I put my hands on the grass above her casket, imagining she could feel the pull of energy between us.

“Mom,” I whispered, my lips close to the ground. The scent of rich earth greeted my nose. A black ant traversed the grassy grave top, climbing up and down through the mess of green blades. I flicked it away with my finger.

Legs tucked, I rolled onto my side and rested my cheek on the ground. “It’s Tish, Mom. Your baby girl. Remember?”

I pictured her sitting on top of the grave, dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, like a character from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.

“Of course I remember my little princess.” She smoothed my hair as I rested my head in her lap. “I’ve missed my pumpkin. I’m glad you came to see me.”

I crushed my eyes closed, but the tears came pouring out anyway. “I miss you so much, Mom. Why did you leave me? Didn’t you love me?”

Her soft voice comforted me. “Tish, you have always been the most important thing to me. I made a mistake that night. Sometimes you have to let go of people so you can live. I held on to your father. But he wasn’t real. Just a dream. I should have let go of him. You let go too, Tish.”

“I don’t want to let go. I want you back. I want to be seven again, playing in the woods. Gerard and Joel can come too. We’ll all be together again. Puppa and Jellybean and the rest of us.”

“Let go, Tish. It’s all just a dream.”

“I don’t want to let go.” I clawed at her lap, but got only a handful of dirt and grass. I laid there sobbing, I don’t know how long, before I dusted off and headed home.

It was Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. Whatever the day, I left just after I heard Sam’s van pull out the drive. I made it to the edge of the woods without seeing anyone. Then, there she was. My friendly doe.

“Hi, girl,” I said. I kissed at her and held out a hand. She stared at me awhile. Then she casually bent her neck to eat. I smiled. She knew me. She liked me. She was comfortable around me. After a minute, she turned and walked away. I followed at a distance. Ahead, the underbrush crunched. Several times she stopped and I thought I lost her. But soon her shape emerged from the backdrop and we’d start off again.

The ground got soggy. Cupid’s Creek must be just ahead. If she decided to cross it, I’d have to let her go. Water trickled. The doe stopped in a clearing and looked back at me. I waggled my fingers.

From the direction of the highway came a loud crack, like a gunshot. The doe took off running. I ducked down, arms covering my head. The reverberation died as I scanned the trees. Perhaps the report had merely been the loud snap of a branch. It sure wasn’t hunting season. I stood and waited for my heartbeat to even out. I moved into the clearing ahead. A few more steps and I paused. Thumping and crunching sounded from the opposite side of the grassy area, then faded, as if something or someone were running away.

The sounds of solitude returned. I moved toward the creek. A cluster of marsh marigolds were sprinkled along the bank. A perfect photo opportunity. I stepped toward them. Halfway there, I froze in my tracks. Around me, black garbage bags filled with dirt appeared to be arranged in rows. And from the center of every bag rose the fat stumpy remains of some kind of plant. What on earth? I shrank back as if Alien babies would hatch from their pods at any moment.

A marijuana grove. Last year’s batch of Silvan Green.

With the feeling that I was trespassing, even on my own acreage, I backed away from the clearing. The root of a towering cedar caught my swampers. I landed on my backside, fighting for calm as I crab-walked toward cover. I rested against a trunk, panting.

From the quiet of the forest came a tiny electronic beeping sound, like the alarm on a wristwatch. I looked around, confused. The tones came from a nearby clump of bushes. Beneath the tangled branches, I spotted the watch, a man’s digital with chrome accents and a black band.

The wrist was still in it.

“Ahh.” I grunted and scrambled away.

Adrenaline surged through me, sharpening every sound, every smell, every thought.

The hairy arm lay unmoving on the ground. A fly feasted uninterrupted on the exposed flesh. I gulped for air, wondering if the person were dead or alive. My eyes followed the logical course of a body and saw the man’s work boots protruding from the other side of the bushes. He’d apparently fallen in a Nestea plunge straight backward into the brush. If not for the insistent beeping on his wrist, I would have been spared the distinction of finding him.

“Hey,” I called in a half whisper, wondering now if it might have been a gunshot I’d heard after all. “Are you okay?”

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping whoever had fled the scene was a good distance away by now and not lining me up in his crosshairs.

“Hey,” I said again. I crouched by the body and reached out my hand. I brushed away the fly. Then I put my fingers around the man’s wrist, feeling for a pulse like they do on cop shows. The seconds passed. I had no idea whether the man was still alive, or if my own racing blood created the dub dub I felt.

I pulled back the branches, straining to see a face with eyes full of life. I found his eyes. They stared up at the leafy canopy, the soul they once held snuffed out by a bullet that left its mark between his brows.

I scrambled backward. Not good. Not good. The man was definitely dead. Worse, he was dead on my land. Worse still, I found him.

Experience told me that if you were the one to report a dead body, pretty much everybody figured you for the killer. Likewise, TV crime programs laid it out just as plain that if you found a dead body and didn’t report it, they’ll also figure you for the killer. A classic Catch-22. And even in the short time I’d been out here, I’d probably left enough DNA on the scene to seal my own conviction. They’d ignore the fact that I didn’t have the murder weapon. Heaven knew I’d probably thrown it in the creek or swallowed it or something.

For a minute I wished I could be one of those famous monkeys, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, See No Evil. Then I could just waltz out of these woods like nothing out of the ordinary had happened today. Unfortunately, there was the guilt factor. Somewhere, the dead guy had people who loved him, perhaps a wife and kids that would wonder why Daddy didn’t come home tonight.

And if it were my father lying there, I’d want someone to get help right away and give him the respect he deserved for simply having lived, if not for having lived right.

I sighed and turned back toward the lodge, wishing I’d brought my cell phone along. When I left it on my bedside table this morning, I had been thinking how nice it was to be unreachable. It had never occurred to me that I might be the one in need of reaching out.

I kicked at a moss-covered log as I walked past. Dead bodies sure went out of their way to complicate my life.

The roof of the lodge poked through the trees just ahead. I neared the edge of the woods, peering through safe cover before venturing the rest of the way home. Joel’s car was parked out front along with my own. And next to it was Brad’s hulking silver SUV. A jolt shot through me. I took in a breath of air. Now I had to deal with Brad in addition to the dead body. I plopped to the ground. Last year’s leaves crunched beneath my weight. Moisture soaked through the back end of my jeans. The wetness expanded to meet my drenched pant leg. I stared at a slug making its way across the slimy ground.

All my efforts to avoid reality only brought more reality crashing down on me. I wasn’t sure how much I could take. How could I survive a rerun of my life in Rawlings, with its creepy corpse and jail jaunt? I’d come to the Silvan Peninsula for a break. But it seemed there was no escape.

A moan broke the silence. Was that me? I keeled to my side, landing almost eye to eye with my slug buddy. Who cared anyway? The forest could consume me, morsel by morsel, and that would be an improvement over my present prospects.

I must have been blubbering pretty intently because I never heard the footsteps approaching until the size 12 Nikes were directly in front of me.

“Tish.”

I sat up and wiped my tears off with muddy fingers. By now I must have looked like Rambo. A final swipe of my nose with my sleeve, then I spoke. “Hi, Brad. I heard you might be coming up for a visit.”

He reached his hand toward me. “Come on. Let’s go inside and get cleaned up.”

I stared at him, unable to move. Unable to breathe. His blue jeans looked sexy as ever, snug across muscular thighs, then relaxed to his tennis shoes. His black T-shirt stretched over his chest, several feet above me. And his face . . . More handsome than I remembered, he gazed at me with deep brown eyes that somehow shot out rays of light. His corner crinkles were in full action with a smile that made me want to run and hide from its unmerited favor.

I fell back onto my side and curled into a ball. “Go away.”

“Hey. What’s wrong?” His hand touched my shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

“You’re not supposed to see me like this.”

“If you want the truth, you look beautiful.”

“It’s not how I look, it’s how I feel.”

“What’s going on?” His voice took on a note of apprehension.

“Today’s not going so great. I just want to die.”

“Hey, now. I don’t like hearing you talk like that.”

“Well, it’s the truth. I don’t think I can face life today.”

“Come on. We’ll face it together.” He reached down. Warm hands gently gripped my arm and back. With a nudge of encouragement, he helped me to my feet.

I made a halfhearted attempt to brush the mud from the back of my pants. He swatted at a clump of leaves stuck to my knee. I caught a whiff of his shampoo or deodorant or aftershave as he bent in front of me. I nearly swooned.

“You okay?” He grabbed my shoulders.

“I hadn’t planned on seeing you today. I was going to wait in the bushes until you left. How’d you know I was here?” I barely heard him answer. His face was so close. His body so warm, so strong, so . . . manly.

“The white letters on your sweatshirt stand out pretty good against the trees,” those lips were explaining.

I looked down. Property of MSU Athletic Department, the letters boasted. I hadn’t even read the thing when I’d picked it up at Goodwill. The deep green fabric had seemed in good condition. That’s all I’d cared about. But now the words reminded me that I’d failed to finish college. Another domino in the long line perched to push me over the edge.

“And we’re on full alert at the lodge today,” Brad was saying. “Not only has Sam’s ex been spotted up and down the peninsula, but Drake Belmont was released from jail yesterday afternoon.” He pulled me toward him in a partial embrace. “It’s been foolish of you to be out on your own, you know.” His voice was low and rumbly.

I nodded, my eyes glued to the line of his jaw, the sweep of his cheek, the arch of his brow. With the grip of his hands, the flurry in my brain calmed, replaced by clarity—or was it the return of sanity?

“I missed you, Tish.” The words were nothing more than a whisper in my ear. Then came the warm trail of his lips against my neck.

I reached up my arms and clung to him, breathing him in, soaking him in, afraid to let go. He lifted me against himself, until only my toes touched the ground. His lips nudged around until they found mine. And he kissed me. I kissed him back with long hungry gulps, lost in the moment. I shoved every thought out of my brain, determined that nothing would drag me back to reality.

But it was no use.

“Brad.” I pulled my face away.

“Yes?” He gazed into my eyes, searching, ready to resume his affections at my command.

“I . . .”

“Yes?” His face took on an eager look.

“I . . . have something to tell you.”

He hugged me close, his lips buried in my ear. “Tell me, Tish.”

He refused to relinquish my body, so I was forced to say the news at close range. “Umm, when I was out walking this morning, I found a dead man.”

He stiffened around me. Then he pushed me to arm’s length. “What? Are you serious?”

I nodded.

He dropped his hands and turned his back to me, his fingers running along the back of his neck.

He pivoted in my direction and sighed. “Well, show me.”