Prologue
Children playing on the banks of Onion Creek in Falls Park yesterday thought they saw two turtle shells in the shallows. One teenage girl stepped into the water and lifted them out of the mud, only to discover they were skulls. Terrified, she turned around and called to her father who ran to the bank and retrieved them from his daughter. After placing them on the shore, Mr. Alan Tanner looked around the area and found several bones. Two tattered black garbage bags had been trapped in a patch of elephant ears. Each contained bones and remains.
A preliminary report by the Medical Examiner indicates the bones originated from two adolescent girls, possibly related, who died at least two or three years ago, based upon level of decomposition. A search of missing children files from that timeframe has so far yielded no matching reports. Further analysis is pending.
Austin American-Statesman
December 13, 2019
1
So far today, I’ve created seventy-three new universes, all containing another version of Delaney West, age sixteen. An hour ago, I opened the News Alert about the two dead girls; another version of me did not. In another world, she continues to laugh with Kaitlyn as they watch Marissa strip for her boyfriend on FaceTime. That Laney will keep her friends and possibly show some skin herself.
I, however, ran outside to sit in my car, claiming to want no part of their antics. My first sleepover in years, and now they’ll think I’m a prude. But reading the article made my head spin and gut cramp.
I thumb through the story again on my phone as my heart pounds. Two or three years ago two teenage girls died, probably murdered, their remains discovered in the same area I found Dad with another woman.
Why does one story make me think of the other?
A warm breeze slings acorns onto my roof. How can it be this warm in December? Or maybe my mind flashes back to a summer outing three years ago—a July Fourth camping trip when I caught my father having sex with a woman I didn’t know.
I told Mom what Dad had done, thereby ruining the marriage and the family, pushing Dad out of my life and opening the way for her new boyfriend, Khannan.
And a life of regret for me.
How does anyone know which choice might change her life’s direction, especially at thirteen? Simple choices like what to do on July Fourth can have monumental consequences. We’d considered watching an air show or even a movie that day but decided to camp at the lake. Who would’ve guessed that decision would change everything?
One choice, one very different life.
Since then, I’ve written stories of that day with various outcomes. One where I watched through the trees as Dad and Gibbs giggled and tore off each other’s clothes then walked away quietly, never telling anyone.
And another version—the real one—where Dad begged me to forget what I had seen and heard and never tell anyone.
“Never tell anyone” is in a lot of versions.
But I did tell because . . . I’m not sure why. At the time I was furious. I remember screaming, hitting, crying. I wouldn’t listen to anything Dad said. The woman held her clothes against her chest, mouth open in disbelief as I cursed both of them. After several minutes of my tirade, we locked eyes until hers softened a little as she reached out her hand. I froze, my chest heaving. I could’ve moved toward her, but I tightened my fists, jerked around, and left.
One version I wrote had me running into her arms, crying as she held me and kissed my head.
On the way back to tell Mom, I collapsed in tears. Sounds of a girl crying and moaning filled my head. Where did they come from? I had no idea. I remembered listening to Dad and the woman moaning and gasping before I yelled at them, but the other sounds were different. Painful, stifled screams above some kind of throbbing motor. And sounds of choking.
Something horrible had happened, but all I could remember was watching Dad and the woman.
I told Mom what I’d seen. A little later, Dad walked into our campsite. Then days of screaming and accusations at home until Mom held me to her as she raised her finger to point beyond Dad’s head and beyond our house. “Get out!”
He did.
At the time, I had no idea what would happen to us. I didn’t know how one choice could ruin my life or send one version of it, the only one I knew and really wanted, into the void, squeezing my brain forever until I could do nothing but scream or cry. Over and over.
I look back at Marissa’s door. Maybe I can go back inside and rejoin the party. Let them do what they want while I smile and act cool. That’s what I should be doing on a Friday night—hanging out with friends, not sitting in my Outback, listening to the thump of acorns on my hood. I flip down the visor, brush my hair in the mirror then pull golden brown strands from the bristles into a tangled wad. How can something look so good on my head and so nasty in my hand?
But not as bad as what the girl saw after she pulled skulls from the river, expecting to find cute turtles. I can’t shake that image from my mind.
And something else, something forgotten, lurking in the shadow just outside my memory—grunts, throbbing, choking.
I need to drive somewhere, anywhere.
After several curves and turns through Marissa’s private forest, I merge into a stream of headlights. Austin traffic at its best.
As I drive I think about an evening two years ago when I couldn’t stifle my sobs about missing Dad, and Mom heard me. I thought she would’ve noticed weeks earlier, but she was busy with her research. And being a single mom. My fault.
She ran into my room, held me, rubbed my back and wiped my tears before picking up a few stories—different versions of that day in July when I could’ve made different choices. After reading a few paragraphs in each, she stared at me, eyes bulging, her forehead turning red. “Why do you write these?”
I tried to catch my breath. Her eyes squinted hard as she flinched away from me. Was she scared of me?
“Because I wish I’d acted differently. I’ve tried to think of everything I could’ve done, so maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” She held some papers in front of her, like a barrier between us.
I sniffed and closed my eyes. “If there’s a next time, I’ll know better. I’ll do the right thing. I’ll make a better choice.” I looked away, wondering if I should tell her more. “When I write, I feel I’m there, making the decision all over again. I think I can disappear into the story and do the right thing.”
We locked eyes.
I sighed so deeply, draining all my breath. “Sometimes I don’t want to come back,” I whispered.
And for several seconds, I didn’t think I would. Everything blurred then started to fade until I had this weird feeling I’d done this before. Just before I blacked out, Mom jerked my hand away from my throat.
“Laney! What are you doing?”
I hitched in a breath, looked at my hand then at her. “I don’t know. I’ve had weird thoughts lately.”
She frowned. “None of this is your fault. What about Sean doing the right thing? Or me making a different choice? Why are you to blame?”
Heat poured into my face. “I could’ve walked away! As soon as I saw them go into the tent, I could’ve turned around.” I drew up my legs and hugged my knees to my chest, sobbing against my bed.