| touch him. “I don’t think there will ever be enough time.” “When… when you were at the house. Did you see the crosses?” I shake my head. I hadn’t seen any crosses. But then, I hadn’t walked behind the garage either. According to his story, they should be there. Now I’m not sure if I want to look for them. I’m not sure I believe his story. They wouldn’t have buried Gertie’s stillborns behind their home, would they? She would have been rushed to the hospital each time she miscarried. Right? I realize this would have been in the fifties, but they weren’t that backward—despite being in a small town. I can’t believe that David would willingly bury the body of a hitchhiker either. Or then have the audacity to raise that girl’s child as his own. Besides, I would have met Bella—wouldn’t I? She’d have been more than just my mother’s imaginary friend. Unless David is the one not right in the head. Considering the stories he’s telling, that’s a very real possibility. “They’re there. They’re proof of what I did.” His voice is rough. I decide to play his game. “If it’s true, why are you telling me?” “Because I was wrong.” He won’t look at me. “Wrong? About what?” “All I wanted to do was protect my family.” His eyes clench tight and his fists gather the blankets beneath him into a ball. “My Gertie… she wasn’t well.” I roll my eyes. Wasn’t well doesn’t |
tag and hide-and-seek in the tall grass, or catching butterflies along the old wood fence, overgrown now with wildflowers. I take a photo of the house and then, keeping my phone in hand, snap other images as we walk down the driveway. “You said farmhouse, but this…” Brennley shakes her head. “I was thinking Anne of Green Gables style, you know? Not Little House on the Prairie.” It isn’t that bad. The house is old; that’s true. The roof looks like it would tear apart in a windstorm, and the siding is just faded yellow wood. At one time it was probably a really nice-looking home. I imagine Mom playing with her dolls on the ramshackle porch—now just a heap of broken rails, beat-up stairs, and overgrown garden beds. We walk behind the house to find the back door locked and the windows covered in dirt. With a tissue from my purse, I clear enough of the dirt away for us to see inside. In the far corner there is an old washer and dryer, a large freezer, and a closet full of coats and work boots. I walk around the backyard, through the dense lawn full of mushrooms, imagining where the clothesline would have been, the gardens, the chicken coop. I think about David’s story and mourn for a childhood I never had. Maybe I would have grown up here too, knowing my family, playing in the fields, gathering my own eggs from the chicken coop, having tea |
