“Can I trust you?”
We’re in my kitchen waiting for the kettle to scream so we can wind down with some bedtime tea. Zane is wired up, keeps running his hand over his hair and bouncing on his heels. I suspect he’d be pacing if there were enough room in here.
“That’s an interesting question considering how much you’ve already told me. I mean, you trusted me enough to involve me in this mess.” I actually shiver, envisioning the sheriff showing up at my work, telling my boss that he’s been digging into my past and she should know that I can’t be trusted to work in a facility full of frail old people.
“I know, I’m sorry.” He adjusts the refrigerator magnets that are holding up a photo of my nephew on his first birthday– chocolate frosting all over his adorable face. “I’ve caused you enough trouble. I should go.”
The kettle starts to whistle. I turn off the burner and pour water into our mugs. When I turn around Zane is halfway to the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“You can’t leave now, I just made you a cup of tea.”
“I shouldn’t have involved you.”
Part of me totally agrees with that statement and yet… “But you did and it’s too late to change that so you might as well tell me the rest of the story.”
“All of it?”
“Sure, why not?” I hand him his mug–the one I swiped from a gift shop in Durango when I was a teenager because I liked the picture on it–a bear relaxing next to a tent in the woods.
He holds the mug in both hands, blows on his tea a few times before lowering it to chest level, giving me an intensely serious look. “I know why no one in my family wanted the bicycle found. I know what they’re hiding.”
“What? You mean you already know what happened to Abigail?”
“No.” He shakes his head fiercely. “I know what they did to her when she was a teenager. I don’t know how they got her out of Mannon, or if…if she was taken away alive or dead.”
I feel a little sick because I know I’m not going to like this story. I step closer to Zane. “Am I going to wish you hadn’t told me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” His knuckles are white from holding the mug so tightly.
Feeling a strong need to touch him I cover his hands with my own. “In answer to your question, yes. You can trust me. I’m a good secret keeper.”
When we’re settled on the futon Zane starts talking, but takes his time in the telling of the story, adding unnecessary details, over explaining some parts and under explaining others. Twenty minutes later our tea is gone, or in Zane’s case it’s gone cold, and we’re sitting in silence. He appears emotionally drained from pouring it all out, while I’m still absorbing it all, feeling somewhat surprised that it happened here, in Mannon, a nice small town, but I’m not shocked by it.
I’m not easily shocked by much of anything but then who is anymore? A few minutes of nightly news-a few of my patients insist on watching it as they have their whole adult lives-and you know what kind of nasty warped stuff goes on in this world. And the worst atrocities aren’t always committed by the people you’re likely to suspect. It’s not like the fairy tales my grandma used to read to me-the ones where the evil people are portrayed as hideously ugly, deformed or in many cases are actual witches. (One of my coworkers happens to be a practicing witch and she’s the kindest, most caring and gentle person I know.)
Adults know the world doesn’t work this way–it isn’t all about good or evil– but a young boy from a stable family, one that is reasonably functional and not abusive as Zane says his was-would be terribly shocked and even forever changed by the stories Abigail told him.
Promise you’ll never tell a soul, she’d said. They were sitting on the far side of the pond, out of sight of the Carlaw house. Zane, a skinny boy wearing swim trunks with sharks on them, Abigail a shapely teenager in a pink bikini. It started after his cousins teased him for being afraid to ride a horse after a fall the year before. Abigail had sweetly suggested that the older boys ‘leave Zane the hell alone.’ She’d comforted Zane and complimented him on his swimming skills before making a confession. Whispering in his ear, she’d admitted to being terrified of the water. She couldn’t swim, or tread water, or float on her back. She was afraid to put her face in the water which is why she’d told the older boys no when they suggested she go swimming with them.
Zane had been stunned by that last admission –how could anyone be afraid to put their face in the water? It was then that he’d offered to help her learn how to swim, or at least tread water in case she had to do it to save her life someday.
Abigail hadn’t wanted anyone else on the ranch to know her secret, and tease her about it, so they’d agreed to meet at the pond when no one else was around. Zane had been spending a lot of time at the ranch that summer, because both his parents were working and didn’t want to leave him home alone, and Grandma Mary was happy to have him around. There were plenty of chores and odd jobs for him to do. Abigail had been taking riding lessons from Aunt Connie, Uncle Ward’s wife, mucking out stalls and grooming horses in exchange for the lessons because her foster parents couldn’t afford to pay for them.
It had been easy enough to sneak off to the pond together. Zane saw the bruises on the backs of Abigail’s legs when she took off her shorts. The bikini bottoms had covered very little. He thought she might have gotten them horseback riding, or working on the ranch but was embarrassed to ask her about it.
At first Abigail would only go into the water up to her knees. Zane had tried to reassure her that the water wasn’t scary by swimming, and doing somersaults. She’d called him a show off, but not in a mean way. He’d convinced her to go in up to her waist, but she’d panicked, and slipped on the rocks trying to get back to shore. He’d had to help her. When she was safe in the tall grass it had taken her a long time to stop trembling–and it was way too hot for her to have been so cold.
She’d told him a story about nearly drowning a couple years before. It had happened at one of her other foster homes. They’d had a backyard pool, an above ground one that was only four feet deep. Her foster parent’s son hadn’t lived there, he was older, like twenty maybe, but he’d shown up a lot, especially when his parents weren’t home. That day he’d joined her in the pool. He’d tried to kiss her and make her do things she didn’t want to do. When she’d refused he’d held her face under the water. She’d kicked and fought, but he was too strong. She’d given up, had actually accepted that she was about to die, when he’d let her up. He’d threatened to kill her if she told his parents or anyone else, ever. Knowing that he’d meant it, she hadn’t told anyone, not until now.
That’s when Zane asked her about the bruises on her legs. She’d told him then, that some men like to hurt girls.
What men? he’d asked.
She’d shaken her head and refused to give him a name. He’d pleaded with her to tell him who was hurting her so he could tell his parents. They’d call the police, get that person in trouble, make sure she was safe.
With the saddest look he’d ever seen, Abigail had told him that no one could help her, and if he told anyone, even his parents it would only make everything worse. She insisted that no one would believe her–that the men had too much power.
I have a plan, she’d said. One day I’ll be gone, and that will be a good thing.
She’d also told Zane that she didn’t trust anyone. Not the police, or her social worker or her current foster parents. People were never what they seemed. Men in general were not to be trusted–and especially not the Carlaw men–young or old.
He’d begged and pleaded, but she wouldn’t give up a single name.
“Why?” I turn to him, resting one hand on his thigh. “Why did she tell you all this? You were just a kid.”
“I’ve asked myself the same question many times. I think it was because I was a kid that she trusted me. She needed to confide in someone and I was safe. Or at least she thought I was.”
“Yeah, well it was horribly unfair of her to do that to you.”
“It wasn’t her fault.”
“Of course it was. Abigail chose to tell you that you can’t trust your own family. How messed up is that?”
“It’s not messed up if it’s true. She meant it as a warning. You were there tonight, you saw how they all acted–guilty as hell. She was right to warn me.”
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
“But not the way you see it?”
“No. If she hadn’t told you any of this you wouldn’t be trying to find out what happened to her, and you wouldn’t have been threatened by the sheriff, who happens to be your own freaking uncle.”
“You think I’d be better off not knowing anything?”
“Yes. Abigail stole your innocence.”
He shrugs. “No one can stay innocent forever.”
“But you were only ten.”
“I know. I know.” He sighs. “I guess I’d feel differently about it if I thought Abigail had bad intentions, but it wasn’t like that. She was a scared and lonely girl looking for a friend. I’m glad I was there for her. I just wish…”
“What?”
“I wish I’d kept my promise to her, and not told anyone her secret.”
“Who did you tell?”
Zane hesitates, and then shakes his head, “The wrong person.”
That’s it for this week! I hope you’re enjoying the story.
My life is crazy busy right now and likely will be for the rest of the summer as we are selling our house and moving twice, once to the same property as my daughter and grandson, and then again to another state to be near my son, his wife and our new granddaughter. The plan is to live in both places alternating every few months so we can spend more time with all of our loved ones.
Due to this craziness and the general busyness of summer, I’m going to switch to posting every other week rather than once a week for at least a couple of months.
I hope all is well with you. Happy reading. And writing if that’s your thing!
Ooh! The ending is so intriguing 😯