Page 28 of Snow Creek

I know all of that.

I’ve experienced all of that.

Now I wonder if that little tape recorder and the box of tapes had been a good idea. It’s brought me back to a time and place that I’ve wanted to forget yet can’t. I look around for something stronger than wine, but in reality, I’m not much of a drinker. I should be. I have reason to. I should be a raging alcoholic by now. No one would blame me if I were. Sure, they’d feel sorry for me.

If they knew.

Only three people know the sum of everything I’ve done. Hayden, Dr. Albright and me.

A few like the sheriff know the end of my story, not the beginning. As I swallow my wine and stare at the box, I hope more than ever that no one knows the middle. That’s the part that makes me question who I really am.

And why I did what I did.

My hand swipes lightly over the tapes. They are numbered by date. I take a deep breath as I pull out the one from my second session with Dr. Albright. I remember thinking at the time that she had the kind of effect that suggested she was a genuine do-gooder, not some poseur there to enjoy the troubles of others, as though what unfolded during each session was only about entertainment.

I take a breath and press the button.

I hear her calming voice reminding me.

Dr. A: Rylee, you know I’m recording you, right?

Me: Yes. I know that. What are you going to do with the tapes? I was thinking about that after our first, ah, session.

Dr. A: They are only for me. They won’t be played for anyone else. Someday, when the time is right or when I die, they’ll go back to you.

Me: Okay. I guess.

Dr. A: Last session we talked about how you found your father—stepfather—and how you and Hayden made it to the waterfront of Port Orchard. Put me there, Rylee. Tell me what you remember.

Me: (short pause). Okay. It’s silly but I still remember this seagull fighting with another, smaller, shorebird over a French fry on the bench beside me and Hayden. The fight was occupying Hayden’s attention, which was good. I remember hugging him. Telling him we would be all right. I put my arm around his shoulder, feeling his bones underneath his dark blue hoodie and the clean T-shirt we exchanged for the bloody one I buried in the woods.

Dr. A: Your brother means a lot to you.

Me: (crying) Everything. He’s small. He’s been my baby since the day my mom brought him home. He trusted me. I would have done anything I could for him. I didn’t nuzzle him or hold him. I wanted to. We’re not the touchy-feely kind of brother and sister.

Dr. A: Put me there. What did you see? How did you feel?

Me: We watched a green and white Washington State ferry chug through the choppy waters to the dock in Bremerton. We sat in silence as the cars unloaded. Feel? Scared and empty inside, but I didn’t show it.

Dr. A: You wanted to protect your brother.

Me: Yes and no. It’s just the way I am. I once saw a girl get hit by a car and I didn’t even yelp. I was ten and back then my name was Jessica. I know it’s dumb, but I loved that name. I remember watching a green Honda Civic smack into that girl in jeans and a pretty pink top. I didn’t even flinch. I didn’t go to her. A lady standing next to me by the side of the street where it happened must have thought that my nonresponse was a result of shock, but it wasn’t anything like that.

Dr. A: What was it?

Me: When you have to pretend that you’re someone or something that you’re not you get pretty good at concealing emotions. Reactions, my dad used to say, are for amateurs.

Dr. A: Are you hiding your feelings now?

Me: Do I look like it, Doctor?

Dr. A: Sorry. Please go on, Rylee.

Me: Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Maybe it won’t help me.

Dr. A: I can’t promise anything. I believe it will. I believe that it will help you move forward. Your past has a hold on you in ways you might not even understand. Please, go on.

Me: Hayden kept saying that maybe our dad wasn’t dead. He was hoping. And I went along with his hope, just for him. But not for long. I knew we had to get out of there. We had Dad’s credit cards, some money, and even my mom’s driver’s license.

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