Page 29 of Snow Creek

Dr. A: Her license?

Me: Right—a duplicate. Hers. It puzzled me for a minute then I figured it out. I knew the credit cards were useless. They could and would be traced. I knew the eighty dollars we had would run out. And I knew that we didn’t have anyone we could trust, Doctor. (pause) Trusting anyone was against our family’s rules.

Dr. A: I understand. Trust can only be earned.

I remember thinking about that exchange. I was unsure of Karen Albright back then. I still am.

I continue listening. I told her about the trip to the drugstore to buy hair dye and scissors. Gum for Hayden; how, all the while, I remember thinking we needed a place to stay.

Dr. A: Tell me more about your family, the rules you mentioned earlier.

Me: It sounds silly. We weren’t in some cult. I mean, don’t you have to have other members besides just us? We were isolated. If I hadn’t attended a public school, I wouldn’t have had any idea of what the world was like.

Dr. A: That must have been very hard for you.

Me: When you don’t know anything different, whatever weirdness your parents put into your life seems normal. Your normal. You know what I mean?

Dr. A: I do. Did, for example, it seem normal to your parents? The rules?

Me: When I think about it, it’s hard to say. Even now. I can almost see the look on Dad’s face when it was time to leave whenever we were on the run. His anxiety. The way his eyes narrowed and sweat collected at his temples and he’d withdraw a little. He was worried that we’d be found.

Dr. A: How did you decide where to go?

Me: It seems so stupid now. But also, in its own way, smart. We called the nights before we moved to another place “the switch.” We had a glass bowl with a bunch of names of towns that were written by Mom on small, fortune-cookie-sized pieces of paper. I once asked my mom why it was that we did all of that. She told me, and I’ll never forget it, that there was security in randomness.

* * *

I press STOP on the recorder. It’s getting late. I’m tired. My mind needs a break. And yet I can’t stop thinking of my mother. How she made me believe in so many things.

If we are thinking of a place, making plans for a place, then it can be found out, she said.If we are random, no one can know where we’re going, honey. You know, because even we don’t know until we make the switch.

I remember thinking how it all made sense, in the way that parents sometimes can make the most ridiculous things seem normal. Like the Easter Bunny. Like the fact that only old people die. Or that all dogs go to heaven.

Speaking with convincing authority was my mother’s forte.

I’m dizzy from the wine or the memories that have bombarded me. It’s hard to know which. Wine, I hope. I want to think of myself as a strong person. That’s what makes me good at my job. I look down. My hands are shaking. I know why. The tape has sparked so many memories of Hayden. I miss my brother so much as I think of him as that little boy back in Port Orchard. Everything that happened after he found our father was my doing. He was a little kid. I dragged him along on my odyssey and dropped him off the first chance I had.

He didn’t deserve that.

I pad down the hall to a second bedroom that I use for an office. The scene there is chaotic. I’ve turned an entire room into the proverbial junk drawer. Little things, big things. Nothing put where it belongs. Most of the stuff is junk, yet because I have so little of my early years, I keep it all—a necklace I wore the day we left the house, vintage Foster Grant sunglasses, my ASB card from South Kitsap.

And a news clipping I tore from an old bound edition of theOregonianfrom Portland State University archives.

My laptop beckons from the desk.

I slide into the chair and open my email account. Nothing but the usual offers from stores that I was stupid enough to give my email address. I’d rather not have ten percent off anything if it means you’ll spam me every single day of my life.

Even though risk always looms with any technology, especially the use of email, I start typing, keeping things vague and free of details that could hurt either one of us. It is my only hope to reach him.

Hayden,

You don’t have to answer. Please read all the way to the end. Please don’t let this email bounce back because you’ve blocked me or relegated me to your SPAM folder. I’m missing you so much right now. I just wanted to let you know that I’m doing okay. You’d like Port Townsend so much. It’s got some cool old architecture like Wallace. Lots of restaurants and bars too. I have a spare room. When your deployment ends maybe you can come here and stay awhile. Like I said, you don’t have to answer.

I love you,

Rylee

I reread the email. I note where I tell him—no less than twice—that no response is required. That’s really not for him, but for me. I doubt he will reply. I write those words so I don’t check my email obsessively. Even though I will.

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