Chapter 7
No. No. No. I flip through the racks and racks and racks. No. Definitely not. No. Flip, flip, flip. I find a blue and green flowered tank and bottom and hold it up for Anita.
“No.”
This is never going to work. “Anita, you say no to everything I’ve picked.”
“Well,” she says, shifting Sibley to the other hip, “you say no to everything I pick.”
“You’re unwilling to compromise.”
“Me?” she asks, rolling her eyes. “Right. I’m unwilling.”
“Fine, I’m unwilling to look like a hooker on the beach.”
She holds up a white and pink bikini. “This does not look like something a hooker would wear.” She points across the room to a mannequin dressed in a white bikini with a marijuana leaf embroidered over each boob. “That is trashy. This,” she holds it up to my chest, “is nice.”
I shake my head. “It all feels too revealing. I’m not used to showing so much skin.”
“What, no slutty Halloween costumes?”
I make a face. “No.”
“Ivy wore this nurse outfit last year. It was killer.” She sighs. “I should have gone to college.”
Just then I spot the black, halter-tied bikini top with matching boy-shorts. “How about that?”
She lets Sibley loose on the floor and picks the suit off the rack. After inspecting it for a minute, she hands it back. “Perfect. Go try it on.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m paying the cashier and ignoring Anita’s smug grin when my phone rings. This time I check before I answer.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, taking my bag off the counter.
“Are you nearby? I’m about to leave.”
“Anita and I are still shopping. I’ll see you later?”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Where? And why?” I follow Anita out of the store and into the parking lot. I stand outside the car while she fights with Sibley over the car seat.
“That woman from the other day called me back. She’s ready to talk.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise. I have to admit, I’m curious. “Well, yeah, I can be there in about twenty minutes. We’re just at the surf shop near the island.”
I hang up the phone and get in the car next to Anita. “I guess we’ll have to try out that suit later on. I’ve got Donald Gaskins’ family members to harass this afternoon.”
“Boo,” she whines. “So you’re like the George or Bess to her Nancy?”
“Who?”
“Nancy Drew’s best friends? Duh.”
“Oh!” I think about it for a second. “Which one was the heavy one who always wanted to eat pies?”
“I think Bess. George is really tough.”
“Hmm, I need a third category. The last time I went with her I tried to hide in the car.”
She laughs. “That’s okay. I was thinking you could debut it tomorrow anyway. We’re taking the boats out around noon.”
I laugh. “I doubt there’s any need for me to make a grand entrance or anything, but sounds fun.”
“Hmmm,” she hums, turning onto the beach road. “I think there will be more interest than you expect.” I roll my eyes but she flashes me a grin. “Well, it’s true.”
“Whatever,” I tell her, refusing to take the bait for whatever she’s trying to imply. “I’m happy to go to the beach party tomorrow. And wear my new suit. If my mom and I survive our trip to the middle of nowhere.”
My mother, full of surprises lately, lays another one on me when I get back to the camper. Nick leans against the SUV door, fussing with his camera.
“Hey,” I call, walking up.
He gives me a quick smile. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I called him,” my mom says, exiting the camper. The door screeches and slams behind her. “Anita told me Nicholas is a very good photographer. I thought it’s be good to document our investigation.”
“Awesome,” I say, considering that having a linebacker, or whatever-the-hell position he plays, with us is a great idea.
We pile in the SUV and Nick sits in the back, quietly answering my mother’s millions of questions about growing up in Ocean Beach, football, and the Citadel.
“Long ago, I went to a few military balls in Charleston,” she confesses.
“You did?” Add another piece of information about my mother I didn’t know.
“Yes, you know all the boys in the family attended, whether they wanted to or not. It was tradition. Over the summer their classmates would come to visit. We’d hang out in Myrtle or sometimes Charleston. Sugar and I were popular dates for our cousins’ classmates.”
“Mrs. Barnes—” My mother cuts him off.
“Julia.”
“Julia,” Nick begins again. “How did you get interested in writing? Especially true crime?”
We’re barreling down Highway 29 surrounded by tobacco and corn fields.
My mother has answered this question a million times but I’m shocked to see hesitation flicker across her face.
It’s gone as fast as it came. “Henry Gaskins haunted these roads when I was your age. I’d long been curious about his motivations.
When I started writing, he wasn’t a big enough name—not sensational enough for my publisher to be interested, so I went for higher-profile cases.
Now I have the clout to write what I want and… well…here we are.”
“Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?” he asks. I turn in my seat. Nick has soulful brown eyes—a contrast to the size and scope of his body. “I just feel like I’m going to have to put my photography aside for a while. Focus on football and my military obligations.”
Mom catches his eye in the rearview mirror.
“I thought I wanted to be a wife and mother. I focused on those things for a long time. But eventually it wasn’t enough.
” She glances at me. “Not that being a mother wasn’t enough for me, but when being a wife didn’t work out I had to find a job.
I had to work. I fell back into what interested me the most.” She smiles at Nick.
“Hold on to your dreams. You never know when you’ll be ready to start them again. ”
“Summer, what do you plan on studying in college?” Nick asks. My mother listens.
I have nothing to offer. Nothing to say. I’d been so caught up in my relationship with Mason I’d lost part of myself along the way. When I can’t answer, my mom reaches for my hand and squeezes, letting me know it’s okay.
I stare out the window, at the farms and hot, baked land and wonder if that’s true.
Will it be okay?
An hour later, we’re sixty miles away from Ocean Beach. My mother took the green and white floral armchair and Nick and I sit together on the lumpy love seat of Donald Gaskins’ long-lost niece.
“Would you like something to drink? I have Pepsi,” Darlene asks. We’re past the formalities of the weather, how nice her home is, and how long our drive was. Darlene stands near the kitchen door, obviously nervous about our visit.
My mother says, “No, thank you. I’m glad you called me, Darlene. I know this is a difficult subject to talk about. I can only imagine the effect it had on your family. Devastating.”
Darlene nods and her hands move to the tiny cross at her neck.
“I spoke to my sister. We both agreed that talking to you about Donald isn’t a bad thing.
Keeping this story buried in our family has hurt us more than it ever helped us.
In fact, I think the secrets our family kept only allowed him to continue to hurt people. It’s time to talk about it.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Please understand, I meant what I said on the phone, I never want you to feel like I’m exploiting the situation.” My mother sounds sincere. From the look on her face, I think she is.
Darlene sits across from us in an arm chair identical to the one my mother is perched on.
“I’m happy to answer your questions, although I’m really not sure what I can tell you.
I mean, I knew about him but he was in jail a lot, and the rest of the time we didn’t see him.
By the time he was executed, our family had washed our hands of him. ”
“I’m just going to ask some basic questions, to kind of get a feel for what it was like to be related to him, how the family felt about the situation. I’m writing this book about Donald and his crimes, but your family should have a voice, too.”
Darlene continues to shift nervously in her seat but she seems willing to talk. “My mother spent her life in fear of her half-brother. Obviously, he was unstable, but he proved more than once he was willing to kill family members.”
“Right,” my mother says, nodding sympathetically. “He killed your cousin, Janice.”
“And her friend.”
I tune Darlene out at this point, unwilling to hear any further.
How my mother did this day in and day out is beyond me.
I survey the room for something—anything interesting--and spot a framed photograph on a desk.
The photo has a retro feel; two girls in their bikinis, standing on a boardwalk.
There’s a Ferris wheel in the background.
“That was taken at Myrtle Beach,” Darlene says, following my gaze. “Me and my best friend.”
“You guys are cute,” I say.
My mother stands up and looks at the photo. “The Pavilion. We used to have so much fun there. We probably crossed paths.”
“Maybe so,” Darlene replies. “Once my mother realized what happened with Janice, she tried to stop us from driving back and forth down there so much. We thought we were invincible though—what could hurt us? She knew better.”
“Mothers generally do,” my mom agrees. I ignore the possible jab.
Darlene places the frame on the coffee table. “She was convinced Donald looked for victims combing the back roads.”
The smile on my mother’s face thinned to a hard line. “I suppose it’s possible,” she says. “That would make a nice photo for the book, if you would allow me to make a copy.”
“Sure,” Darlene tells her.
I let them finish up, only listening to half of the conversation.
I have no idea how my mother and I have such different levels of tolerance for gore.
She needs every detail—I’d rather hear nothing at all.
I’m further surprised when we leave and the two women hug for a long moment, like long-lost friends and not strangers.