Chapter Eleven #2
The ceiling above the mattress I slept on with Ben collapsed on us one night. There was a loud buckling sound before it fell. It was dark. We couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. The ceiling crashed down on us while we were going to sleep.
We held our heads where the plaster hit us.
Ben flipped on the lights. We found the room clouded with dust. Chunks of plaster debris lay in our blankets and all over the room.
There was powder in our hair. I remember hacking, looking up into the exposed structure of the ceiling.
We could see the wooden lath, the joists and insulation.
In retrospect, it’s strange how startled we were. There had been this huge, visible crack for a long time, and all these little hairline cracks, and they kept getting bigger and bigger. My heart was racing. I couldn’t believe it finally fell.
“Do you have a minute? I have an idea,” Mordecai says.
I’m sitting at the reference desk like an undead person. I still haven’t slept through the night. I feel slow and devoid of energy.
I nod, and he leads me to a computer. He sits down at the chair, and I stand behind him, rubbing my eyes. He’s opened the email he received from EaglesNest88. He clicks the ellipsis next to the reply arrow in the email header, then clicks Show Original.
As he clicks, he explains, “I’m looking for a line that starts with ‘Received: from’ in the message headers. It’ll show the IP address.”
He finds it. He then opens the Liberty Lately website. He opens the Command prompt by searching “CMD” in the Windows search bar. He types: “ping ,” then clicks enter. The IP address of the website is in the command output.
While he compares the two numbers, he says, “IP addresses can be rerouted, so it’s not perfect, but—” He gasps. “It’s the same.”
“What?” I squint.
He looks at me. “It’s the same IP address. It was Declan.”
“Wow,” I say. “Are you serious? How the hell did he get that picture of me?”
“I have no clue,” he says.
“Wait.” I frown. “Can you open one of those bird emails now?”
“Sure,” he says. He clicks through the reference email inbox until he opens the abortion email that we got from Sammy. He goes to the email header and clicks until we see the IP address enclosed in square brackets.
He copies the number and pastes it beside the other two. We’re both silent.
They’re all the same.
“It was Declan,” I tell Joy. I’m sitting outside on the picnic table.
I explain how Mordecai tracked the IP addresses.
“Holy shit,” she says. “That’s unnerving. Is this man a psychopath? He’s gone to those lengths to, what? Intimidate you? What’s his end goal? What the fu— Wait. How did he get that picture of you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what’s disturbing me too. I guess maybe someone who follows me took a screenshot and sent it to him?”
“Wow. But who would do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I was thinking, maybe my cousin Tucker?”
He’s the only person remaining on my list of suspects.
I’ve had several uncomfortable conversations with Tucker at family events.
We don’t see eye to eye. He’s mentioned that he doesn’t support gay marriage, immigration, pronouns, vaccines, and he loathes the liberal government to a degree that I consider fanatical.
He has bumper stickers about it. He wears branded, anti-liberal clothes.
I’m often tempted to delete him off social media, but I’ve resisted because it would upset my mother.
Joy says, “How would Tucker be associated with Declan, though? Tucker lives where you grew up—that’s like three hours away.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“God. I don’t like this. Do you feel unsafe?”
I say, “No, I feel safe. Don’t worry.”
“Well, I am worried, but I have some good news,” she says.
“What?”
“I’m coming home tomorrow, so I can protect you from the creeps.”
I sit up. “Are you really coming home?”
“Yes. I was already planning to before I heard about this, but I’m glad I’ll be home soon.”
I grin.
“They all seem to know each other,” Mordecai says. He and I are in the lunchroom. A local bakery brought us doughnuts. I’m eating a honey cruller.
I told him about Tucker. I say, “I don’t think there’s anyone else who follows me who would send my picture to an alt-right news source. Maybe I’m overlooking someone or something. I don’t know. My cousin does run in a crowd that’s similar to Declan’s.”
Mordecai puts his apple fritter down. “You know, I realized something when I was digging into this. Everything that’s happened—the protests, the article—it’s all the same group of people.
They go to libraries all over. You can see the same faces in the photos.
Most of them aren’t from this area. If your cousin is involved in similar online communities, I think it is possible he’s involved.
It’s a relatively small group. They’re the ones trying to get books banned too.
Did you know that? There was this analysis that found only eleven adults file sixty percent of book challenges.
Isn’t that wild? It’s a very small number of vocal, determined people, and they all know each other. ”
I’m combing through Tucker’s social media. He doesn’t follow Liberty Lately, or Declan Turner, but he does follow quite a few similar accounts. Alternative and conservative news outlets. Alt-right political leaders and celebrities. Anti-feminist men’s-rights influencers.
I think of Tucker as a direct and blunt person.
He’s unable to interact with me without mentioning that he doesn’t condone my “lifestyle.” I know a lot of my extended family are uncomfortable with my politics, and with me being gay, but most of them don’t say anything.
They awkwardly avoid discussing it. Tucker, on the other hand, struggles to keep his thoughts to himself.
There have been several instances when he and I have gone head-to-head.
In some ways, I appreciate that he’s honest and up front.
I know where he stands. There’s no ambiguity.
I don’t have to waste mental energy interpreting him.
He demonstrates emotional honesty, and I admire that.
I also think that being exposed to people like Tucker has helped me better understand who I am.
I’ve never felt more affirmed, or certain of myself or my beliefs, than the times I’ve sat across from Tucker at a family dinner and listened to him express his opinions.
I only see him once every couple of years. Despite that, I do think I could ask him if he knows Declan, and he’d tell me.
“Tucker speaking.”
I texted my aunt, his mom, asking for Tucker’s phone number. I’ve never called him before.
“Hi, Tucker, it’s your cousin Darcy. This is going to be a strange conversation,” I warn him immediately. I’m cutting right to the chase.
“Hey Darcy. Okay. Uh, it’s already strange that you’re calling me, to be honest. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken on the phone before, have we?”
“Do you know Declan Turner?”
“Hm. That name does sort of ring a bell. Why? Who is he?”
I inhale. “He runs Liberty Lately. Have you heard of them?”
“Liberty Lately? What’s that? Like, news?”
“Sort of. Can I ask you another question? It’s a little bit of a weird one.”
“Sure. Hit me.”
“Have you ever taken a screenshot of something I’ve posted on social media? Like an Instagram story?”
He takes a beat to reply. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Maybe you wanted to share it with someone else?”
“What?” he says. “Why would I do that? Oh, actually—you know who does screenshot your shit?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Your mom.”
I frown. “My mom?”
“Yeah. She’s constantly posting everything you share on her Facebook.”
I make a face. “What?”
“My mom says it’s because you moved far away and you barely talk to her. Is that true? Your mom is constantly posting things like Darcy went to the mall today. Then she attaches a picture you already shared on Instagram. I had to mute her account. It’s been relentless.”
“Are you serious?” I put a hand on my chest.
“Yeah, don’t you have your mom on Facebook?”
“No.”
What the hell is wrong with my mom?
He tuts. “Well, you should really check out her profile. It’s a shrine to you.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He snorts. “Why would you think I’d do that? You’ve got only-child syndrome, Darcy. You always have. We’re not all out here obsessed with you, you know.”
I scowl. Tucker is an only child too.
Rather than argue with him, I say, “Thank you. I’m going to let you go now.”
“Yeah, no problem. Are you visiting this year for Christmas? You didn’t come last year, did you? I don’t think we’ve seen you in a while.”
“I was with my wife’s family last year. We’ll probably try to come this year.”
There’s an awkward silence. He says, “I didn’t realize you got married. Man, I still don’t get why you chose to live this way. I remember that guy you were dating before. What was his name?”
I close my eyes. “Ben.”
“Oh yeah. Whatever happened to Ben? I liked him. You guys made a nice couple, I thought.”
I inhale. “I have to go, Tucker. See you at Christmas.”
“All right, all right. See you.”
“Bye.”
I search my mom’s name on Facebook and click her profile.
She has no privacy settings whatsoever. Her entire profile is open to the public. I scroll down and see that it is as Tucker said. She’s screenshotted almost everything I’ve ever posted on Instagram, including the photo I took in the tub, and reshared it to her own wall.
I look at the naked photo of me. I don’t think she’s noticed I’m naked in the reflection of the tap. She has poor eyesight and has to wear her readers when she uses her phone. She captioned her post: DARCY IS RELAXING TONIGHT!!!
I sigh deeply. It’s not hard to find out my mom’s name. All you have to do is search my name, find my grandma’s obituary, and boom. Declan must have found the photo from her profile.
I brought Joy home to meet my parents after we’d been dating for two years.
It was awkward, but overall, it went fine.
After dinner I found myself sitting in the living room with my dad.
We watched baseball while my mom sat in the kitchen with Joy.
She was showing her our family photo albums. I overheard my mom say what a beautiful little girl I was.
I have no memories of her ever saying anything like that to me. I was taken aback when I heard it.
My dad noticed the change in my expression. He asked, “What’s with the face?”
I said, “I’ve just never heard Mom say anything like that about me before.”
He cheered for the game, then said, “Well, your mother loves you, slugger.”
Sophie posted the first photo of January on social media. In it, January is wearing a furry white onesie and a hat with little bear ears. She has big dark eyes, long eyelashes, and little red blotches on the bridge of her tiny, button nose.
Beneath the photo, Sophie’s written:
WE’RE SO EXCITED TO WELCOME OUR LITTLE BABY GIRL INTO THE WORLD.
SHE IS PERFECT. I’M OBSESSED WITH HER EVERY BLINK, AND ALL HER NOISES.
BECOMING A MOM IS A MIX OF AWE, WONDER, AND THIS HORRIBLE, CRUSHING WORRY.
I’M SO TERRIFIED I’M GOING TO MAKE MISTAKES.
I WANT EVERYTHING GOOD FOR YOU, JANUARY. I’M SO LUCKY TO BE YOUR MOM.
My parents met at church when my mom was sixteen and my dad was twenty. They got married two years later. Whenever I hear the story, I am reminded that “Things were different back then.”
My mom cooked dinner every night. She hung the laundry on the line. Did the dishes by hand. My dad worked, mowed the lawn, and took care of the cars. Mom greeted him at the door when he came home at six p.m. and fixed him a drink.
And I was their baby. A little girl watching her mom, trying to understand how to be a person.
And at one point my mom was a baby too. A little girl watching her mom.
I remember her teaching me how to cross-stitch. We were sitting in the living room with hoops and Aida cloth on our laps. I kept making mistakes. Mom helped me rip my stitches out, rethreaded my needle, and said, “It’s okay. I made mistakes when I learned how to do this too.”