Chapter 10
CHAPTER
I t seemed so much bigger back then.
I stand looking up at the second floor of Minton Parish High School—a certain window, third from the end. It’s not like I’ve grown. I’ve been the same five foot six since ninth grade. Yet the building felt more substantial to me at seventeen, more intimidating.
“Can I help you?” A woman’s voice startles me, pulls my attention from the second floor. She’s petite, older than me by twenty or thirty years, with thick-rimmed, dark glasses that are too big for her tiny face, and a blunt pixie cut.
I’m not even sure where she came from. Inside? She’s standing in front of the main entrance, so that seems logical, but the door is shut, and I didn’t hear it creak open or clank closed.
As if she can read my mind, she gestures behind her.
“My desk is in the main office, next to the window, so I spend a lot of time looking outside. We took the channel letters with the name of the school down a few days ago. Finally getting new ones after thirty some-odd years. I thought maybe you weren’t sure if you were at the right building because of that. ”
I hear every word, yet it takes a few seconds for what she’s saying to register in my brain. “Oh. Yes,” I lie. “I was trying to figure out if this is still the high school.”
The woman smiles like she’s proud she just solved a riddle. “Yes, ma’am. You’ve reached the right place.” She fans her face. “Lordy, it’s hotter than a blister bug in a pepper patch today, isn’t it?”
Now, that’s a phrase I haven’t heard too often since moving to New York.
“What can I do you for?” she asks.
“I, um . . . I lost my high school diploma and was wondering if I can order a new one. I need to prove I took some advanced classes and graduated.” I force a smile. “I’m going back to college at my age.”
She returns the smile. “We’re never too old to learn. I can print you an official transcript. It’ll note all your classes on it. Would that do?”
“I think so, yes.”
She waves me toward her. “Come on inside.”
I look up at the second floor, the third window from the left, and swallow. I hadn’t planned on going in. I’m not even sure why I’m here, but my pulse speeds up at the thought of getting closer. “Great. Thanks.”
In the office, my eyes rove over the tall counter that separates the staff from the visitors, the frosted door to my left with Principal on it in thick black letters, the rows of mailbox slots to my right labeled with teachers’ names.
I scan them one by one, left to right, until it’s clear they’re in alphabetical order.
Then my eyes drop down to read the last row—Mr. Parker, Mrs. Pearlman, Miss Rojas, Mr. Santoro, Mr. Tambar.
I’m relieved one name is missing, even though of course it would be.
The woman settles at her desk on the other side of the counter. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Davis.”
“Last four digits of your social?”
“Five, four, six, four.”
Her nails clack against the keyboard as she types.
She smiles. “Here you are. But just to be sure, what’s your address?”
“I don’t live here anymore, but it was 21 Julep Road.”
“Davis on Julep Road? Your momma wouldn’t happen to be Theresa Davis, would she?”
I purse my lips. The pastime in this small town is hearing a name and playing six degrees of separation. If someone doesn’t know you, they know someone you’re related to, or their sister or brother does. “Yes, it is.”
The secretary’s face falls. “I go to Saint Matthew’s Church. I’m sorry about her illness. Her spirit is so strong, though.”
Why am I surprised that strangers knew before me? I shouldn’t be. That’s how my mother operates—put on your Sunday best and gossip with all the other good Christians . Save the ugly for at home.
“Thank you.”
“Do you live nearby?” the woman asks. “I don’t remember seeing you at Saint Matthew’s with your momma.”
I shake my head. “I live in New York.”
“Well, she must be happy you’re here now.
” The woman returns her attention to her computer screen, clacks a few more keys, and the printer spits out a few sheets of paper.
“Here you go.” She slides two pages across the counter and points to a box at the top right corner.
“Your graduation is noted right here. If that’s not good enough, I can order you a new diploma, but usually this is more than sufficient. ”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
An earsplitting bell rings. Seconds later, a teacher comes into the office with a student, and then two more people file in. The secretary, whose name I still don’t know, sighs.
“Do you mind showing yourself out, Ms. Davis?”
“Of course not. Thank you very much for your help.”
Apparently, security hasn’t changed much in Minton Parish.
Who lets a virtual stranger loose in a high school these days?
The hallway outside the main office is a sea of teenagers.
They walk in clusters, gossiping, or by themselves, staring down at their cell phones.
I might as well be invisible. Which gives me an idea .
. . I turn right out of the office—walking the way I came in—but when I reach the entrance, I head in the opposite direction to the main staircase, blending into a crowd of students.
Once I reach the second floor, I glance down the hall.
Teachers are standing in front of their classrooms as students enter.
They won’t be as oblivious to a stranger wandering the building.
So I duck back into the stairwell, turn my back to the students rushing to get where they need to be, and pretend I’m scrolling on my phone.
Minutes later, another bell rings, and the few stragglers still coming up the stairs pick up their pace and jog the rest of the way to their destinations.
If I remember correctly, there’s another bell—the late bell—so I wait.
Sure enough, it rings through the hallway speakers, and then there’s the sound of doors closing, and the second floor goes quiet.
I wait another few minutes before peeking my head out to make sure the coast is clear, and a rush of adrenaline sends my heart racing as I step out into the empty hall.
I take a deep breath and tiptoe down to the third classroom from the end.
The door still has the same small window.
I close my eyes and remember the way I used to look at Mr. Sawyer when I passed by, before everything happened.
I thought he was so handsome—most girls did.
That makes me feel sick, and I open my eyes to force my mind back to the present.
I peer through that same window now, and there’s a woman—a young teacher at the front of the classroom.
But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop myself from visualizing the vivid description on the pages of the last chapter I received from Hannah.
Kneeling.
Staring down at the floor.
A caress of the cheek .
Good girl . . .
I blink open my eyes and the young teacher is gone. Instead, I see Mr. Sawyer and my best friend, Jocelyn. I know it’s not real, but it knocks the wind out of me just the same. I’m still seeing them when a voice breaks in.
“Ma’am? Can I help you?”
The teacher. She’s in the hallway now, wearing a look of concern. When I don’t answer, she takes a step closer.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Yes. I . . . I was just leaving.”
I don’t wait for a response before I turn and walk quickly down the hall, rush down the staircase, and fly out the front door of the school.
I keep running until I’m in the parking lot, locked inside my car.
My hands shake as I attempt to put the key in the ignition, and I still can’t catch my breath.
It was a mistake to come here. To the school. To Minton Parish. To Louisiana.
Yet I can’t stop myself from going to visit the spot that is the biggest mistake of all .
The Memory Haven Motel has changed even less than the high school.
The neon sign that flickers intermittently is still missing half the M in Motel , so it reads as “Memory Haven Notel ,” which is fitting.
It’s concealed from the main road by overgrown trees, and its peeling brown paint seeks attention about as much as the people who frequent the place.
I watch as a man parks in front of room 112.
He exits his car and looks around before slipping inside the room.
Heavy drapes shroud the windows, and I imagine the stench of stale smoke and mold.
Not long after, a brunette pulls into the parking lot.
She drives around to the side of the building and parks her car, then walks with her head down to the same room.
She knocks and the drapes move, allowing a peek outside, before the door opens and she ducks in.
A little while later, an 18-wheeler pulls in. The driver doesn’t get out. Instead, a woman pulls in next to the truck. She parks and climbs up into the big rig. I can actually see her head bobbing up and down from where I’m parked. Good to know the place is as classy as it was in high school.
I sit in the parking lot with the engine running for a few hours, staring at the last room on the second floor—the one farthest from the crappy little office downstairs.
I’ll probably run out of gas soon, but I can’t make myself leave, and it’s too damn hot to turn off the car.
No one has gone in or out of 212 yet. I’m half tempted to go in and say I need a room, see if they’ll give me that unit.
But I don’t really want to. I’ve let in enough memories these last few weeks.
I’m just about to call it a day when a knock on my car window makes me jump.
I see the brown police uniform and holstered gun before anything else.
“Shit,” I breathe, holding a hand over my heart.
The man bends, showing me his face. Is that . . . Wendell Unger? The police chief?
I haven’t laid eyes on him in twenty years. The face is older, weathered and wrinkled, but I really think it might be him. He gestures for me to roll down my window, and my heart feels like it might leap out of my chest as I press the button to lower the glass.
Where the hell did he even come from? I didn’t see anyone approaching my car.
“Good afternoon.” He nods. “Didn’t meant to startle you. Just noticed you sitting here for a while and thought I’d check to see if everything is all right.”
“Everything’s fine, Officer.” My eyes drop to his name tag. Unger.
“Good. Can I see some ID, please?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Just a precaution,” he says. “You’ve got out-of-state plates, and you’re sitting in the back of a parking lot—like you want to see something but not be seen. Just doing my job, ma’am.”
I reach for my purse on the passenger seat. “Of course.”
Digging out my wallet, I extend my driver’s license through the window. Chief Unger takes it and holds it with extended arms, like he should be wearing reading glasses.
“New York, huh? A long way from home, aren’t you? What brings you to Minton Parish?”
“I’m visiting my mother.”
He looks at the license again. “Elizabeth Davis? Theresa’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes roam my face. “You sure are. It’s been a long time. But I remember you.”
“You do?”
He leans down so we’re eye to eye, only the car door separating us, and offers me back my license. “I’m sorry to hear about your momma.”
I swallow and take my ID. “Thank you.”
“You might want to head home soon. This area of town isn’t the safest.”
My eyes slant to look at the last room on the right up on the second floor, then back to Chief Unger. He’s watching me, quietly observing—a lot like Sam always has. Only I never gave it any thought until recently. It makes me feel restless.
“I was just about to leave anyway.”
He offers a curt nod. “You have a good night, Elizabeth.”
I roll up the window and wrestle the car into drive as fast as I can.
It’s only when I reach the exit to the motel parking lot that I allow myself to check the rearview mirror.
And I wish I hadn’t, because a chill crawls up my spine from the way the chief of police is watching me leave what was once the scene of the crime.