Chapter Ten #2
I delete the message with a shaky hand, blocking the number. I pull on new gloves with a resolute snap.
An hour later I’m on the light rail heading south toward my old neighborhood.
It’s a twenty-minute walk, but I don’t mind.
It’s warm, and the sky is still a clear baby-blue past eight o’clock.
I pass the neighborhood field where I used to watch Beau play football.
He’d turn his head to grin at me between plays, his braces flashing. I never missed a game.
My heart is pounding. My hair is slicked back in a tight bun.
I used roll-on wax to press it to my scalp so not a hair falls out.
I even lint-rolled all over my clothing to get any stray hairs off of my brand new track pants and jacket.
I look nondescript and unidentifiable with my sunglasses and visor.
Several houses before Beau’s parents, I cut over between the houses and walk confidently through the path that runs along the backyards.
I remember every step from all the years I spent running around this neighborhood, and I know this path is used frequently.
When I get to the Bradleys’, I blink away sudden tears.
The same oak tree I used to lean against while telling Beau about the book I was reading stands tall.
When was the last time I read a book for pleasure?
When did I last get a special notebook to jot down ideas for the books I wanted to write?
All of those parts of me were lost that night. Just more ways Peter Sitwell ruined me.
His house is vandalized. Spray-painted words all over it. I know my mom is the one who kept up payments on the house while he was locked up. All that money wasted on one trash human being. A rapist. A pedophile.
I cringe even thinking the words. But they’re true. He’s a monster.
I don’t even look around as I sidle to the side of the house and open the window.
I climb in knowing this is the same window that Beau entered through my last night in this house.
I go straight to Peter’s office. The room where he would bring me after my mom left for work.
Where he’d sit me on his knee. Where he’d push me to the floor.
Where he’d down his nightly cup of tea in one gulp and—
It’s covered in dust. Except for the desktop.
He’s been back here, using this space. I wiggle his mouse with my gloved finger and step back when I see an image of myself at age twelve is the screensaver.
It was me before he ever touched me, just before Mom married him.
I have on a yellow ruched summer dress, and my hair is tangled and wavy, hanging over one shoulder as I look up into the camera.
I’m not smiling, but I don’t look sad. Reserved, shy, hopeful.
I’m certain in that moment that I’m doing the right thing. No more messing around. I’ve got a very sweet, very good boy to get back to.
The word processor is plugged in and ready to go, just like I knew it would be.
The police said Peter and a group of men would type out filthy scenarios and mail them to each other.
They found piles of depraved fantasies at each man’s house.
I feed the paper and quickly type out a few lines.
I pull it back out and fold it in half, then I tuck it under the stack of books on the edge of the desk.
He’s never been a clean freak, and the odds are he won’t move them in the next twenty-four hours.
My next stop is the kitchen. There’s one plate and a single fork drying on the rack next to the sink.
So, Mom hasn’t moved back in yet. Even she must have some shame.
Too many people know he lives here; they’re talking about him online.
She won’t want her name brought into it again.
Not yet at least. I’m sure she’s already got plans for the two of them to move somewhere together.
His tea rack is exactly where it always was.
It spins and has slots labeled for each day of the week.
After years locked up, he must’ve missed his favorite tea.
Without thought, I pull out the Thursday sachet and stuff it in my pocket.
Then I pull out the baggy with my tampered tea bag.
I set it neatly in the empty slot and step back. I blink and blink again.
I cannot cry here and risk a drop of DNA. I cannot scream here and risk someone reporting an intruder.
So, I swallow hard and press my palms against my eye sockets. Hard. When my heart rate returns to normal, and I’m no longer blinking away black splotches, I turn away, guilt-free.
I exit the house the same way I entered, rounding out onto the sidewalk in the opposite direction that I arrived from, three houses up.
I leave the neighborhood for the last time with a skip in my step.
Beau is going to surprise his parents with a house closer to us, and we’ll never step foot on this street again.
I beat him home, changing and bagging my clothes and everything else from my Breaking Bad moment. I take it all out to a dumpster I know gets picked up tomorrow morning. I finally breathe with relief, shower, and curl up in bed to wait for Beau.