Where the Darkness Goes

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

TESSA — PRESENT DAY

Fresh out of the shower, I pull on a black dress, a matching cardigan, and heels. I don’t bother with more makeup than a bit of sunscreen and lip gloss. Between the rain and my tears, I know there’s no point. Anything else will just be rinsed off.

While I’m thinking about it, I grab my phone and dial Will.

“Yes, dear?” he says playfully, his voice too chipper.

“Um, yes, hello, I’m looking for the asshole who didn’t tell me he was sending Garrett to pick me up and also forgot to mention that Garrett lives in the house where I’ll be staying while said asshole is away.”

He chuckles. “Speaking.”

I groan. “Seriously, Will? You didn’t think that might be important information for me?”

“Remember when you used to wish for a surprise party for your birthday?”

“This is not a surprise party, and it is not my birthday.”

“It’s a…surprise,” he offers. “What’s the big deal anyway? You guys are fine now, right?”

“Define ‘fine.’”

“Hey, Siri, can you look up the definition?—”

“Will.” I groan his name again, and he laughs.

“Fine. I didn’t tell you. I thought if I did, you’d try staying somewhere else. You’re safer at the house with Garrett.”

“Safer?” The word throws me off guard.

“You know, from dangerous potholes and insistent old biddies who will want to measure the distance from your hemline to your knees.”

“My hemline is just fine, thank you,” I scoff, but I pull my dress down anyway, the thought giving me chills. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Besides.” His voice is serious now. “After Brit’s funeral, I thought you probably wouldn’t want to be alone.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too. I hate that I’m missing it. You’ll give Kristy and Justin my condolences, won’t you? I sent flowers from both of us. If there was any way I could miss work right now, I would, but I’m swamped?—”

“I know,” I cut him off, hating the sound of stress in his tone. It’s so unlike him. “I’ll tell them. They know you wish you were able to be there, don’t worry.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

“I gotta go anyway. Be safe, okay?”

“You too. Don’t give Garrett too much hell, okay?”

“Only the smallest amounts I can muster.”

I end the call and quickly style my loose waves with mousse. I put a clip in on one side to help tame the waves, looking myself over in the mirror. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe she’s gone. My best friend for most of my life is just…gone. It’s not fair, and I hate it. We were supposed to have so much longer. We were supposed to grow old and gray, and live in a beach house together, reminiscing about the good old days and complaining about our sore hips and the price of stamps. In the blink of an eye, every plan we ever made has been ripped away.

Just as I step out into the hallway, it hits me again that I don’t have a car.

I’ll have to call someone to take me to the funeral and forget about visiting Mom for the day. Just until my car is fixed.

How long will that take anyway? I should’ve asked.

As I run through a roster of people in my head who I’m still on friendly enough terms to ask such a favor, Garrett’s door opens, and he steps out, dressed in black jeans and a matching button-down shirt. His fingers work quickly to fasten the top button.

“Look at that. Tessa Becker is actually on time.” He beams.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you to Britney’s funeral.” With his brows pinched together, he adds, “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“Um, no. That would be great, actually. I just had no idea you were planning to.”

He pulls his head back a half inch, clearly shocked. “Well, I knew that’s why you were coming into town, and without a car, I assumed you had no way there.”

For some reason, this surprises me. He knew Britney well enough, sure, but I hadn’t automatically assumed he’d go to her funeral. She was his friend by default, because we were always together, but the two of them never spent any time together without me as their glue. “Really? You don’t have plans?”

His mouth plays into a cocky grin. “Consider them canceled, Little Bit.”

The grin that escapes my lips is reminiscent of the many years we’ve spent tormenting each other. “Please don’t call me that. I’m not so little anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

He stares over my head, pretending he can’t see me, and I swat his chest. He catches my hand, and the moment implodes into stark silence. Suddenly, all the feelings I’ve been fighting against, everything that I’ve tried for years not to feel, smack me square in the ribs. I can’t breathe or talk or do anything except stare up at him, waiting to see what he’ll do.

Golden flecks of sunshine shimmer in the dark depths of his cocoa eyes. There’s a warmth there in the abyss, an ocean of things unsaid—the Pacific of dangerous truths.

I can’t ? —

He drops my hand, stepping back and running that same hand through his hair. “We should probably get going, yeah?”

When he lowers his hand to his side, I catch his fingers flexing. The movement is stiff and rigid, like I’m coursing through his veins the same way he’s swimming through mine.

“Right. Yeah.” My voice is shaky—rollercoaster ride meets stage fright meets the flu—but he’s gracious enough not to mention it.

We make our way out of the bungalow, off the porch, and down the walk in utter silence, both lost in our own thoughts.

It’s always been terribly easy and dreadfully complicated with Garrett in equal measure. He was Will’s friend, sure, but he was mine, too. In a way that none of the others were. For most of our lives, that’s all we were. Friends. Comrades. We teased each other like siblings, played like teammates, and fought like family.

But something changed along the way, and we’ve never been able to find our way back to that path. That place. We’re still in the woods of it. The same woods we’ve always been in—it’s the same trees, the same streams we know like the backs of our hands. I look around, and everything looks just as it was. But something is different. Everything is different. Sometimes I think we’re walking a parallel path, one where we can see the former path just beyond the trees—we can reach out and almost touch it—but no amount of reaching or sidestepping or backtracking will get us where we were.

We’re the main characters who have been recast in season two, where the creators hope you won’t notice. The same but noticeably different.

Checking his watch, Garrett looks back at me. “We have time to stop by your mom’s. You feeling up for it?”

The shaky breath I draw in betrays me.

“Will doesn’t like to go either.” His weighty tone is a hug, even from a distance. He knows this isn’t easy on either of us. The more I study the grave expression on his face, his pinched cheeks and somber, distant eyes, I wonder if it’s hard on him, too.

I never really thought about it until now, selfishly, but Garrett was at our house almost every day from the time the boys became inseparable sitting next to each other in class in second grade. As he got older, he spent holidays at our house and skipped vacations with his family to stay over. He spent nearly as much time with Mom as we did.

“Do you visit her often?”

He hesitates and turns his head, waiting until we’re in the car to answer. Something in his expression worries me. I suspect he thinks I’m going to be mad. Like I’ll stick a flag in Mom and declare her mine, not his.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Eventually, the conflict smooths out over his face, and he lands on, “I’ve gone by a few times.”

“I’m glad.”

The last wrinkle at the corner of his eye disappears. “Yeah?”

I buckle in and stare ahead as he pulls out of the short driveway. The house is oddly comforting. It’s the Tom Hanks of houses. Familiar and ordinary, the same gray craftsman you see in every neighborhood no matter where you live. Four white pillars that run from the overhanging roof to the porch’s brick pony wall. The ornamental grass bushes are a beard, overgrown and covering the entire front of the structure, aside from the stone steps. The four windows are eyes, met in the middle with the simple front door nose. It’s simple and safe and so completely perfect for my brother.

With a solid nod, I glance at Garrett. “We should visit. If there’s time.”

He doesn’t meet my eyes, but his smile betrays his relief as he says, “There’s definitely time.”

Ten minutes later, we arrive at Oak Meadows, the skilled-nursing facility where Mom lives now. It’s a sprawling one-story building, tawny and plain. Its length spans the entire oversized parking lot, spreading out in every direction. Most of the windows are covered with blinds, concealing the patients’ rooms. A few are open and exposed, however, the darkness beyond them still leaves everything a mystery.

The limited amount of grass they have between the sidewalk and the building is dying off, patches of brown fighting for real estate among the green.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Garrett asks.

“Would that be weird?”

He’s already unbuckling and stepping from the car. “Not weird at all.”

We make our way through the main doors, checking in with a receptionist named Becky, who chews gum loudly throughout our entire interaction and tells us we can sign the guest log, which turns out to be a mostly empty sheet of paper attached to a clipboard that’s being held together with duct tape.

There are two nursing homes in town, and I was promised this was the best of the two when we chose it, but guilt is already starting to creep in. The place carries that ineffable scent you spend your life trying to avoid—a combination of death, industrial cleaners, and waste. The yellow floors glisten from a fresh wax, and the walls are decorated with bulletin boards covered in photos of the residents at recent events. I search for Mom’s face among the memories but come up short. She’s not there, but I shouldn’t expect her to be. We’re taking it one day at a time.

Guilt weighs on me when I realize I don’t have the way to Mom’s room memorized. I’ve visited only twice since we brought her here six months ago, both times right after her arrival.

I study the signs above our heads for direction, but Garrett takes the lead, guiding us through the labyrinth with little hesitation. I wonder if he judges me for visiting so little. Often, I’ve thought about moving back. I think I should, but…this place feels so different now. Without Mom being who she used to be, without the home where we grew up.

When we reach Mom’s hallway, a nurse is just exiting her room. She’s dressed in purple scrubs and has her blonde hair pulled up in a loose, low ponytail. She’s our age, most likely, but I don’t recognize her, which strikes me as strange. If you aren’t from here, there is practically no reason to ever end up in this tiny town. She’s probably from a town over and married someone from here, if I had to guess. I check for a ring, but if she has one she isn’t wearing it. Her bright smile goes to Garrett first, then me.

“Hey there. Visitors?” She glances between us again. “I was just finishing up with her.”

“Yeah, I’m Tessa. I’m Francis’s?—”

Her eyes bug out. “ Tessa? Oh my gosh. You’re Ms. Frannie’s daughter!” She tells me this as if I might not know. “I recognize your name from her paperwork. Oh, wow. She’s going to be so excited to see you. Come on.” She pushes the door open, stepping back, and waves for us to follow her into the room. “Ms. Frannie, I’m back so soon. You certainly are popular today. Look who came to see you.” Her voice is loud and booming and overly cheerful as she leads us around the compact room, through the small eat-in kitchen, and to a slightly larger living space. It’s about the size of a hotel room.

It’s hard to see her world reduced to this. My once fierce mother, now reliant on others to do everything for her. She would hate it. She does hate it, I’m sure. She just can’t tell us yet.

I’m still holding out hope that someday she’ll be able to.

Mom sits in a padded chair facing the window, her hair cascading down her back. It’s the first thing that catches my eye—her hair.

The silver of it hits just below her chin, where it melts into the dark locks I still picture covering her whole head when I pull her from memory. It’s not fair. She’s still young—just fifty-three. Not old enough to be here.

Not old enough to be like this.

She had so much left to do. And yet, there’s a very real chance she’ll never leave this room.

As if she has the same thought, the nurse eases toward Mom, brushing her shoulder first before combing her fingers through her hair, gathering it between her hands like she’s preparing to pull it into a ponytail. She leans down next to Mom, looking at her so I can see the bright smile plastered on her face. “Ms. Frannie, it’s Tessa. Tessa is here to see you.”

She looks up, waving me toward them while the tennis ball currently seeking shelter in my throat is swallowed whole by a volleyball. I can’t force it away, can’t even breathe. All I can do is take a step forward, seemingly pulled by a magnetic force more than by choice.

Before I’m ready, I’m at Mom’s side. Her face is blank, completely emotionless, as she stares out the window in front of her. The view is nice enough—a cluster of pine trees being used to block the street just beyond it. I wish it was sunny for her sake, rather than overcast, but I’m at least thankful the rain has stopped.

The nurse—Emma, based on her nametag—scurries in front of Mom and around behind me. She hoists a chair from the small kitchen table for two and brings it to me. “Here. You gals can sit and catch up.”

I do as I’m told, grateful for any sort of direction.

Thankfully, Garrett seems to know what to do. “How is she?” he asks Emma as she backs up to give us some space.

Right, that’s a perfectly logical question to ask. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Good. Good.” She says the words on a drawn-out exhale, then adds, “You know, she has her good days and bad days.” Her voice is lower as she says the last part. “We’re still doing a lot of protein and physical therapy to keep her muscles in good shape. A few mental exercises daily, too. She can follow things with her eyes”—she smirks—“but only when she wants to. She’s been able to blink to answer questions, but only a few times.”

“Her doctor seemed to think she’d be talking by now,” I point out, searching for the nurse in the dimly lit room.

When I land on her, she gives me a patronizing look. “Yeah. It’s not a linear process, you know? We just have to be thankful for the good days and work through the bad. Build on what she can do and try a little extra each day. The important thing is she isn’t regressing. Anything except that is progress.”

“Has she tried to move at all? Fingers, toes?”

She wants to lie to me, I can tell. Everything in her seems to want to tell me she’s moving and talking up a storm, but eventually, she presses her lips into a fine line and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, no. But she can hear you, like I said. She’s aware of what’s going on. She can open her mouth to eat when we ask her to, though it’s still only pureed food and liquids.”

I remember watching her eat pureed chicken the day we brought her here. Meat that had been blended until it was liquid. My stomach seizes at the thought.

Nurse Emma goes on, “And she follows commands with her eyes, like I mentioned. Blinking or following our finger or the light. Not always, but it’s happened enough that we know she can do it. Those are all really good signs. We still have a lot of hope her recovery will go further than this, but there’s no way to guarantee it. I know this visit will do a lot to keep her spirits up, though.”

Carefully, I lift a hand and brush Mom’s hair behind her ear. “Hey, Momma. It’s me. It’s…it’s Tessa.”

“I’ll give you two some time,” Emma says, stepping back toward the door. “If you need anything at all, just press this button on the wall, and I’ll be here. Otherwise, I’ll come back in a little bit to see how we’re doing.”

“Thank you.” Garrett nods at her as she shuts the door, then moves across the room to sit at the dinette with his back to us. It’s his attempt to give us privacy, too.

“I’m staying with Will,” I tell Mom softly, almost as if it’s a secret. With a giggle, I add, “I know you must’ve never thought, when we were kids, that would happen intentionally, but it’s true.” I brush her hair back again out of habit, though it hasn’t moved. For the most part, her gaze is empty. Every few minutes, she finds me, letting me know she realizes I’m here, but just as quickly, it’s as if she forgets. “Actually, Will’s away for work for a few days, so it’s just Garrett and mestaying at his house. Garrett told me he’s been to see you a few times.” I pause. “I’m, um, I’m going to Britney’s funeral later.” Reaching out, I take her arm, then her hand. “I wish you could go with me. I know how much you loved her.” I narrow my eyes at her, willing her to say something. To give me some sort of acknowledgment that she’s still in there. “It’s sad, you know? She’s…well, we hadn’t really spoken much at all in the last few years. You know that. We’d grown apart. She stayed here, and I was gone, and…it’s no excuse.” I blink away fresh tears. “I know you hated that I stayed away as much as I did, and it’s no one’s fault but my own, but I promise I’ll be back more.”

Her eyes drift to me slowly and hold my gaze.

“Do you understand, Momma? Could you…would you blink to tell me you understand?”

Anxiety is like a balloon bouncing across grass in my chest, waiting to pop as I study her eyes, waiting for her muscles to do their jobs, to give me a signal she understands what I’m saying. We don’t have to talk, but we can communicate in some way. Her nurse said it’s possible. Her stroke doesn’t have to take everything away from us.

I stare at her face, studying every inch, watching for a twinge in her skin, but there is nothing. Her fingers droop loosely around my hand where I’m gripping hers, and her eyes go soft again as she turns her head back toward the window.

The anxiety quickly turns to anger. Why did I even bother coming here?

Then comes the guilt. What sort of a daughter gets mad at her mother for having a stroke? None of this is her fault.

I stand up and kiss her temple, afraid if I don’t leave now, I’ll start crying. “Okay. Well, we have to go to the funeral now so we aren’t late, but I’ll be back, okay? I love you.” I turn away abruptly as tears sting my eyes.

Next to the couch, I spot a bookshelf. There are just a few books there—her Bible, worn and familiar, a family photo album, and a handful of novels. Odd, since she’s never been much of a reader. It’s the top of the row of books that catches my eye, though, and I cock my head to the side as I ease toward it, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

“Everything okay?” Garrett asks, his voice straining as he stands up from his seat at the table.

The scrap of paper on top of the row of books is entirely foreign to me, as is the handwriting found on it. Both are as out of place as if I’d found a polar bear costume in here. It was clearly torn from a notebook, a corner sliver of paper as if it was an afterthought.

The word scratched across it, however, is anything but.

Murderer