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Chapter Thirty

David drives me to work on Tuesday, and when I get to the office, I know that I must start my day with a phone call. I have decided against calling Ricky, at least for now, so instead I search the internet for the phone number of the hospital in the town where I grew up.

When I tell her why I am calling, the somber young woman who answers the phone transfers me to another line. The phone rings a few times, and a male voice answers.

“Nurse’s Station. Trauma I.C.U. May I help you?” I tell him I am calling to find out the status of a patient named Michael Groff.

“Are you a family member?” he asks. Yes. I am his stepdaughter. Emma Searfoss.

“Ms. Searfoss,” he says when he returns to the line after putting me on hold for a few minutes, “I’m sorry no one from your family contacted you about this, but Mr. Groff died yesterday morning. Your brother Ricky made the decision to remove your father’s ventilator.”

Holy fuck. Michael is dead. “He wasn’t my father,” I say bitterly.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “Would you like to speak with one of Mr. Groff’s physicians? I can have someone call you to provide you with further details if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m good.”

I say goodbye and hang up the phone.

I sit in my cubicle staring at the calendar pinned to the wall. My hands are in my lap, and I feel as if the floor is rising beneath me. As if I am about to be catapulted up into the air. As if I could jump up out of this seat and throw myself right up into the sky. Relief and elation are pouring out of my body. It is over.
He
is over. I think of my mother, and I am thankful, for the first time, that she is not alive. That she did not have to see this. That she did not know about the shame of Michael’s business activities or that he was murdered so brutally.

I don’t think I could be any happier about Michael’s death. Still...I start to cry. I sink my face into my hands and begin to weep. It is half out of relief and half out of sorrow. For my mother, not for Michael. Not for him.

My shoulders are hunched over my body, jolting sharply with each sob, and soon I feel a hand at the top of my back. It is resting there softly, slowly moving back and forth.

“Emma,” I hear. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” It’s Matt. He is crouched down next to me, trying to look at my eyes. I straighten my back and wipe the tears away with my fingers.

“My stepfather died yesterday,” I say quietly. “I just found out.”

“Oh, Emma. I am so sorry,” he says. I can hear the compassion in his voice. I don’t want it.

“Don’t be,” I say. “The man was an asshole. I’m crying because I’m relieved. Not because I’m sad.”

“Oh,” he says. He looks very confused, and after a time, he stands up and puts his hands in his pockets. “Is there anything you need?”

“Just to get back to work,” I say. “But let me text David first and tell him what’s going on.” I smooth my hair back off my face and twist it down over the front of my shoulder. “Can you come back in a few minutes?”

“Sure. Are you sure you want to stick around today because I know they’ll be cool with you going home if you want to.”

“I’ll be fine. Really, I will,” I say with a small smile. Matt shakes his head at me and walks out of my cubicle. I reach for my cell phone.

Hi.

Hi back.

He’s dead.

What???

I called the hospital.

R u ok?

Yes.

Who told you?

A nurse. They took him off life support.

Wow. That’s some crazy shit.

I know.

Do u want to come tonight?

Thanks but no.

What r u going to do?

Chill out.

U sure?

Yes.

OK. But call if u need anything.

Will do.

Tomorrow night then?

Yes.

Sounds good.

I don’t know how to end it. The end of the last text I sent him was my “I love you.” Do I want to go there again? While I am thinking about what to type, my phone pings again.

U r one hell of a raven, Emma.

I don’t feel like a raven right now. A raven wouldn’t have cried like a fucking idiot.

Sometimes I wonder.

I don’t.

I am thankful for David’s confidence. It makes me feel good inside. I flip my phone closed and tuck it back into my purse.

The rest of the workday proves to be a welcome distraction. Matt doesn’t ask me any more about Michael, nor does he try to make me feel better. He just talks when I reach out to him and stays quiet when I don’t. We are getting the hang of this, Matt and I. I wonder what David would think.

When I leave at the end of the day, Matt asks me if he will see me tonight.

“No,” I say. “I’m staying home. I’m just going to hang out by myself. Plus, I wouldn’t want a repeat of last Tuesday night, and I know you wouldn’t either.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” he says with a smile, “for me anyway.”

“Very funny,” I say with a smile of my own. I’m not sure why, but then I tell Matt to make sure David behaves tonight. He rolls his eyes at me and walks down the hallway.

“See you tomorrow, Emma,” he says with an overly dramatic sigh. “And take care of yourself.” I think he wants to tell me he’s sorry about Michael’s death, but he stops himself. I’m glad when he doesn’t say another word.

The bus ride home is boring, but the Silversun Pickups keep me company on my iPod, and when I get home I find that I am very much looking forward to spending the evening by myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve had time to myself. I’m considering my self-entertainment options when I open my apartment door. There, on my little table, is another small box. I instinctively reach up to my neck and touch the chain of the dog tags hanging beneath my shirt.

The thing is, I’m not worried about this package. It can’t be from Michael because he is gone. For the first time in over fifteen years, I am not drowning in dread over what he will do next. Plus, I already know that this box is from David. I can feel it.

I open it quickly, and wrapped inside I find a silver pendant. It is a raven. I turn it over in my hand, feeling the smooth metal and rubbing my thumb into its wings. The bird is curled into itself; its head is turned to the side, and its wings are folded down against its body. Its one exposed eye is made of a dark, velvety stone. I think that it must be Inuit or something. It’s beautiful.

I lift the dog tags up over my head, open the chain, and slide on the raven pendant. When the chain is back around my neck, I walk to my bedroom and look at myself in the mirror. The raven rests against my chest, on top of the dog tags. I look younger somehow. Less worn. Less worried. I feel powerful. I feel cared for.

I pull my phone from my pocket and send David a text. His reply is instant.

Hi.

Hi back.

Thank u.

U R welcome.

I love it.

Good.

I miss u.

Better.

And then I do it again. I already know what he is going to say because it is the same as the last time.

I love u.

Best.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is warm and flushed. But it isn’t because I’m angry. It is because, even though he hasn’t said it, I know that David loves me back.

* * *

After I eat some dinner, I settle down at my computer. I want to see if I can find anything more about what happened to Michael. I Google his name and find exactly what I am looking for. There are two newspaper articles from a few months ago that describe the charges pending against TruTimber Imports and its owner, Michael Groff. From the sound of them, Michael was in it pretty deep. One of the articles describes a federal hearing in which the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Department of Agriculture were charging TruTimber Imports under the Lacey Act, a tool intended to combat trafficking in illegal wildlife, lumber, and other plant products. Michael was facing a corporate shutdown, a half million dollars in fines, and five or more years of prison time. After the hearing, he had posted his own bail.

I also find another series of more recent articles, the one that Ricky sent and a few more subsequent to that. They all describe Michael’s medical condition as “critical” and talk about the lack of leads in the police investigation of the attack. The FBI is now involved, as it’s suspected that the incident may have more to do with TruTimber Import’s illegal activities than the police previously thought. There is also an article from this morning. It briefly notes Michael’s death with no update on the investigation.

I am shaken. But also not surprised. For some reason I feel as if I should call Ricky, despite the fact that I know it will probably be a waste of my time. It’s hard to believe how the love I once felt for both of my brothers has morphed into a completely different feeling. Love to disgust. Admiration to repulsion. It didn’t happen overnight—I think because I denied it for a long time. Acknowledging that Michael had
that
kind of power over them, the kind of power that can change a person’s moral compass, was the last thing I wanted to do. I felt that if I acknowledged it, I was giving Michael my approval. Denial was my safety net. I always tried to see the best in Ricky and Evan, even as I watched them turn more and more to Michael for attention and consent. But that fraternity party, that’s what made my continued denial completely impossible. That was when the last of the “best” in them vanished in a blur of cheap cologne and beer breath.

I pick Ricky’s note up off the table and dial his number. When he answers, I nearly hang up. A cluster of nerves has moved up into my throat, and when I say hello, my voice sounds small. I hate myself for it.

“It’s Emma,” I say, mentally shoving the wad of nerves back down into me.

“I didn’t expect it to be you, Em. So, you got my letter, huh?”

“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds better now. Reasonable, at least. “I know that Michael died. I called the hospital.”

“He was on a ventilator, and I made the call to pull it.”

“I know.”

“Do you know about everything else going on? Do you know about the whole TruTimber Imports thing?” he asks.

“Yes. I saw some articles about it online.”

“Okay.” After a few seconds of silence, he adds, “Well, we’re having a funeral for him on Friday if you want to come.”

“There is no fucking way that’s happening,” I say. Suddenly I feel like a small, angry child. I feel as if Ricky is going to say something at any moment that will fill me with contempt, and I am angry at him for it.

“No one expects you to come. Hell, Evan isn’t even coming. I just wanted to put it out there for you.”

“Isn’t Evan in Florida or something?”

“Not anymore. He had no place to live anymore down there. Landlord kicked him out cause of the drugs. I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking. He moved back here a couple of months ago. He’s in debt and trying to clean himself up.” I don’t know what to say. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about Evan, or Ricky, for that matter.

I reach for the raven, and when I touch my own skin, it is burning. “Listen, I just called because I wanted to make sure it was all true. That he’s really dead.”

Ricky laughs at me. Laughs. If he were in front of me right now, I would fucking beat
his
head with a baseball bat.

“It’s all true, Em. He’s dead,” he says.

“You turned out to be a real fucking asshole, Ricky,” I say with as much attitude as I can muster. Then I hang up the phone.

I sink my face into my hands for the second time today—but this time I do not cry. This time I swipe my hands back off my face, across my scalp and down to the back of my neck. Fuck it. I am done with the bullshit.

Chapter Thirty-One

Emma—Age 18

It is five-thirty, and Peter Beckman is here to pick me up for prom. My mother has swept my hair up into a beautiful braid and fastened tiny rhinestones into the folds. She left a few spiral curls hanging down, and they frame my face sweetly. When I hold up the hand mirror so that I can see the back of my head, I see her reflection looking back at me. She looks proud. I tell her how much I love my hair and thank her for helping me with it. I stand up and turn to her. She smoothes my dress against my hips and tells me how lovely I look. How grown up I am. How much my father would have loved to see me like this.

My father would have liked Peter, she says, because he is such a respectful young man. I ask her to please, stop. Please, stop talking about Daddy because it is making me emotional, and I don’t want to mess up my makeup. She smiles and says she wants to take some pictures of me and Peter before we go.

Peter is waiting for me downstairs, dressed in a black tuxedo and looking a little sheepish. Michael is sitting on a chair next to him, and I get the distinct feeling that they were talking about something before I came downstairs. Peter’s face is a little flushed. My mom takes a handful of pictures, and Peter and I walk out to his car.

We are going to meet a couple of his friends and their dates for dinner at Caprice. Because we go to different schools, I have only met Peter’s friends a couple of times. They were nice, though, the few times we did hang out, so I think tonight is going to be a lot of fun. On our way to the restaurant, Peter tells me how much he likes my dress and how beautiful I look. I thank him and let him know that he doesn’t have to compliment me because I am already a sure thing. Unless he throws himself at some other girl, there is no way he isn’t getting a piece of ass tonight. It’s prom night, for God’s sake. Everyone does it on prom night. Peter’s parents even booked a suite at the downtown Sheraton for a bunch of us. They’ll be there to chaperone our little after-party, of course, but there are ways around that.

Before we get to the restaurant, I ask Peter what he and Michael were discussing before I came downstairs. He tells me quietly that Michael said he has to bring me home at eleven, right after the dance ends. I am not allowed to go to the after-party, even though my mother already said it was all right. If he is late in bringing me home, I’ll be in trouble. Peter wasn’t going to tell me about Michael’s demand until after the dance. He didn’t want it to ruin our night.

I tell him that it won’t ruin our night because Michael is full of bullshit, and we are going to completely ignore him. Peter looks worried. But I tell him not to worry because Michael is just being a dick and trying to manipulate and control me like he always does. This is my prom night, and I’m not going to let Michael ruin it.

Peter is silent for the rest of the drive, and when we pull into the parking lot at the restaurant, he asks me if I’m sure I want to risk it. The school year is nearly over anyway, I tell him, and Case Western has already accepted me. I’ve got nothing to lose. Okay, he says, we’ll do whatever you want.

* * *

When the dance is over and everyone heads to the Sheraton, Peter tells me he is happy to take me home if I’ve changed my mind. He doesn’t want me to get in trouble because he knows perfectly well what Michael is capable of. I tell him again that I won’t let Michael ruin this. Not tonight. Not my senior prom.

Peter’s parents are so amazing. They paid for the room, and rather than watching over us like a couple of mother bears, they spend the evening in their adjoining room. The door between their room and our double suite is slightly ajar so they can hear if we are getting too rowdy, but other than that, they pretty much leave us alone. Peter’s friend Hayden sets up the music system he brought from home, and we spend an hour or two just dancing around and being silly. One of the other boys brought a bottle of booze in his duffel bag, and we pass it around until it’s empty. My head is a little foggy, but no one seems to be drunk. No one is out of hand. No one is doing anything but having a good time.

At three in the morning we are all sitting around in our sweats playing truth or dare and laughing our asses off. There is a knock at the door, and Peter goes over to get his parents. Everyone gets really quiet wondering who the hell it is. But I already know it’s Michael. Fuck. For a second I consider hiding in the other room, but I know that I am probably safer right here, in front of everyone else.

Mr. Beckman looks out the peephole and sighs. He opens the door and starts conversing with a man who I assume is the hotel manager. Behind the manager are two police officers. And behind the police officers is Michael. He is standing there with his arms folded across his chest and a smug, sideways grin on his face. I can see him in the tiny space between the door frame and Peter’s father’s body, but I don’t think he can see me. The manager is telling Mr. Beckman that Michael is looking for his daughter. Peter’s dad turns to me and smiles sadly. The expression on his face tells me that Peter has told him all about Michael. That he knows what a prick Michael really is.

And with that, Michael and the police officers come into the room. My face is getting hot, and I want to sink into the floor, to vanish into the ground. Everyone’s eyes move to me, waiting to see what I will do. But instead of walking over to me, Michael heads straight for Peter.

“Peter,” he says, “I told you very clearly that Emma had to come home right after the dance. Why is she here instead?” My mouth is open. I want to gasp for air.

“Because this is where
she
wants to be,” Peter says. I am completely taken aback. I have never heard Peter speak to anyone like this before. He is usually so compliant and respectful toward adults. Inside, I am cheering like a fucking lunatic. Hell, I’m giving him a standing ovation.

As soon as the words are out of Peter’s mouth, Michael raises his fist, as if he is going to hit Peter. I am on my feet in an instant, rushing over to where they are. Mr. Beckman grabs Michael’s arm, and the police are telling everyone to calm down. The world is spinning; everything is crashing down around me. What the fuck was I thinking, telling Peter to bring me here instead of taking me home? Michael is going to go over the edge right here in front of everyone.

Mr. Beckman lets go of Michael’s arm and pulls Peter toward him. Then he tells me I’d better go home with my father. Peter tries to argue, telling him not to send me home with Michael. Mr. Beckman asks Peter if he knew that Michael wanted me home right after the dance. When Peter says yes, Mr. Beckman tells everyone to get their things together because he is going to call everyone’s parents to come pick them up.

No. No. No. Holy shit. What is going on? How can Mr. Beckman be mad at Peter when this whole thing was my idea? When I was the one who wanted to come? As I gather my things, I try to explain to Mr. Beckman that this was my fault and not Peter’s, that he was just doing what I asked. But Mr. Beckman says that Peter knows better. He apologizes to Michael and the police officers and promises to see that everyone gets home safely.

As Michael is pulling me out of the room, I mouth the word “sorry” to Peter. He looks sad and worried, but he also looks angry. At Michael, I hope, and not at me. I think I’m going to be sick.

* * *

It is a week later, and I am no longer playing volleyball. Michael got me pulled from the team due to “disciplinary issues,” telling my coach that I have been drinking and lying. Telling her that I don’t deserve to be on the team. I was in the room when they met to discuss it, and frankly, the whole conversation was more humiliating than anything else Michael could have come up with. He told her that my behavior has been so bad that he’s considering contacting Case Western and withdrawing my acceptance. What the fuck? Can he even do that? The thing that bothered me the most, though, was the fact that Coach Lyons believed him. She
let
him do this. When we left her office, I felt betrayed.

Peter said he can’t see me anymore. The day after prom he called to tell me his parents said we need to take a break. I think they are worried that Michael will hurt him somehow if something like that were ever to happen again. I understand they are trying to protect him. Peter apologized profusely, telling me how much he still cares about me and how he hopes that things get better for me. He even said he’s sorry that he couldn’t be the one to make it better. I wished him good luck at Northwestern and told him that I’ll be okay.