A washcloth is crusted to her skin with dried blood, and I have to run another one under the faucet in the bathroom to work the edges free. I can feel her studying me, my hair, my hands, connecting what dots she can as I work the bandage free. She lets me do all this in silence, leaning back to give me better access. When I peel the final side off, it reveals a deep gash running from above her knee all the way to her midthigh.
I see yellow fat.
If it were any deeper, I’d see bone.
I choke and bring my hand to my mouth. Our roles reverse, and suddenly she’s the one comforting me.
“It’s okay,” she says. “It looks worse than it is.”
Another lie. She’s told me enough over the course of my life that I’m beginning to recognize them.
I tape a fresh washcloth back over her thigh. “This is why you didn’t call, isn’t it?” I say. “You knew they were going to catch up with you. You wanted to lead them away from me.”
“I thought it was the police again. I didn’t know until I left you, until they found me at the cemetery.” She gestures at her thigh. “I realized I couldn’t risk contacting you without endangering your life more than I already had.”
“Derek’s grave? You went to say goodbye to him.” Heat sears up my neck. “And then, what, you were heading straight to the police station? Is that how you were going to keep your promise to tell me everything? From behind bars?”
She reaches for me, but I jerk away and I see her flinch like I slapped her.
I feel like I’m locked in a flooding room. My neck is craned back as high as possible while the rising water laps at my jaw, leaving me time for one last breath before I’m submerged and trapped.
“Did you do it?” I say. “Did you kill him?”
“Baby, it’s complicated.”
“No, Mom, it’s not. The world says you’re a killer. My grandfather still thinks you’re a teenager. But he swears Derek was going to marry you. His actual wife at the time says you killed him. But then how could she help you? Either you killed a man for rejecting you or he was planning to leave his pregnant wife for you when he found out about me, and…what? Someone else killed him? His whole family decided to band together and blame you, and you’ve kept silent all these years letting them?”
The questions limp from my mouth. I don’t ask them because I’m compelled to hear the answers; I’d ask the same things in a room by myself. But with nothing else to stop the rising water, I say, “Tell me the truth. I can’t take another lie.”
“And that would be enough for you, my say-so?” Mom angles her head at me, the lightly chiding gesture so familiar it aches. “Would you really believe me if I said I didn’t kill him?”
I open my mouth to shout yes. I can already feel my body swaying toward her—to hug her, hold her, and let her tell me it’s all going to be okay. I’ll believe her, anything she says, because I want this to be over more than I want the actual truth. I want it gone: the fear, the doubt, the sick uncertainty. I want my mom back.
My heart tears open. “Just say the words. Tell me you didn’t kill him.”
“My real name isn’t Melissa Reed. It’s Tiffany Jablonski. Your real father wasn’t Anthony Reed. It was Derek Abbott. Your grandfather isn’t dead, and you have a sister. You’re not even the age you think you are. Did you know that?”
My chin quivers as I stare at her. “Why are you doing this?” I say. I’ve seen her face every day of my life; I know it better than my own. Without consciously meaning to, I take her hand. It’s the same one that stroked my head as a child when nightmares chased me from sleep. The same hand that smeared green paint on every visible inch of my skin when I decided I wanted to be a gecko for Halloween. The same hand that held mine when we hiked the last mile in the Smoky Mountains a few months before.
She can’t tell me she killed him. She can’t tell me she didn’t.
All the lies. So many.
The soft knock on the door momentarily startles me but sends her into kill-or-be-killed mode. She pushes me roughly to the floor and has the knife back in her hand all in the same motion.
“Katelyn?” Malcolm calls. “Are you okay?”
She whirls on me as I stand, a million silent questions in her eyes.
“It’s okay. He’s a friend. He’s the one who helped me find you.” When my words don’t have the desired effect, I add, “He saved my life, and yours too.”
She lowers the knife infinitesimally, and I open the door to let Malcolm in. He sees the knife right off and halts with one foot in the room.
“It’s okay,” I say to both of them. “She cut up her leg, but she’s fine. I told you she would be.”
He lifts his head in a half nod, acknowledging what I said but unable to tear his eyes away from the knife my mom is pointing at him.
“Please give me that,” I say to her, but she’s equally focused on Malcolm and barely listening. “Mom.” That gets her attention. The knife trembles, and her eyes slide to me. “This is Malcolm.” I take a slight step in front of him before ripping off the Band-Aid. “My grandmother hired him to find you.”
