It was now the end of January, and I was going before the Parole Board in the middle of March. I needed to show that I had work lined up for when I was on full parole and a place to live after I left the halfway house. I’d written a long letter to Mike, my old boss in Campbell River. I told him I was working at a restaurant in Victoria, attending programs, and trying to get my life together. I asked if there was any chance I could work for him again, explaining how hard it was for ex-convicts. I included a résumé detailing all the jobs I’d had in prison and a nice letter from my current boss, who said I was a hard worker. I knew it was a long shot, so I was surprised when I got a letter from Mike a week later saying he could use another cook starting that March, which was when he knew I’d hopefully be granted full parole. He also told me a friend of his had an old boat in the marina that I could live on and rent for cheap. I was excited and relieved. If everything continued to go well, I could have full parole soon and be back in Campbell River, building a real life.
One day, around the second week of February, I was cutting through the park when I noticed a blond woman standing by one of the trees. She had an old denim jacket pulled tight around her and she was dancing on the spot, like she was trying to keep warm, but her movements were jerky, agitated. She was watching the path ahead of us and didn’t notice me coming from behind. She was close to where I often saw addicts huddled in the bushes, so I had a feeling she was waiting for her dealer. Finally she heard my steps and turned around. I could see now that she was clearly an addict, her face thin and skeleton-like, her overbleached long hair dry and brittle-looking, her eyes dull. I was about to give her a wide berth when she whispered to me—softly, almost hesitantly—“Toni?”
I stopped in my tracks, took another hard look at the woman. She did look familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Did I know her from Rockland?
She laughed nervously. “Wow, never thought I’d run into you again.”
It was the laugh that did it. That deep, raucous laugh that all the boys in high school had liked. The drug addict was Cathy Schaeffer.
Painful memories assailed me in quick snapshots: Cathy and the other girls laughing at me at school, hounding me at the restaurant with Nicole, sitting close together at my trial, whispering. Finally I got a grip: this was serious, my being with her. I quickly glanced around and made sure no one was coming down the path. It wouldn’t look good if I was caught talking to one of the key witnesses from my trial—being seen with a drug addict was bad enough.
I was about to keep walking when she said, “Are you out? Like, are you free now?”
I wanted to move past her, forget I ever saw her, but there was something in her voice, a nervousness mixed with shame that stopped my feet. I met her gaze, noticing her large, dark pupils, the sores on her face and hands, and wondered what had happened to the fun-loving wild party girl from high school. I could see faint traces of her former beauty—the high cheekbones, the wide curving mouth, the deep-set eyes, all eroded by years of substance abuse.
“I’m on parole,” I said.
“That’s good, right? Are you going back to Campbell River?” That nervous voice again, almost pleading, like she wanted me to forget all the damage her lies had done to my life. I stared at her. Did she know what had really happened that night? Had she helped kill my sister? Did she know who had? My silence was making her more agitated. She was bouncing on her feet, pulling her coat tighter, licking her lips like they were suddenly dry.
“Yeah, probably,” I muttered, my own throat dry.
“I still live there—I’m just down for the weekend,” she said. “Shauna’s still there too … with her husband.” I didn’t know if she was just making conversation or warning me, but I felt my guts twist at the name. I didn’t know much about the girls’ lives since the trial, was surprised that Shauna was even still married. She’d hooked up with an older man that September, not long after Nicole’s murder, and was already married with a child by the time she testified at our trial.
Cathy continued, speaking fast, either from nerves or drugs. “Rachel’s got a family now too, couple of boys. She works at the hospital. Kim left right after your trial. We don’t talk anymore.…”
“Good for her.” I heard the anger in my voice, the bitter rage.
Cathy heard it too, stopped bouncing for a moment, her eyes registering danger. She took a step back. I felt my hands curl at my sides, fought the urge to attack her, to push her to the ground, and almost took a step forward, but then she said one word, one word that stopped the breath in my throat.
“Sorry.”
We stood still, locked in the moment. A gust of wind blew one of her hairs across her face; a car alarm was going off somewhere. My heart was racing, my mind wheeling with questions. What did she mean? Was she about to confess to something? I tried to make myself calm down, take a breath. Think.
Speaking slowly, I said, “What are you sorry for, Cathy?”
“I’m just…” But she hesitated too long, like she was now thinking about what she’d been going to say. “I’m just sorry, you know, about the trial and stuff, how we were … in high school.…”
Her voice faded as she began to space out, her face pale, coming down from her high. She stumbled to a park bench, looked desperately down the path. Her dealer was going to show any minute. I started walking away.
“See ya, Toni,” Cathy mumbled, like we were just two old friends who’d bumped into each other.
I ran the last mile to the halfway house—fast, trying to outrun my thoughts, my memories, and the fear that was still there. Those girls.