From the corner of my eye, I saw my dad put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The judge was saying stuff about Ryan now but I couldn’t hear anything, just the words, No, no, no, no, chanting in my head. I glanced at Ryan. His face was pale as he stared at the judge. He looked at me, his eyes stunned. I reached for him and we hugged, me crying, his body stiff with shock. Then my dad was there, hugging me hard, and Ryan’s mother, sobbing, her arms trying to circle around both of us. The sheriff put handcuffs on us. I saw my mom, still sitting at one of the benches, her hands over her mouth, her eyes horrified.
“Ryan…” My voice sounded helpless. Our eyes met, and I saw the same panicky despair in his face. The finality of the moment hit me, the handcuffs wrapped around my wrists, the sheriff gripping my arms as he led me out of the room, his clipped orders, my last glance at Ryan. He looked at me over his mother’s shoulders as she sobbed and sobbed. He mouthed, I love you.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CAMPBELL RIVER
JUNE 2013
Ashley stayed away from me after I told her I wouldn’t film a documentary, or at least she stayed away from the subject. She was only working weekends until she finished school, so I didn’t run into her a lot, but whenever she came into the kitchen she was friendly. And when she saw me with Captain one night, she asked if she could pet him and brought him cookies the next day. I knew she was trying to gain my trust and I kept my distance.
One evening on my break, after she’d been there for a couple of weeks, I went outside to the back alley, which overlooked the docks—my hiding place from the busy kitchen. I sat on a milk crate, caught my breath in the cool air, wiping the sweat off the back of my neck.
Ashley followed me outside. “That pasta special you made was really good.”
“Thanks.” I scuffed my feet against the pavement, avoided her gaze.
“My mom freaked out that I was working here,” she said.
“I’m sure.”
“She doesn’t like me working late at night. She thinks someone will attack me in the parking lot or something stupid. I told her I was staying, though.”
I flashed back to a fight with my own mother. The Fish Shack, Toni?
When I didn’t say anything, Ashley continued, “She always has to know what I’m doing every second.” Her voice turned bitter. “She’s always checking my Facebook and I can’t have a password on my cell or my e-mails or anything. That’s why I want to go away to school. Working here, it’s kind of the first step.”
I had no idea why this kid was telling me all this, but I was struck by how much it reminded me of my own mother and how she had wanted to control everything. I felt a pang, thinking that maybe I should have listened more.
“Sounds like it’s between the two of you,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. I just thought you’d get it.”
It seemed like Ashley had created this whole character for me, based on things she’d read. She probably imagined it would be like the movies: we become buddies, she solves my case, and everyone lives happily ever after. I didn’t want to be an asshole, but I didn’t want to feed into her fantasy either. I stared down at my feet, making it clear that I didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
She glanced at her watch. “Time for me to get back to work, I guess.”
*
The next day we were slammed at the restaurant. Later, after most of the kitchen staff had left and I was cleaning the grill, Ashley came to talk to me.
“Wow, that was crazy busy!” She leaned against the counter, stole a french fry out of the deep fryer. “Least I made good tips. I wasn’t sure I’d like waitressing, but it’s fun. Did you like waitressing when you worked here before?”
“For the most part.” Except when Shauna and her crew gave me a hard time.
“That’s cool.”
What part of it was cool? Was she imagining herself walking in my shoes? Re-creating my life? I sure as hell hoped not. My hands were slippery and I dropped the grill brush, which slid partway under the stove. I squatted down and reached for it. As I stood back up, I noticed Ashley staring at my biceps.
“Did you get those in prison?” she asked.
“The tattoos?”
She nodded. “What do they mean?”
I paused, caught off guard by the question. She was the first person to ever ask. I studied the brush in my hand, wondered how much I should share.
“Each bar is for every year I was locked up,” I said finally.
“I’d love to get a tattoo but my mom would kill me. She already thinks I’m too…” She made quotation marks in the air. “Hard-looking.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not pretty enough—and she hates how I dress. She tells me I look like a pathetic vampire and she’s embarrassed by me.” She shrugged. “It wouldn’t matter what I wore. She just wishes I looked more like her, but I look like my dad.”
I was shocked at her candor, the lack of hurt in her voice, like she was talking about the weather. This was obviously something she’d come to terms with a long time ago. Again I was struck by how adult she seemed.
“My mom didn’t like how I dressed either,” I said. “She thought I was trying too hard to look tough. Maybe she was right.”
“Was it a way for you to get back at her?”
I wasn’t sure if she was still trying to get information for her documentary, but I got the feeling she was asking more for personal reasons.