I had a deep conviction that anyone could do anything—knowing that people can kill is far different from seeing the proof. I had learned that humanity itself did not have limits. I knew the killer was a man because of the grunt I’d heard that night; so I knew that men, especially, were capable of anything. That night in the hotel, it wasn’t so much that I thought my uncle might hurt me. It was that I didn’t want to be vulnerable near that violent energy, however deeply buried it might be, however well checked. I thought it was possible that his shyness was a product of shame, or a subconscious disguise. I was sure there was no such thing as an entirely benevolent man.
In pictures from those first months in Texas, I am a specter: too thin, with bland, utilitarian clothes and haunted eyes. I got thinner and thinner, a project that was as much about denying myself as it was about looking prettier. The blue of my irises had darkened, nearly merging with my pupils, as though the blackness that threatened to fill my head had started showing itself to others, too. The dull clothes were my choice: grays and pale blues, loose-fitting jeans. I had one simple black shirt, my most striking piece. I remember a Walmart shopping trip with Tootsie, shuffling along next to the plastic cart while she pushed, gently touching the soft cotton clothing and occasionally adding a piece to the small pile I would take into the dressing room. As I dropped in a pale blue T-shirt, she suddenly barked at me: “Why don’t you ever wear anything that’s a real color?” I stammered something; I don’t remember what. What I couldn’t and wouldn’t tell her was that I was looking for ways to disappear.
Although I feared Maine and did not want to return, I still considered it home, and would sometimes think wistfully of the tall pines that I’d left, forgetting that they cast thick, dark shadows that evoked my fear. So I did keep in touch with a few friends. Marie was faithful for years. She sent long letters adorned with beautiful drawings, and cards she picked out from the pharmacy where we used to roam the aisles wasting time, surreptitiously trying on funky nail polish while giving the tourists our best dirty looks. She sent me gossip about our classmates, clearly trying to keep her letters light and cheerful. She asked when I could visit, and we talked on the phone as often as we were allowed. Sifting through her cards and letters now, I see that many of them have disclaimers: “Warning: This note may be mushy or embarrassing!” I am saddened that she felt the need to temper her love for me, the best friend who would never come back to stay. But I was, in a way, put off by Marie’s friendship. As soon as I perceived need, I became less likely to write back. Connection to Bridgton had to be on my terms. It was risky. My former home had become a place I could barely look at on a map.
* * *
As strict as she could be, Tootsie didn’t impose a bedtime in the summer, at least not for me. I passed endless hours of insomnia in the same tight grip of panic I’d felt at Carol’s, telling myself over and over how far away I was from Maine, trying to believe that meant I was safe. I had a TV in my room—the first time I’d ever had cable—and I watched late into the night, Letterman followed by black-and-white sitcoms followed by hypnotic hours of infomercials, perfectly manicured hands turning and turning sparkly stones against the light, confident men selling gadgets to fix every conceivable problem. I did my best to reach a kind of flatlined numbness. But when I slept, I kept the lights on. And my white Keds.
I always thought about Dennis on those long nights, although I wouldn’t have been able to say whether I thought he had killed Mom. I had no proof, I had no specific reason to think so, but his image kept stepping into the blank space in my head where the killer would have resided. I kept an eye out for him, sure that there was no legitimate reason for him to visit Texas—therefore, if I saw him, he was probably coming after me. His face would appear suddenly in a crowd, then clarify into the bland face of a stranger. The world is full of tallish, long-limbed young men with light brown hair. I shook in the grocery store, in the mall, turned away from my friends to hide my suddenly pale face.
* * *
For reasons neither could remember, Glenice hadn’t spoken to Tootsie in twenty years—not one word. Now that I was in Texas, she made sure to call the house every few weeks, and sometimes, before she talked to me, she would ask her sister how I was doing. These years later, Glenice says that early on in my time there, Tootsie complained that I was acting strangely. “She always keeps her blinds closed,” Tootsie said. “And I’ll get up in the middle of the night and go to her room, and find her in the closet. Sitting in her closet, in the dark! She’s acting really weird. Creepy.”
Glenice says she shot back: “What do you expect? She probably feels safe in there. You’re the psychologist; you went to school. You should be able to handle someone in distress.”
Those long nights of brightly lit anxiety still live within me: I remember flipping the blinds up and down and then up again, debating which way made me less visible to the outside. But I don’t remember sitting alone in the dark in the closet. The idea is terrifying. And it’s disheartening to think that of all the fear I remember from those days, there were apparently hours of panic that were even worse, moments beyond my control or comprehension. I think about Tootsie roaming the house at night, unable to sleep. About her quietly opening my door to check on me and finding my bed empty. I think about cowering in the closet, in the grip of an unthinking animal fear, only to have the door suddenly pulled open to more darkness. And a woman who felt more contempt for me than compassion.
Of course, Tootsie could have lied, or said something that Glenice later embellished without meaning to. It’s more likely that I was sitting in the closet with the light on, hiding from Tootsie the fact that I hadn’t yet gone to bed. But still it makes sense that Glenice remembers a story of me alone, isolated, trapped in the dark.
* * *
The night before I started seventh grade in San Angelo, Tootsie came into my room about twenty minutes before bedtime. I was sitting and watching television, or reading—I can’t remember. But I do remember how she loomed over me, or seemed to, how she took up all the space even in that large white room. I had laid out everything for the next morning on a blue trunk I used as a bedside table. It was all very neat, very controlled: jeans and T-shirt folded, underwear and bra tucked out of sight underneath. Socks balled up in the shoes I planned to wear, which were at perfect right angles to the trunk. I also had accessories arranged and ready: my watch and the thin silver chain necklace I’d found among Mom’s things. I was nervous about the next day, particularly about waking up early and getting ready in time to catch the bus. I hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.