Page 58 of What You Never Knew

My appearance brought shock to the faces of both my parents. “I heard you,” I yelled at them. “I heard you.” I don’t remember what happened next. The memory refuses to reveal itself entirely, stopping there in the midst of the anger and tension.

It leaves me frustrated but relieved at the same time. Inserting myself into the middle of my parents’ argument might have only brought on a scolding. Maybe I was just sent back to bed, only to wake up the next morning to find my father had left us all.

It doesn’t feel that simple, though. I can sense that the rest of the memory hidden down there in the dark is much bigger than that. Why else would I have buried it so deep?

JUNE

The ringing of my phone wakes me. I’ve spent a restless night on Ezra’s couch, going over everything in my mind and getting only a few hours of fitful sleep. Grabbing the phone from the coffee table, I manage to croak out a hello before the caller hangs up.

It’s the female police officer who came to the island yesterday. She says they circled the island several times last night but didn’t see any activity at all. I ask if she’s spoken to the woman from animal control about the birds, but she says she hasn’t. I tell her exactly what the animal control woman told me, and the police officer says she’ll follow up with them right away.

Before hanging up, she asks me if the cross in the clearing could be a grave for a family pet or animal we buried as kids. I tell her we didn’t have any pets growing up. I also remind her that I got rid of the cross twice and it reappeared.

“Ah, right,” she says. “That’s quite the mystery, then, isn’t it?” She goes on to apologize for not having any substantial information for me and promises to get in touch as soon as they have anything else.

I’m only half listening, my mind already back at Avril Island doing my own detective work. She didn’t have anything specific for me, but she made me realize that there may have been a crucial piece of the puzzle sitting right there in front of me this whole time and I didn’t even realize it.

By the time I arrive back at Avril Island, Ezra has called me three times, but I just let it go to voice mail. I’m not sure what to say to him. Do I admit to snooping, or do I pretend I didn’t find a small creepy shrine dedicated to me in his office? I need more time to come up with a plan, so for now I’ll ignore him.

The day is hot again, and I don’t relish the idea of spending it shoveling, but I have a very strong feeling that the tree that keeps sprouting crosses is the place to start in my search for answers. I grab a pair of work gloves and go in search of a shovel. There’s only one in the tool shed. It’s rusted, and the wooden handle is splintered in places, but it will have to do.

The quiet of the forest is penetrated by the sound of my shovel hitting the dirt, over and over again. I start away from the tree to avoid the roots, but breaking through the green ground cover to get to the damp soil below is hard. Only twenty minutes in, I’m dripping with sweat. It’s even hotter today than it was yesterday.

Every few minutes a voice in my head tells me to give up, that I’m crazy and won’t find anything, but something in me will not let my body stop putting the shovel in the soil and tossing it to the side. As the hole gets bigger, adrenaline releases through my veins to keep me going.

The occasional bird lands on a branch close by to mock me with its call. The sweatier I get, the more flies I attract, but other than stopping for water, I just keep digging. And then finally, the swoosh of my shovel sinking into dirt becomes a clunk, the impact traveling up my arms and into my shoulders.

Clearing away some of the loose earth, I see what looks like a wooden board. It takes time to shovel the rest of the dirt away until I’ve uncovered the entire length of it. Next, I dig down along the sides to loosen it from the ground. It’s then that I realize what it is—the long, wooden blanket box that used to sit under a window in the living room of our cottage. It was used as a window seat and to hold the scratchy woolen blankets that we never actually used.

I stumble away from the hole, hands throbbing, my head pounding, sweat burning my eyes. Pulling off the work gloves, I throw the shovel to the side and rush back along the path out to the lake to bend down at the shore and splash water on my face. Holding my hot, throbbing hands under the surface, I imagine falling forward to let the cool water claim me, floating away from what I’m sure I will find in that wooden trunk—the body of my dead father. But I’ve come too far for that now. I lift my hands from the water and force myself back to the tree.

The forest pulses with silence as I stand beside the hole I’ve made. Fitting the blade of the shovel under the lip of the trunk, I push down hard on the handle, using the ground for leverage until I hear the gentle pop of wood separating from wood.

Getting down on my knees, I take a deep breath, ignore the roll of nausea in my stomach, and lift the lid of the trunk. No matter what I was expecting to find, the skeletal remains in the trunk still send an electrifying shock through my body and a high-pitched wail from my mouth.

I fall back onto the freshly turned earth with a hand to my chest. The silence suddenly pounds my ears with its force, making me feel more alone than I ever have. It was a mystery in my head to be solved, a challenge, but now that I’ve actually uncovered a part of its truth, all I want to do is unknow it.

What feels like an eternity passes. I’m frozen on the ground with fear, not knowing what to do or who to turn to. Eventually I work up the courage to inch forward toward the hole. Placing my hands in the dirt, I lean forward over the grave. There is no question that it’s an adult who was buried here; the knees are folded up against the body. I’m looking for signs that it’s my father, but all of the clothing has disintegrated.

Reaching in, I shift some parts around to get a better look at things—trying not to gag as I do. I lift the left hand, looking for a wedding ring, but the fingers are empty, which makes sense because I found my father’s ring in the cottage. I lean in further and lift the right arm, ignoring the unpleasant crunch it makes as I separate it from the rest of the body. I have to look away for a second and take some deep breaths. Manhandling this skeleton is making me feel like I’m going to pass out.

With some deep breaths, the feeling passes, and I’m able to turn back and keep going. There’s something wrapped around the right wrist. I give it a good tug and it comes free. It looks like a bracelet made of leather, about an inch wide. I think it used to be brown, but it’s black in places as well, so it’s hard to tell.

This detail confuses me. I don’t remember ever seeing my father wear a bracelet, but something about it is so familiar to me. I can picture it wrapped around a man’s tanned wrist, which means my father must have worn it at some point. Why else would I remember it? I tuck it into the pocket of my shorts. It’s the only clue I have; there’s nothing else left on this body.

Abandoning the open grave, I head back to the cottage. If I can find a photo of my father with this bracelet on, I’ll have my proof. Then I’ll go to the police. They’ll have to reopen the investigation. They can do DNA testing, go back to the evidence they collected years ago, and finally figure out what really happened. It’s time for the truth to come out, even if it’s a truth that in the end proves that West really did kill my father.

MAY

It’s dusk. The sky is streaked with bright orange and pink. There’s a stillness to everything, as though the entire island is holding its breath. Heat bugs chirp in the trees, even though the sun is setting and everything green is wilted slightly as though weighed down by the humidity. It must be a heat wave.

June hurries across the backyard, a frantic look in her eyes. Her skin is streaked brown with dirt, her hands are bloody, and her tank top is soaked through with sweat. She looks as though she’s fought her way out of a fox’s den.

The screen door swings open wide as she rushes through it and then snaps back fast, sounding like a gunshot. She goes right to the liquor cabinet in the dining room, pulls out a bottle of Scotch, and struggles to get the lid off. Taking one of my father’s tumblers down from the shelf, she pours at least two shots of the amber liquid into it. Watching her lift the glass to her lips, I see that her hands are shaking. She throws the Scotch right down her throat, coughs, and then pours herself another.

Finishing her drink, she moves into the kitchen, where she runs her hands and arms under the tap, then rubs soap onto her skin, wincing as it soaks into her cut hands. For once I wish Ezra were here, or anybody, for that matter. I need her to talk—to tell someone what’s going on so that I can hear as well.

She dries herself with a tea towel and then heads straight upstairs. She’s on a mission; I can feel it buzzing around her and see it sparking in the blue of her eyes. She goes right into my room and gets down on her knees in front of my bed to pull my suitcase of photos out.