Kat's Fall Page 8

  In Mom’s apartment I flop onto the couch. She brings me a glass of water. I close my eyes and lie back. A moment later I feel a cool cloth gently wiping my forehead. It is accompanied by that fragrance, the one Ms. LaRose wears…

  I push Mom away and sit up.

  “What is it, Darcy?” Kat asks. I can see her now. She is still holding the little gray kitten in her arms. The kitten is staring at me, wide eyed. I glance around. Mom and Dad are staring at me too.

  I clear my throat, hoping my voice has returned. “I don’t know,” I lie. “I just felt sick all of a sudden.”

  “You were fine until you stepped out of the car,” Dad says, “and saw Kat on the balcony…”

  An awkward hush comes over the room. The kitten mews and Kat places it on the floor. I glance at Mom. Something passes between us. She knows what I saw. What I remembered. But is that really the way it happened? I swallow hard and look away.

  The kitten jumps onto the side of the couch, its tiny nails making ripping sounds in the fabric.

  “Isn’t she cute?” Kat signs at me.

  “Is the kitten supposed to replace Star?” I ask her.

  “No!” Kat signs, frowning.

  “I’m not trying to replace the dog,” Mom says. “I just wanted Kat, and you too, to have a pet here.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” I’m still feeling shaky, but I’m also pissed off. “I won’t be hanging out here.”

  Now Dad clears his throat. “Are you all right then?” he asks.

  I take a deep, shuddering breath and nod.

  “Then tell Kat to say goodbye.” He picks up the bag she’s left in the narrow hallway and steps out the door.

  I glance once more at Mom, wondering what the truth is. The images that hit me on the sidewalk are already fading, and now I’m not sure if I can believe what I saw. She’s still studying me, looking concerned. I tell Kat we’re leaving and follow Dad out the door.

  WE'RE BACK AT Samantha’s on Tuesday afternoon, Kat, myself and Star. Nothing has been resolved; no one is even talking about what comes next in the ongoing saga of Mom and Kat. I, in turn, refuse to acknowledge the images that hit me on the sidewalk under Mom’s balcony. I must have been imagining things.

  “How was your holiday?” I ask Mrs. K as she gets ready to leave.

  She doesn’t answer right away. She watches Sammy and Kat playing with Star and then turns to me, thoughtfully. “It was a good rest, I guess, but I still don’t know what’s going on with Sammy. I guess she just doesn’t have the vocabulary or sign language to tell us. But she was really looking forward to seeing you two again. You three,” she adds, glancing at Star.

  I nod, reassured that my job is a little more secure than it was a week ago. “Kat’s been acting kind of weird too,” I tell her. “Maybe it’s the way the planets are lined up or something.”

  Mrs. K smiles, but the frown is back by the time she heads out the door.

  BY THURSDAY MRS. K is getting really concerned about Sammy. She takes me aside and asks if I’ve noticed anything unusual about Sam’s behavior. I have to admit, she is getting harder to handle. For one thing, she refuses to take a bath for me, something she’s always enjoyed. Now she has a total hissy fit as soon as I sign the word.

  Mrs. K fills me in on some of the other stuff Sammy’s been doing. “She keeps drawing stick-man-type pictures of people, and…” Mrs. K looks uncomfortable, “the male private parts are always, you know… there. And emphasized. Exaggerated.”

  “Oh.” What else can I say?

  “Her preschool teachers just laugh and say that all four-year-old girls go through a period of penis envy,” Mrs. K continues. She glances at me. “That’s a Freudian theory. Freud was a psychologist in the nineteenth century. Have you studied him in school yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “But I don’t know,” she continues, without going into more detail on the theories of dead people. “Yesterday I took her to McDonald’s and there was a mannequin of Ronald McDonald standing there.” Mrs. K closes her eyes briefly and takes a deep breath. “She asked me if he had one.”

  I don’t have to ask what she means by “one.” I do, though, have to fight the urge to laugh. It was, I thought, a good question, and it reminded me of an old joke I’d heard.

  “Do you know how to identify Ronald McDonald on a nudist beach?” I ask, trying to change the topic. She just shakes her head, looking confused.

  “He’s the one with sesame seeds on his buns.”

  Her face is blank and I immediately regret telling it. I’d forgotten how stupid the punch line was.

  “And today,” Mrs. K continues as if I hadn’t said a thing, “she was watching reruns of Mr. Rogers on TV and she asked if he…well, you know.”

  That, I thought, wasn’t so funny. I spent my first five years planted in front of the TV. Each day Mr. Rogers brought a comforting, calm half hour to my life, which was filled with images of anguish and despair from the daytime TV I watched with Mom. “You are special,” he always said, and how I wanted to believe him. Even Mom hung onto his gentle, consoling words. When no one else cared, we always knew he did.

  Of course he had one.

  “I really don’t know what to do about all this,” Mrs. K says. “If I could talk to her more easily…” she sighs. “I have an appointment for her tomorrow. I’ll see what the doctor says.”

  “I bet the preschool teachers are right,” I say for lack of anything intelligent to suggest, and still feeling embarrassed about my poor taste in jokes. “It’s probably just one of those phases kids go through.”

  Finally Mrs. K smiles, just a little. “You’re pretty wise for a young man who hasn’t raised any kids yet.” I laugh politely, but don’t tell her how wrong she is. I’ve been raising Kat for eleven years.

  GEM HAS BEEN joining me in the library at break and lunch. We don’t talk much, just sit side by side listening to CDs. Sometimes she’ll recommend one she likes, but that’s about the extent of our conversation. Today, though, she breaks the comfortable silence.

  “Are you dog-sitting again this weekend?” she asks as we walk back to class.

  “Yeah, I’m afraid I am.” Was she going to offer to help me again? I try to ignore the tingle of excitement that races through me at the thought.

  “Do you want me to come by and get her, you know, take her off your hands for a while? Give you a little break?

  “Oh. Yeah, sure.” Act cool. Act cool.

  “Or we could go back to the creek if you want,” she says, looking closely at my face.

  Has she seen my disappointment? Shit!

  “Whatever,” I say.

  “No. You decide.”

  “Okay, then you come and get her.”

  She nods. “I will.” She sounds disappointed.

  What is the matter with me?

  Eight

  The phone wakes me up Saturday morning. Dad must be home because it only rings twice. As soon as I stir, the dog’s standing at the side of my bed, looking anxious. When Kat’s at Mom’s place, Star sleeps in my room. I didn’t invite her to; she’s just there when I go to bed. It makes no difference to me.

  “I know, I know. You need to pee.” Unwillingly I get up, wondering at what point I succumbed to actually talking out loud to this dog. “You’re just going to have to wait your turn,” I continue, defeated. “I’m first.”

  Dad’s hanging up the phone when I go into the kitchen. “Who called?” I ask. I wonder if it was Gem. She was planning to take Star for a walk this morning.

  He responds by whacking me in the side of the head. I have to grab the kitchen counter to keep my balance.

  “Hey!”

  “Just when I think I’m going to get my life back you have to go screw everything up!” he yells.

  “What did I do?” I rub my head, confused. Star is standing at the door, whimpering.

  “Like you don’t know?” His face is right up to mine. His breath reeks.

  “No, I
don’t.”

  “How about that cute little deaf brat you baby-sit? Does that jog your memory?”

  “What has Sammy got to do with anything?”

  “Don’t act stupid with me.”

  “I’m not! What’s going on?”

  He just glares at me. Star barks. “Take that fuckin’ dog out, but don’t be gone long,” he orders. “We’re expecting company.”

  I don’t move. “Not till you tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’ve been told not to say a thing. I’ve said too much already,” he growls. “Now do as you’re told.”

  Grabbing Star’s leash I head out the door and down the stairs. My head is reeling. What’s got into him? He’s not the world’s best parent, but to his credit, he’s never hit either of us. Until now.

  I walk slowly, being in no rush to face Dad’s mysterious rage again, and hoping my own anger will begin to simmer down. As I come back along our street I see an unmarked police car pull up in front of our townhouse. The Kippensteins and a female cop climb out of it. I also see Gem coming down the street from the other direction. We all arrive at the bottom of the stairs at the same time.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I ask the Kippensteins.

  They completely ignore me. Their faces are like masks, angry masks, and Mr. K steers his wife up the stairs. Dad opens the door as if he was expecting them and they go in. I glance at the cop and find her studying me. She doesn’t look like a happy camper either.

  “What’s going on?” Gem asks quietly.

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Do you still want me to walk the dog?”

  “Yeah, please.” I hand her the leash and feel a small jolt run up my arm as her hand accidentally brushes mine. I must be losing it. “And phone before you bring her back. Hopefully this little party will be over by then.”

  She searches my face. “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  “Get up here now, Darcy!” Dad bellows from the top of the stairs.

  “Good luck,” she whispers, after glancing at Dad. I watch her walk down the sidewalk with Star, who glances back at me, her tail hanging forlornly between her legs.

  The cop has gone up the stairs ahead of me.

  “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, joining them in the kitchen, but before anyone can answer, a horrible thought blindsides me. “Has something happened to Sammy?”

  Everyone’s angry eyes are on me but no one says a thing.

  “What is it?” I demand.

  “Samantha’s been sexually assaulted,” the cop says, regarding me carefully.

  My heart bangs against my rib cage. The vision of someone doing something like that to Sammy is too repugnant for words. Then the truth hits me. “You think it was me?” I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “Sammy told us it was you,” Mrs. K says. I hear the tremble in her voice. She’s gritting her teeth.

  “I don’t believe it! What exactly did she say?”

  Mrs. Kippenstein lets out a ragged sigh. “She couldn’t really tell me, of course. She doesn’t have enough words or know enough sign language. So I took some paper and she helped me draw what happened. Between that and a little charades I got the whole story.”

  “And she said it was me?” I repeat.

  Mrs. K looks down at her hands. “I asked if it was you and she said it was.”

  “Why would she say that?” I demand. “She’s like my own sister. I would never do anything to her!”

  “Where is your little sister?” the cop asks. “We need to talk to her, too.”

  “Katrina’s at her mother’s for the weekend,” Dad tells her.

  She looks surprised but she doesn’t say anything.

  “I need to talk to Sam,” I tell the group. “To find out why she’s saying this.”

  Mr. K lurches to his feet, practically knocking his chair over in the process. He leans toward me, his hands clenched at his sides, his face blotchy red. “You go anywhere near Samantha and I’ll…”

  He leaves that threat unfinished, but his anger is contagious. I stand and face him. “I resent being accused of something I didn’t do.” I feel my own fists clenching. “If I can talk to her I’ll find out what’s really going on.”

  “Sit down, Darcy,” the cop says, firmly pushing us away from each other. “We need to investigate this further.”

  Without losing eye contact with me, Mr. K drops back into his chair, but my adrenaline is pumping so hard there’s no way I can sit still. I pace the kitchen, trying to control my breathing, willing my racing heart to slow down.

  “Now,” she continues, ignoring my agitation, “I need to get an interpreter so I can talk to Samantha myself.”

  “I can interpret,” Mrs. K says. She pulls a tissue out of her purse and she wipes her nose.

  “No, we need someone completely unbiased,” the woman says. “And then I’d like the interpreter to talk to Darcy’s sister, Katrina.”

  I’m wondering how this cop already knows so much about us. “What’s Kat got to do with anything?”

  She speaks calmly. “The Kippensteins tell me you have a very close relationship with your sister.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “She baby-sits with you.”

  “Oh. So now you think she’s in on this too? Don’t make me sick.”

  “It’s all part of a thorough investigation.”

  “Leave Kat out of this. She doesn’t need to hear this kind of shit.”

  “Darcy!” My dad, the man with the filthy mouth, acts offended at my language.

  “She doesn’t! It’s a bunch of crap.”

  The room is quiet. My dad is glaring at me. The Kippensteins are watching the cop, who is making notes in a small book.

  “Darcy, you’re to stay completely away from Samantha Kippenstein until this investigation is complete,” she says.

  “You don’t need to worry about that.” I refuse to look at the Kippensteins. I can’t believe they’d accuse me of doing anything to hurt Sam.

  “Will Katrina’s mother be willing to keep Katrina with her until I’ve finished my investigation?” she asks Dad.

  He nods. “Probably.”

  “How long can this possibly take?” I ask. “You’ll get an interpreter to talk to the girls today and then you’ll find out there’s been some big mistake.”

  “Hopefully that’ll be the case,” she says. “I’m just covering all my bases.” She pushes back her chair and stands to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The Kippensteins’ follow her out the door, shutting it firmly behind them. I’m left with Dad and a horrible silence.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I tell him, finally.

  “Yeah? Then why did the kid say you did?”

  “I don’t know. But I didn’t.”

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we. In the meantime, you’re grounded. No phone calls, no friends over, no nothing. You’re not to leave this house except to go to school.”

  I just stare at him. How can he be so stupid? Has he never noticed that I don’t get phone calls or visitors anyway? I slide by his bulk in the doorway and slam shut the door to my room. I hear the front door slam in response, and then the engine of his car revs into life. I open my drawer and pull out my knife. Stepping out of my body, I watch myself cut.

  I STAY IN my room the rest of the weekend, mostly sleeping or staring at the ceiling. The phone keeps ringing— it’s probably Gem wanting to return the dog—but I don’t answer it. I study the fresh wounds on my arms and realize that the cutting hasn’t solved much. How could anyone hurt Sammy? And why would Sammy say I did it? There’s no doubt that she’s been abused—it explains all her strange behavior—but why say it was me? Is she scared to tell the truth for some reason? And do the Kippensteins really think I’d do something like that? I can’t believe it. They trusted me with their daughter. I thrived on their trust.

  The answer hits me hard. It’s because of my mom. They think I’ve t
urned out bad because she’s bad. I pull the blankets over my head.

  LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON I hear the doorbell ring and then my dad calls me into the living room. The cop is standing there, looking grim.

  “What?”

  “An interpreter has spoken with both your sister and Samantha Kippenstein.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “I think you’d better sit down, Darcy.”

  I glance at my dad. He won’t make eye contact with me. He pulls a cigarette from his pack and lights it. I slump onto the couch. I feel a sick sensation deep in my gut. The cop sits down in Dad’s armchair and faces me.

  “What does Samantha call you, Darcy?”

  I think about that. Kat and I understand her speech, and so do her parents, but I doubt anyone else would. “She tries to say Darcy,” I tell the woman, “my Darcy, but it comes out garbled.”

  “And when she’s signing? What word does she use then?”

  Usually we’re signing directly to each other so we don’t need to use names, but I remember Kat using the sign for the letter D to talk about me to Sam. I tell the cop that, wondering about the point of her question.

  She nods and then glances at my dad. “Samantha is still saying that the person who…who hurt her is the person she calls D.”

  My dad erupts. “You stupid little ass! I can’t believe my own flesh and blood…”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Fraser,” the officer says with a sharp glance at him.

  I feel the blood rushing from my head, leaving me dizzy.

  “The interpreter has also spoken with your sister,” the policewoman continues.

  “Don’t tell me,” my father says.

  “Your sister says you’ve had sexual relations with her, too.”

  Dad lurches toward me, his face purple with rage, but the cop jumps to her feet and blocks Dad’s path. She doesn’t say a thing. She doesn’t have to. Dad glares at me, but retreats to his corner. I guess he figures he can wait until she’s gone.

  I’m too stunned to say a thing. It’s like knowing you’re having a horrific nightmare, but not being able to wake yourself up from it.

  “She told you that?” I finally blurt out.