Take Me With You(88)

ANDREW HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD, SON OF SHERIFF TRAGICALLY KILLED IN ROADSIDE ACCIDENT 11 YEARS AGO, ELECTED YOUNGEST SHERIFF IN SACRAMENTO COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT HISTORY.



I know of these families, their names ubiquitously etched in museum wings, mentioned on the news in business or political dealings. Sam clearly has money, but he's someone who lives by the callouses on his hands, who wears torn jeans and t-shirts, and whose head is crowned in a mess of golden-brown ringlets. I never thought he was part of a political and industrial dynasty.

Some of the articles have unintelligible scribbles on them, words circled, some crossed out, as if a code is being deciphered. While there is so much I don't know or understand, a blurry picture of who Sam is and where he comes from begins to emerge. The scars that run along his body and face, products of a tragic accident. His access to money and land explained by his privileged lineage. And the most shocking and confounding revelation of all: the man who was tasked to save me, is my captor's brother.

Sam waits patiently as I move on to the photos. There is a picture of a blond boy alongside a taller boy in front of handsome couple. His hair has darkened with age, but those eyes, even on a small boy, could not be missed. They are his mother's eyes. A beautiful woman, with dark hair, and an elegance that oozes from the photo. His father, a tall man with a dominating posture, his hair lighter, but his eyes brown, like little Andrew. Sam's mom smiles for the camera, but she looks hollow, as if held prisoner. Mr. Ridgefield doesn't smile, though his squint into the sun might provide that illusion. Little Andrew's smile beams across his face—a little boy who has it all. But Sam, little Sam, before the accident, when his skin was still perfect and unmarred—he looks uneasy, tense. His father's hand is gripping one of his shoulders. It's not a gentle touch like that of his mother's. It's a reminder to stay in line. I browse the photos of the family that should have it all. Over time, there is less and less of the Andrews, and just pictures of Sam and Gloria. She looks increasingly disheveled as Sam grows into a handsome young man, though there seems to be the occasional photo were her eyes are bright again, her hair combed and twisted into a prim updo.

I've gathered as much as my eyes and brain can before turning back to Sam.

“He's your brother?” I ask, already certain of the answer.

Sam nods.

I walk over to him and take his hand. I run my fingers around the stitches on his arm. Last night he reopened his scars. He flinches at first, but then allows me. “This was all from the accident?”

He nods, darting his eyes away.

“I'm sorry that happened to you.”

He shrugs.

“Why am I here? Why now? What's going to happen, Sam? I need you to talk to me. Please.”

It occurs to me that reason he may not speak to me is not psychological, but physical. Damage from the accident, maybe. But it still doesn't add up.

He pulls out his pad, and this time he writes slowly, thoughtfully, not rushing in fragments as he often does.

This room is not mine, Vesp. It's my mother's. She died last year. She seems nice in the photos, right? Pretty. Gentle. But she was sick, and she wrapped me in her sickness. I was different as a child. I had a severe speech impediment. My father, the hero, hated me for what he saw as a weakness. He made sure to remind me every day. I was teased incessantly; my own brother was embarrassed by me.

And then the accident happened. Things got worse. My mother told me people were trying to kill me and she took me up here, afraid the teasing and taunting would get worse with my scars. My dad used to pull me out of my bed at night, he used to make me swim in that lake until I would almost drown and then he'd pull me out. That playground, he made me build those obstacle courses and run them for hours until I would vomit or pass out. He thought my mother was making me soft, so he had to make me strong. She put on a good enough act for him, he knew she wasn't well, but he didn't want to be bothered with us, no one did. Our families have an image, they have goals, and we were blemishes on that perfection. I wasn't allowed to leave the land here without her, have friends. My speech improved as I got older, but when I was finally about to go out there, I was so overwhelmed by the outside that I found it easier to hide my voice, especially when it came to women. I didn't want fucking pity. I didn't want people laughing at me. Around my brother and mother, though, I could speak almost normally.

When my father died, I realized I could sneak out at night and be like everyone else. That's when it started. That's when I realized that when I was out there, alone like that, I had all the power. It was like a drug, and when that drug came over me, I became someone else. I watched the lives I had missed out on, the ones I knew I would never have because I was not like everyone else—a fact my dear mother had reminded me of every fucking day.

When she died, I snapped. I did the things you see mentioned in the articles I gave you. I stopped just watching and prowling. I found my voice. It was hiding in the darkest part of me, where rage, power, and sex intermingle. I didn't care about how they saw me, because I was in charge, and my stammer would disappear. I didn't have secrets in those homes I took over, and with that burden being lifted off, so did the oppressive tightness in my throat, so did the heaviness of my tongue. It was always something, my dad watching me, the kids at school, the secrets I kept, something was always like an invisible hand, choking me, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak.