Lies We Bury(27)

My tone is sharp, biting, and I’m not at all sure why. My mother didn’t spank me, and Chet was interested only in my mother.

Shia opens his journal. He flips backward; page after page is filled with notes, scribbles crawling up the margins. “Chet was a fairly normal kid—played sports with the local neighborhood kids, got okay grades in school—but his teachers recall him hoarding food, toys at his desk, pens, and attempting to keep his friends to himself. Twice, Chet tied up a classmate with jump rope and tried to keep the boy hidden in the field next to the schoolyard. When asked why he did that, Chet replied he didn’t want the boy to leave him.”

I raise my eyebrows at this anecdote as the barista drops off my coffee. “Disturbing, sure. It speaks to Chet’s abandonment issues.”

“You would think. However, his father reportedly came back into Chet’s life when Chet was thirteen and attempted to have a relationship. Chet’s mother gave an interview to the police department when she filed a complaint against his father.”

“How do you have access to police records?”

“It was a public complaint at the time. Akin to a noise complaint nowadays. Or a public safety complaint that she filed on behalf of her son to get Chet’s father, Jameson, to stay away from them. As far as we know, Chet never reestablished a relationship with Jameson.”

I sip my coffee, savoring the froth and sweet caramel at the top of the mug. Today’s temperature is brisk, but as additional clouds grow in size overhead, the humidity thickens to match. “Interesting. What does this have to do with my childhood and what your readers are interested in knowing more about? Why would they care?”

Shia bites the tip of his pen, revealing straight white teeth. He twists the blue plastic in his mouth, as if savoring my question. “Because, Claire. Your grandfather Jameson knew about you.”

I pause from wiping whipped cream with my finger. Shia takes in my shocked silence, looking pleased he had information I wasn’t aware of. He bobs a quick nod. “Jameson knew about you, maybe all of you. Inside your basement, the police found a cardboard box underneath the mattress with a return address from a children’s toy store and originally mailed to an address different from Chet’s. I found it by zooming in on digital photos of the room and of various items that were taken the day you escaped. Then I did a public search of the residents registered at that address twenty years ago. It was him. Your grandfather.”

A car passes by too close to the curb and splashes gutter water onto the sidewalk beside us. I don’t move. “Someone knew we were down there.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in. I would be pretty flummoxed, or whatever you may be feeling, too. But yeah. It seems that way. No matter how I look at it, someone at that address purchased toys for children, then hand delivered them to Chet’s address, where the box ended up in your basement.”

“What kind of toys?”

“What?”

“The toys that this person . . . Jameson . . . purchased. What were they?”

Shia shakes his head. “I don’t know. The only way to know that would be to search Jameson’s purchase history with that company—Yeltsin, I mean. The company I know, at least, was Yeltsin.”

The megawatt toy engineer during the eighties and nineties. They sold every kind of toy imaginable and were behind all the Christmas hysteria for whatever doll or remote-controlled car was the best seller that season. As the major toy company, Yeltsin was also the chief merchandising partner for the era’s kids’ television shows—Undercover Spy, Princess Angels, and Petey the Penguin.

Memories swim before my eyes as I recall the stuffed Petey’s fluffy chest and what would become a faded yellow beak. In the cartoon, Petey always sang songs about friendship and family, and I would sing them after every episode.

“I understand this may be hard for you.” Shia interrupts my thoughts in a small voice. “But what was your interaction with Chet like? Do you think he ever showed any kindness to you, the way that Jameson might have? What is your first memory of Chet?”

Footsteps. The heavy impact of his weight on the steps directly above, in the alcove he built, before punching in the electronic code to the metal door. Then his gait passing into the basement, the creak of the boards as he moved down the stairs and into our world. Once, he tried to play with Lily when she was a baby, and Rosemary flew at him, struck him across the face. He returned the blow, his fist crashing into her cheek. After the pair huffed and puffed and stared at each other another moment, he grumbled something and trudged back upstairs.

There was another time that they fought, really brawled, and Rosemary came away with a black eye. I don’t remember why—only that he said he would kill us all if he didn’t get something he wanted.

“Fear. Violence. Anger.” Speaking the emotions that Chet generated in me as a small child, I internally register how often they come to me as an adult. My own post-traumatic stress disorder mental prison, in which I feel the impulses of fear, violence, and anger all the time. Did I ever have a shot at escaping that?

Shia nods, writing in his journal. “Okay, let’s go back. What do you remember before your half sister Lily was born?”

“Sister. They’re my sisters.”

“Right. Sorry. Any memories of before she was born?”

I think back on those early years and remember only being happy, blissfully unaware—happy to play with Jenessa and to feel my mother Rosemary’s attention was wholly centered on me, even as she and Nora did their best to give both us girls the care that we needed in such a dank environment. I remember realizing, for the first time, that we had no windows after seeing some in a cartoon. The thought didn’t bother me—in fact, it seemed like an advantage to enjoy; I could nap as long as I wanted or sleep as late as I wanted without being woken by a bright, intruding beam of sunshine. “None that’s fully formed, exactly. Just being cared for by my mothers and playing with Jenessa.”