Sweet Water(51)

Alisha looks at me, dark-cherry lipstick dried and flaky on her lips. “And I know someone else was in the woods with my daughter when she died. It had to be Finn. Just give me the journal back so we can move on from this.”

A sharp squeak leaves my mouth as my head involuntarily shakes—no. How does she know this? Does she know this? By saying “had to be Finn,” she’s not sure, is she? “Alisha, I don’t know where the journal is, I swear. Why do you say Finn was with her?”

“Because he was the only one with her that day. She didn’t have a lot of friends at that school.” Alisha’s words come out in a hiss, and I stare at my dry hands, still chapped from the evening I handled her daughter. I can’t seem to stop washing them, hoping maybe the sensation will go away—the feel of Yazmin’s lifeless flesh beneath my fingers.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

I jump. A server has appeared out of nowhere. It’s a perfectly normal thing to happen in a restaurant, the preliminary drink order, but Alisha stares at the girl as if she’s just encroached on our space.

“I’ll take an iced tea. And for you, Alisha?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “I assume we’re not eating?”

Alisha shakes her head, and now the server is the one giving us a dirty look. “I’ll take a diet soda, whatever you’ve got,” she says. The young girl bounces away and says something snide to the bartender. Normally, I’d be worried it would get back to my circle of friends that I stiffed the staff at the Sewickley Hotel with nothing more than a nonalcoholic drink order, but today I couldn’t care less. Those are problems I’d gladly take back from the pile.

“My husband said Finn was home all night.” The words feel awful leaving my mouth, but if I can pretend they’re true, maybe I can believe them.

“Yazmin doesn’t travel alone at night,” Alisha says simply, weaving her hands inside each other nervously, her bangles scraping together. This woman doesn’t want our money. She wants the last piece of her daughter that exists, her final thoughts before she left this earth. I’d want that journal back too. Yet it could incriminate Finn. The tear in my moral seam is ripping further.

“I see,” I say, mindful of my next remarks.

Martin knew I could easily break down today, but he let me go anyway. Maybe this is a test. If I fail, it will be proof I never belonged by his side to begin with, something I’ve always feared. Counseling is out. Can’t tell a counselor about the kind of problems we have. Martin’s version of me failing him will be my inability to lie to protect our family.

I want to tell Yazmin’s mother the truth, but something keeps me quiet beyond Martin’s awful plea. It’s the unknown. There’s something we’re all missing. There’s a reason Finn can’t remember what happened beyond the drugs, and I need to figure that out before I make any more decisions.

The waitress places the drinks down, but neither one of us acknowledges them.

“Perhaps the drugs made her less inhibited, so she ventured out for a hike to blow off steam after their fight,” I suggest, and the lies are tumbling from my lips, but I’m gradually getting better at them, much to my disgust. Not only is Martin not the person I thought he was, neither am I. I’m no better than the Ellsworths, yet I can’t stop. Not until I know the truth.

They were Yazmin’s drugs, though. And this is a point I don’t want to let go.

Yazmin would still be alive if she hadn’t offered up her meth-laced pot and whatever else she’d brought with her that evening. I have to let Alisha know I’m aware of the narcotics. It doesn’t justify her death. Lots of teenagers play around with substances. The only thing is, Finn had no interest in drugs before he dated Yazmin, and there has already been backlash in the community since the news broke that Finn is a user. Those comments cut me deeply, and they could hurt his future as well.

Martin said it would all blow over if we stayed the course, as if we’re just sailing through a storm, but I’m not so sure.

“Her guitar teacher said he overheard her talking to Cash during their lesson about going for a walk and a smoke in the woods with her boyfriend. Cash confirmed it.”

I inhale sharply, because there it is—the truth, like a big old lead balloon in the air that can’t be retracted.

“At the Academy?” I ask. I can’t imagine the kids would talk openly about drugs at school.

“No, at the local shop. In your downtown. Academy grad himself,” Alisha adds with resentment.

“It’s odd that they would talk so freely in front of the music teacher.”

My hands pat the bottom of my oversize purse. The checkbook Martin asked me to pack has sunk to the bottom of my old Gucci bag like a rock. It’s billfold leather and heavy, like everything else we own. The symbolism of what it means weighs me down even more.

I’m no better than an Ellsworth if I do this.

“Cash mentioned in front of the teacher that they were going to smoke, but he didn’t say what they were going to smoke, so he wasn’t giving anything away. I got the impression that the teacher knew, though. Some rocker guy from town, and he has the look too.” She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and pats the bottom with her hands, her bracelets banging together. She’s clearly ready to leave, ready to smoke, from all the anxiety we’ve caused her. “It’s funny, since he’s from here and all,” Alisha says with contempt, and I understand her hatred. She thinks we’re just another rich family taking advantage of someone like herself, hiding the evidence so we won’t be caught, our hands in the police’s pockets.