I’m angry and confused, all right. I’m so stressed out I want to take a baseball bat and smash the crap out of something. I can’t believe it’s been over a month since I was here. I worked all that weekend on that mental exercise you taught me. Imagining how life would be if I wasn’t worried about my family or genetics, what I would doing with my time. I tried to envision myself feeling light and happy as I looked at wedding decorations and invitations. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the Campsite Killer — where he was, who he was. I even went back to the site and looked at the photos of all his victims again. My thoughts always turned to Julia. Did she get my message? Did she hate me? On Monday I got my answer.
I was out in my workshop, scrubbing varnish off my hands while Stevie Nicks belted out “Sometimes it’s a bitch…,” when I heard the phone. I scrambled through the pile of tools and equipment on my bench to a mound of rags, under which was the cordless. The number was private.
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Sara, please?”
I recognized the cultured voice. My pulse sped up.
“Is this Julia?”
“Are you alone?” Her voice sounded tight.
“I’m in my workshop, Ally’s at school. I was just getting ready to go inside for some lunch — I skipped breakfast this morning.…” I was babbling.
“You shouldn’t have called again.”
“I’m sorry. I’d just found out who you really are and I wasn’t thinking—”
“Obviously.” It hurt, and I caught my breath.
“Don’t call here again.” And she hung up.
I handled it with my usual grace and aplomb — chucked the phone clear across my workshop, which knocked the battery out of the back and sent it spinning under a shelf. Then stormed into the house and ate a bunch of Ally’s Oreo snack packs and Ritz Bits cheese sandwiches, cursing with every mouthful. She’d spoken to me like I was something she’d stepped in, something she wanted to scrape off her shoe. My face burned and tears stung my eyes when I thought what I always thought after an ex-boyfriend dumped me or stood me up, or when Dad didn’t hold my hand when I reached for his: What’s wrong with me?
An hour later I was still too upset to focus on any work. And wedding stuff? Forget about it. I considered calling Evan, but then I’d have to explain what I’d done in the first place. I grabbed my car keys.
Lauren and Greg still live in the first house they bought after they were married — Mom and Dad helped with the down payment, which meant Dad told them what to buy. It’s just a basic 1970s-style four-bedroom box, but it overlooks Departure Bay and has a fantastic view of the ferries as they come around Newcastle Island. I’d wanted to move to the same neighborhood, but nothing was for sale when Evan and I were house-hunting. We ended up in a newer subdivision, but I love our home. It’s a West Coast contemporary with cedar plank siding, earth-toned granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances.
Greg’s still in the process of restoring their house, but it’s going to be beautiful when they’re done. Lauren’s brightened it up a lot over the years with handmade curtains, pastel walls, vases full of fresh flowers. I’m constantly pilfering from her vegetable garden.
I rapped on the back door, then pushed it open. “Hey, it’s Sara.”
She yelled down from upstairs, “Brandon’s room!”
When I got to the room — decorated in hockey motif — I found Lauren putting away laundry. I curled up on the quilt with its Canucks logo and hugged the pillow as I watched Lauren, envying how content she is with her life.
She paused with a pair of socks in her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Her voice was teasing as she said, “You have to tell me now.” She held a sock up like she was going to throw it at me.
“I’m okay. I just wanted to hang out for a bit.”
“Are you still upset about your birth mother?” She turned and put the socks away, opened the next drawer.
I hadn’t planned on telling her, just wanted to be around her warmth for a while, but before I knew it the words were coming out.
“I found out who my real father is.”
She turned around, a small blue T-shirt clutched in her hand.
“You don’t sound happy. Who is he?”
I was torn between my fear of what Lauren might think and my need for her to tell me it was okay, to make me feel better like she always does. I remembered Evan’s warning not to tell anyone. I remembered my vow to Julia not to tell anyone. But this was my sister.
“You can’t tell anyone about this — not even Greg.”
She placed her hand across her heart. “Promise.”
My face felt hot as I said, “You’ve heard of the Campsite Killer, right?”
“Everyone’s heard of the Campsite Killer. Why?”
“He’s my father.”
Her jaw dropped open and she stared at me with a stunned expression for what felt like hours. Finally she sat beside me on the bed.
“That’s just … Are you sure? How did you find out?”
I sat up, the pillow in my lap, and told her about the private investigator and everything that had happened since. I searched her face, waiting to see all the horrible things I’ve been thinking mirrored in her eyes. But she just looked concerned.
She said, “Maybe Evan’s right and it’s just a coincidence?”
I shook my head. “The way she spoke to me today — she hates me.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. She probably—”
“No, you’re right, it’s worse than that, it’s like I disgust her.” My voice was thick as I tried not to cry.
Lauren rubbed my back. “I’m so sorry, Sara. The people who matter love you. Does that help?”
Except Dad didn’t love me, and the fact that she wouldn’t see it made it even more painful.
“You don’t understand what it feels like to be adopted, to have your birth mother give you away like you’re a piece of garbage, then reject you again. I’ve been waiting to meet her for years, and now…” I shook my head.
“I know it hurts, but you can’t forget all the good in your life.”
Lauren was about to say something else when we heard a voice downstairs.
“Hello, hello, hello, witches.” Melanie.
Lauren said, “We’re up here.” I gave her a look and she made a zipping motion across her mouth.
Melanie came around the corner and dumped her purse on the floor.
“Thanks for hogging the whole driveway with your Cherokee, Sara.”
“Not like I knew you were coming over.”
She ignored me and turned to Lauren. “Thanks for your help the other day. Kyle and I appreciated it.”
Lauren waved her hand in the air. “No problem.”
I said, “What’s going on?”
“Not everything’s about you and the wedding.” Melanie smiled like she was joking, but it didn’t meet her eyes. Melanie looks Italian like our mom, but she wears her dark hair in a short spiky cut and favors bold red lips and kohl-circled eyes. When she’s not glaring at the world or sulking about something, she’s a knockout.
Dad loved taking her to all his logging camps with him when she was growing up — he was convinced she was going to be an accountant and help run his business. But as soon as she hit her teens the only thing Melanie wanted to spend time counting was boyfriends. And she found plenty of them at the pub where she tends bar. It used to be Dad’s favorite hangout, but he hasn’t stepped foot in the place since she started working there when she turned nineteen.
Lauren said, “Kyle needed a place to rehearse so I let them use the garage.”
Melanie turned to me. “You book anyone for your wedding yet?”
“Evan and I are still talking about it.”
“Perfect, because Kyle wants to do it for your wedding gift.” She smiled big.
It was far from perfect. I’d heard Kyle’s band a few months ago and they were barely in tune. I glanced at Lauren. She was looking back and forth between Melanie and me.
“That’s an interesting suggestion, but I have to talk to Evan. I’m not sure what he has in mind.”
“Evan? He’s so easygoing, he won’t care.”
“Maybe, but I should still talk to him first.”
Melanie laughed. “Since when do you wait for Evan’s approval?” She paused, then her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I get it. You don’t want Kyle to do it.”
Here we go. Melanie was spoiled by all of us when she was a kid, but especially by Dad. If Mom was sick I was in charge and that’s when the problems really began. Lauren was easy, I could tell her to pick up her toys and she’d do it right away, but Melanie would just stand there with her hands on her hips, glaring at me. Lauren or I would just end up doing it for her.
“I didn’t say that, Melanie.”
“Unfuckingbelievable. Kyle’s band’s gotten really good and he’s willing to do this nice thing for you, but you’re going to say no?” Before I could respond, Melanie shook her head and said, “I told you she’d shut it down, Lauren.” I said, “You’ve already talked about it?”
Lauren said, “No, well, just a little. Melanie mentioned last night that Kyle could use the exposure, and—”
“And you said he could probably meet some people at the wedding,” Melanie said. “You said it would be a good opportunity for him.”
My face felt hot and my pulse sped up. Melanie wanted to use my wedding as an audition for her boyfriend? And Lauren gave her the idea?
Lauren said, “But I didn’t know if Sara already had other plans.”
“She doesn’t,” Melanie said. “It’s just because she doesn’t like Kyle.”
Melanie stared at me, her chin out, daring me to deny it. I wanted to tell her exactly what I thought: He’s not good enough for you and he sure as hell isn’t good enough to play at my wedding. But I counted to ten, took a couple of deep breaths, and said, “I’ll think about it, okay?” Melanie said, “Suuuure you will.”
“You will. Right, Sara?” Lauren’s face was pleading as she looked at me, worried there was going to be a fight. And there was going to be a big one if I didn’t get out of there fast.
“Right. I should get going.” I stood up.
Lauren said, “You can’t stay for a coffee?” I knew she wanted me to stay so we could work everything out, or at least pretend nothing was wrong, but if I heard one more thing out of Melanie’s mouth I was going to blow up. I forced a smile.
“Sorry, I have to get Ally. Next time, okay?”
I didn’t look at Melanie as I walked out.
That night I tossed and turned. Finally I got up and made notes — the only way I could calm down. First item was to call Lauren in the morning and apologize for leaving so abruptly. Then I wrote a letter to Melanie, saying all the things I’d wanted to tell her earlier but never would. Four years of therapy and I’d finally learned how to manage my anger — counting to ten, writing letters, leaving a room to cool off — but Melanie could push my buttons faster than anyone. I hated how quickly she could make me lose my temper. How out-of-control I felt when I did. But mostly I just felt sad. I’d loved her so much when she was little, loved how she looked up to me and followed me everywhere. Then I lost her in the mall when she was four.
We were Christmas shopping and Dad told me to watch her while he went into a store. Melanie wanted to walk around, but I knew Dad would be furious if we moved an inch, so I held on to the back of her coat. The tighter I gripped, the harder she fought, pulling and clawing at me, until she broke away and ran into a crowd of shoppers. The next twenty minutes were the most terrifying of my life. I started screaming her name frantically. Dad came running out of the store, his face white. When we finally found her — playing on a mechanical pony — Dad dragged me to the parking lot and spanked me behind his truck. I still remember trying to break away from him, crying so hard I could barely breathe, his hand coming down again and again.
Most of my worst childhood memories are of my getting into trouble because of Melanie. One Halloween Lauren and I were dressing up as cheerleaders. Melanie wanted the same costume, but we had only made two, so I told her she could be a princess. She grabbed my pom-poms and ran out of the room, saying she was going to throw them in the fire. I chased her, slipped in the hallway, knocked over a lamp, and broke the shade. When I told Dad, he was furious — not because of the lamp but because I should have included Melanie. I wasn’t allowed to go trick-or-treating, and he let Melanie wear my costume. The worst part was he made me walk with them from house to house. I still remember watching Melanie skip up to the door in the costume I’d spent weeks making, the little skirt swinging with each step, my heart breaking when people told her how cute she looked.
When we hit our twenties — and neither of us was living at home — we started getting along better. After I had Ally, Melanie would come over sometimes and hang out, watching movies with me, laughing and eating popcorn. It was great, like we were finally sisters. We still argued once in a while, but the only times we really fought were if I tried to give her advice about her friends or some of the guys she was seeing. When she started dating Kyle I told her I was worried he might be using her because she worked at a bar. She flipped out and we didn’t speak for a while. Then I met Evan and Dad began inviting us over for dinner — he only called when Evan was home — and arranging family brunches and barbecues.
Melanie missed a lot of these dinners because she was working, but when she did make it to one, she started taking shots at me — especially if her boyfriend was there. I didn’t know if she was just pissed off that Dad liked Evan more than Kyle, or because I didn’t like Kyle either, but she was hell-bent on making me look bad. And if I did lose my temper, Dad would come down hard on me and wouldn’t say squat to Melanie. The more I tried not to react, the harder she hit. Now anytime we talked about the wedding it felt like a setup for a fight.
Lauren always ended up in the middle and I knew she was probably feeling awful about what had happened earlier, which made me feel awful. But guilt still gnawed at me for another reason, and I made a note to remind her not to tell anyone about my birth father.
The next morning I slept late and ended up rushing around to get Ally off to school. Then a client called and needed an emergency repair on a hall stand that was going into an antique show. I never did get a chance to call Lauren, and I collapsed into bed swearing I’d deal with it the next day. But I didn’t, and as the days turned into a week I slid back into a depression.
The simplest task seemed insurmountable and my body ached all over. Even the idea of going to therapy was exhausting. So I slept too much, ate too much, and stayed on the couch all afternoon watching movies. I had to force myself out for walks with Moose, steering him away from his preferred path through the woods to the safer, more populated nearby park. Usually I love watching him chasing bunnies all over the fairgrounds, the earthy scent of hay and animals still lingering in the air. But now the buildings just looked old and abandoned as my feet slogged through puddles.
The only other times I dragged myself out were for Ally, using any energy I had left to hide what I was feeling. But I didn’t do a very good job. One day we were driving home in a downpour, not unusual for March, or any month on the coast, but it added to my already dismal mood. We stopped at a red light and I was staring out the windshield.
Ally said, “Why are you sad, Mommy?”
“Mommy’s not feeling well, honey.”
“I’ll take care of you,” she said. She was so sweet that night, trying to make me soup and telling Moose he had to be quiet. She also spent the night in my bed. We snuggled together as she read me stories, lending me her favorite Barbie for comfort, the rain pattering against the window. The next morning I finally called Lauren to apologize for leaving so fast, but she beat me to it.
“I’m sorry I said anything to Melanie about Kyle playing at the wedding, Sara. But you two are always fighting and it makes it hard to say anything to either of you.”
“Melanie drives me nuts.”
“I wish you two weren’t so jealous of each other.”
“I’m not jealous of her, I just hate that she gets away with everything.”
“Dad’s just as hard on her, you know.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“He is — you just don’t see it. He’s always on her case about her job, telling her how well your business is doing and how big your house is and how successful Evan is. I think sometimes you two clash because you’re so alike.”
“I’m nothing like Melanie.”
“You’re both really strong people, and—”
“Nothing, Lauren.”
She was silent.
I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just going through a hard time.”
Her voice was gentle. “I know, hon. Call me anytime you want to talk.” But I didn’t, because as much as I loved my sister, there were some things she couldn’t help with, some things that would always separate us. She knew where she belonged.
When another week slipped by and I was still moping around, I decided it was time to make some changes. I stopped Googling the Campsite Killer ten times a day, stopped reading about genetics and deviant behavior, which only led to nightmares, and bought material for a birdhouse — something Ally had wanted to build for ages. We had so much fun working on it together, Ally giggling while she painted, waving the brush around and splattering paint all over her fingers and the table. And slowly the darkness started to lift. Evan and I even managed to have a nice dinner over at Lauren and Greg’s one weekend. Or at least it was nice until Dad showed up to go over some work stuff with Greg.
I felt terrible for Greg, listening to Dad berate him downstairs — when he knew we could hear in the kitchen. It was especially bad considering Dad came up after and told everyone he’d just hired a new foreman. Greg has been waiting years for Dad to promote him. Dad stayed for a beer and spent the entire time talking to Evan about fishing. It disgusts me that he plays favorites, but I was also disgusted at myself for feeling proud that he likes my fiancé.
By the first week of April, I finally felt like my depression was behind me. I was sleeping through the night and staying awake during the day. I was spending hours in my workshop again and getting caught up on projects. I’d been feeling so good I even got up early this morning and went on a shopping bender for Ally. I dropped a ton of money on craft supplies and a Netbook, telling myself it would help her learn. I love buying her things: costumes, books, games, paints, clothes, stuffed animals. If Ally’s happy, I’m happy. As I walked back into my house carrying all the bags, the phone rang.
“You better come over tonight.” It was my father. And his tone told me I was in trouble — big trouble.
“What did I do wrong?”
“I got a call.…”
Dad paused for an excruciating minute. I held my breath.
“It says on the Internet that your father’s the Campsite Killer.” His voice was tight with anger, demanding an explanation. I tried to make sense of what he’d just said, but it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.
“Did you know about this? Is it true?” His words hammered into me again, sending my pulse skyrocketing. This was the last way I wanted them to find out. I thought of Mom, of how hurt she was going to be. I dropped onto the hall bench, closed my eyes, and got it over with.
“I found my birth mother a couple of months ago.” I took a deep breath, then spat out the rest. “And it looks like my birth father is probably the Campsite Killer.”
Dad was silent.
I said, “Who called you?”
“Big Mike.”
Dad’s head foreman? How did he find out about this? The man is barely literate. Dad answered my questions for me.
“He said his daughter found it on Nanaimo News for Now.”
“You mean that gossip Web site?” I was already running upstairs to my computer.
Dad’s voice was hard. “You found your birth mother two months ago, but you didn’t say anything? Why didn’t you tell us you were looking for her?”
“I wanted to, but I just … Hang on, Dad.”
I typed in the Web site address and found the article.
Karen Christianson found in Victoria …
“Oh, no.”
I tried to read the article, but shock made the words jumble. I caught snippets. Karen Christianson … Only survivor of the Campsite Killer … Julia Laroche … Professor at the University of Victoria. Thirty-three-year-old daughter Sara Gallagher … Family-run business Gallagher Logging in Nanaimo …
It was out, everything was out.
Dad said, “How did they know she was your mother?”
“I have no idea.” I stared at the screen as panicked thoughts careened through my head. How many people had seen the article?
Dad said, “I’ll call Melanie and Lauren. I want everyone here by six. We’ll talk about it then.”
“I’ll e-mail the site right away and tell them—”
“I’ve already called my lawyer. We’ll sue their asses off if they don’t take this article down right away.”
“Dad, I can handle it.”
“I’m taking care of it.” His tone made it clear he didn’t think I could handle anything.
After he hung up I realized he’d said, “Your father’s the Campsite Killer.” Not your birth father, just your father.
Now you know why I’m so stressed out, Nadine. After I got off the phone with my dad I read the rest of the article, wanting to throw up the whole time. It had a ton of pictures of Karen Christianson — they even posted her staff photo from the university. I couldn’t believe how much detail was in it about me too, what I do for a living, stuff about Evan’s lodge. The only thing it didn’t mention was that I had a daughter — thank God.
Even though Dad had called his lawyer, I sent the Web site an e-mail asking them to remove the article and phoned every extension listed on the site, but no one called back. Yet again I was left feeling like an idiot who couldn’t do anything right. I tried to call Evan, but he was out on one of the boats with a group and wouldn’t be in until after dinner. Lauren wasn’t answering her phone, and she’s a stay-at-home mom. She was probably hiding out in her garden. I’m sure she’s dreading tonight’s meeting as much as me — Lauren hates it when people are upset.
Now I’m wondering if Melanie could’ve heard Lauren and me talking. But bitchy as Melanie can be, I just can’t see her doing something this mean. Of course, if she told Kyle … he looks like the kind of guy who’d sell his kid sister if he thought it would get him ahead. There’s no way Lauren or the PI would have said anything.
I haven’t been this scared about a family meeting since I had to tell my parents I was pregnant. Dad got up in the middle of that speech and left the room. I took Moose for a walk, hoping to get rid of all the nervous energy humming through my body, but I just ended up rushing back home to my computer. The article was still up when I had to leave for our appointment. I’m trying to calm down by reminding myself this can’t go anywhere if I don’t confirm anything. Dad’s lawyer works at one of the top firms in Nanaimo. He’ll have the article pulled off that site by the end of the day. People might gossip for a while, and then something else will take its place. I just have to wait things out.
But I have a feeling something worse is waiting for me.