Thank God you can fit me in — I know I was here yesterday, but when I panic like this everything in my head just spins around and around. All I could think was that I had to come here. You have to help me calm down because if one more thing happens today I’m going to lose it completely.
By the time I left my house for the family powwow I was in an even worse mood. It didn’t help that I’d had a heated debate with a six-year-old who did not like the change of plans.
“You said we can make pancakes for dinner. In different shapes like Evan makes them.” Her voice was anxious. Ally has a methodical streak and all decisions require much deliberation, which is adorable when she sticks her little tongue out of her mouth and contemplates what to buy Moose with her birthday money but an absolute nightmare if we have to do anything in a hurry.
“I don’t have time tonight, Ally Cat. We’re going to have chicken soup.”
Fists balled on her hips. “You promised.” The second part of Ally’s orderly nature is that she needs to know our plans for each day and what she can expect in every situation. If I deviate off course, or God forbid rush through any step of the process, she’ll come unglued.
“I know. I’m sorry, but we can’t today.”
“You promised.” Her high-pitched whine set my teeth on edge.
I whirled around. “Not today.”
She ran back to her room with her dark curls bouncing around her head and slammed the door. I heard something thump against it. Moose sat outside her door looking at me reproachfully. I didn’t hear her crying, but Ally rarely cries — she’d throw something before she ever shed a tear. I once saw her stub her toe, then turn around and kick the offending table leg.
I tried the handle. It turned, but something was against the door. Ah. Evan taught her to brace her chair under the knob if there’s an intruder.
“Ally, I’d like you to come out so we can talk about this, please.”
Silence.
I took a deep breath.
“When you come out we can pick another night this week to make pancakes — I’ll teach you how to make the batter from scratch. But you have to come out at the count of three.”
Silence.
“One … two…”
Nothing.
“Ally if you don’t come out here right now you’re not watching Hannah Montana for a week.”
She opened the door, walked past me with her arms crossed and her head bowed, then tossed a sad look over her shoulder.
“Evan never yells at me.”
Things didn’t get any better at my parents’. When I pulled in front of their log house on the outskirts of Nanaimo, Melanie’s car and Lauren’s SUV were in the driveway. Ally was already out of the Cherokee, Moose at her heels. I marched up to the front door, armor in place, knowing it wasn’t going to help one bit.
They were all in the living room. Melanie didn’t look at me, but Lauren gave a tentative smile. Dad’s face was an iron mask. He was in his armchair in the middle of the room, dressed in his usual steel-toed work boots, black T-shirt, and red strap jeans that every self-respecting logger on the island lives in. Barrel-chested and brawny, full head of hair a snow-white crown, with his wife and daughters flanking him, he looked like a king.
“Nana!” Ally ran toward Mom and hugged her legs, her pink goose-down coat squishing up around her ears.
For a moment I wished I could run to Mom and hug her too. Everything about her is soft — her dark hair now threaded with silver, the powdery perfume she always wears, her voice, her skin. I searched her face for anger but just saw fatigue. I looked at her, my eyes pleading. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to hurt you.
She said, “Let’s go in the kitchen, Ally. I have a cinnamon bun for you. The boys are already in the back.” She took Ally’s hand and led her away.
As they passed me I said, “Hi, Mom.” She touched my hand and tried for a reassuring smile. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, that this wasn’t about her, but before I could gather the words she was gone.
I threw myself into a chair facing my father, chin up. We held gazes. I looked away first.
Finally he said, “You should’ve talked to us before you found your birth parents.”
Years of working in the sun have emphasized the deep grooves around his mouth, which was set in a hard line. Even though he’s over sixty, it was the first time I’d seen my dad look old, and shame washed over me. He was right. I should have told them. I was trying to avoid hurting their feelings — and this conversation. But I’d made the whole thing worse.
“I know. I’m sorry, Dad. It made sense at the time.”
He raised his left eyebrow in the way that always made me feel like a colossal failure. This time was no exception.
“I want to know how that Web site got this information.”
“I’d like to know that myself.” I stared at Melanie.
She said, “What are you looking at me for? I didn’t even know about it until Dad told me.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
Melanie twirled her finger by her temple and mouthed, Crazy.
My blood surged with a hot rush of anger. “You know, Melanie, you can be a real—”
“Enough.” Dad’s voice boomed.
We were all quiet. I met Lauren’s eyes. I could tell by her expression — part guilt, part fear — that she’d told Dad she already knew about my birth parents.
I turned to Dad. “The only other people who know are Evan and the private investigator I hired — but he was a retired cop.”
“Did you check his credentials?”
“He gave me his card and—”
“What do you know about him?”
“I told you, he’s a retired cop.”
“Did you call the police and verify that?”
“No, but—”
“You didn’t check him out.” Dad shook his head and my face burned. “Give me his number.”
I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t the only person capable of doing something, but as usual he had me doubting myself.
“I’ll e-mail it to you.”
From the corner of my eye I noticed Mom standing in the doorway with a plate.
“Does anybody want a cinnamon bun?”
She sat on the couch and set the plate on the coffee table with some napkins. No one reached for a bun. Dad looked hard at Melanie and Lauren, who both took one. I followed suit even though there was no way I could choke anything down. Mom smiled, but her eyes were red-rimmed — she’d been crying. Crap.
She said, “Sara, we understand that you wanted to find your birth family, we’re just disappointed you didn’t tell us. It must have been very upsetting when you found out who your real father was.” Her pale cheeks told me she was still pretty upset herself.
“I’m sorry, Mom. It was just something I needed to do for myself. I was trying to work through it first before I talked to anyone.”
Mom said, “Your mother — the article said she’s a professor?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.” I looked away, blinking hard.
“It’s not personal, Sara.” Mom’s voice was gentle. “Any mother would be proud to have you as her daughter.”
Tears filled my eyes. “I’m really sorry, Mom. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful or something. You’re an amazing mother.” It wasn’t lip service. Mom loved every art project we dragged home, every costume she had to make at the last minute, every pair of torn favorite blue jeans only she could fix. Mom loved being a mother. I’d never asked, but I was sure she was the one who wanted to adopt. I’d bet money Dad just did it for her.
I said, “You’ll always be my real parents — you raised me. I was just curious about my history. But when I found out about my biological father, I thought maybe you guys wouldn’t want to know.” I looked at my dad, then back at her. “I didn’t want to upset you.” Mom said, “We’re worried and scared for you, but it would never change how we feel about you.” I looked at Dad again. He nodded, but his face was distant.
I said, “Evan’s out on the boat, but I’m going to tell him it’s on the Internet as soon as I get home.”
Dad said, “The article’s gone, but we’re still going to sue the bastards.”
I dropped my head to rest against the back of the chair and let out my breath. It was going to be okay. For a moment I felt protected — Dad was actually sticking up for me — but then he said, “The dumbasses never should’ve used my company name,” and I knew what he was really protecting.
I felt another stab of guilt when I saw Mom’s hand press against her belly as she grimaced. Dad also noticed and his eyes turned hard as they locked on to mine. He didn’t have to say the words. He’s said them many times, many ways. But the silent ones always hit the hardest. Look what you did to your mother.
Mom started talking about the wedding, but the conversation felt forced. Melanie and I steadfastly ignored each other.
Finally I said, “I should get Ally home to bed.” When I went outside to call her in, Lauren followed and closed the door behind us.
“Sorry I told Dad, but he asked if I knew and I didn’t want to lie to him.”
“It’s okay. Was he mad at you for keeping it a secret?”
She shook her head. “I think he’s just worried.”
“Is that why you ignored my call today?”
“I didn’t want to get caught in the middle.” She looked miserable. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want her caught in the middle either. I wanted her to take my side, but that was never going to happen. When we were kids and Dad went on a tirade against me, Lauren hid in her room. Later she’d come out and help me with my chores, but somehow I just felt more alone.
“You didn’t tell Melanie about my real father, did you?”
“Of course not!”
So Melanie had overheard and probably told Kyle, and then he told God only knows who. Nothing I could do about it now.
On the drive home, I was feeling a little calmer but still worried about how many people saw the article before it got pulled off. Then I remembered Mom saying they were worried and scared for me. I stopped at a red light, focusing in on that moment. Dad’s tense face, the concern in Mom’s eyes, something they were both thinking but didn’t say. What had I missed? Then it hit me.
The Campsite Killer could have read the article.
I didn’t know I was still sitting at the light until a car honked behind me and Ally said, “Mommy, go!” I drove the rest of the way in a daze. I’d been so caught up in defending myself, so terrified of my father’s anger, I’d missed the thing I should be most afraid of. If the Campsite Killer found that article, he not only knew I lived in Nanaimo, he knew my name.
As soon as we got home Ally had a bath, then I read her a story, but I kept stumbling over words and losing my spot on the page. I had to talk to Evan. After Ally fell asleep I tried to call him, but he wasn’t answering his cell. I bundled up in a blanket on the couch, watching mindless TV and waiting for Evan to call back. Just as I was about to give up and go to bed, the phone rang. Before he could ask what I’d been up to, I asked him how his day was.
“We found a pod of humpbacks, so the group was happy.” Evan built his lodge on the remote west coast of the island, so it offers guided kayak tours and whale watching not just fishing charters.
“That’s awesome.”
“Sure looking forward to coming home this weekend, though.…” He growled and I tried to join in but couldn’t pull it off. So I took a deep breath and spit it out. First I told him about leaving Julia a message and her awful call back, then about telling Lauren, and finally that it hit the Internet. He took it better than I thought, a lot better than I would — no surprise there.
“It won’t go anywhere,” he said.
“But people are obsessed with serial killers — half the books and movies made are about them. If they find out I’m his daughter…”
“You know where the shotgun is and the key for the trigger lock—”
“The shotgun!”
“You’ll be fine. That site can’t have that many readers.”
“What if he reads it?”
“The Campsite Killer?” He paused for a moment. “Nah, there’s no way he’s reading a Nanaimo blog.”
“You really think it’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, I do. Let your dad’s lawyer handle it.”
“I’m just freaked out.”
He softened his voice. “I’ll be home soon.”
Before I dove into bed last night I couldn’t help peeking at the Web site and was happy to see the article was still gone. I also did a quick Google search and nothing came up. I went to sleep convinced Evan was right — it wasn’t going to go anywhere. In fact, it was good this happened because it forced things out in the open with my family — keeping things under wraps is not exactly a talent of mine.
This morning Ally sang Moose a song in between bites of toast and peanut butter. Ally and I are both peanut butter fiends, you wouldn’t believe how many jars we go through. After I dropped her off at school I grabbed a coffee and headed out to the shop to attack a new armoire. I was in the zone within minutes and didn’t stop for lunch. Finally, in the afternoon, I decided to grab a snack and refill my coffee. Before I headed back out to my shop, I snuck upstairs for another peek at the Nanaimo News for Now site. The article was still down. For peace of mind I did another Google search for Karen Christianson. This time a bunch of new hits popped up.
I set my cup down so fast coffee sloshed over the rim, and clicked on the first link. It was for a serial killer fan club in the States. In the forum someone named “Dahmersdinner” had posted that Karen Christianson was hiding in Victoria and using the name Julia Laroche. Her daughter, a woman named Sara Gallagher, lived in Nanaimo. I stared at the screen, my heart thumping loudly in my ear. There was nothing I could do, no way to delete it. Then I noticed there were comments — lots of them. I clicked on the tab and expanded the page. First they were along the lines of “I wonder if it’s true” and “Can you imagine what his kid looks like?” But then more members joined in.
Someone had gone to the university site and found Julia’s office information. Then they linked to articles she’d written and Web sites that had photos of Karen Christianson. One commenter actually Photoshopped her picture to make it look like the Campsite Killer was standing behind her with a bloody rope in one hand and his other on his penis. They talked about Julia’s looks, complimenting the Campsite Killer’s taste. One jerk said he wondered if I was as twisted as my father. Another compared me to Ted Bundy’s daughter, saying they should hunt these “bitches” down before they could spread the disease. I read every vile comment, sick with shame and fear. I felt ripped open, exposed to the world.
I clicked from site to site as fast as I could — the majority of hits were coming from true crime blogs and a couple of Web sites devoted to serial killers, including the one I’d already found on the Campsite Killer. The more legitimate sites were careful to just say that Karen was “rumored” to have a daughter. It was the commenters, always anonymous, who added my name and that I lived in Nanaimo. Then I noticed a University of Victoria Student Forum was one of the hits. My stomach in knots, I clicked on the link but couldn’t get in without a student ID number.
A wave of panic came over me. What do I do now? How do I stop this? The cordless beside me rang and I jumped.
Lauren said, “I have to tell you something.”
“Is it about the Internet buzz?”
“You’re online?”
I stared at the screen. “It’s everywhere.”
Lauren was quiet for a moment, then said, “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t have a clue. But I think I should talk to Julia.”
“Do you really—”
“If she hasn’t heard, I should warn her. And if she has, she’s going to think I told everyone. But if I call to explain, she’ll probably just hang up on me.” I groaned. “I’ve got to go. I need to figure out what to do.”
Lauren’s voice was gentle. “Okay, hon. Call if you need me.”
After I hung up the phone, I collapsed onto the couch. Moose joined me, grunting and snuffling into my neck. My mind spun in a million panicky directions. The whole world is going to know the truth about my father. The Campsite Killer could find Julia — and me. Evan’s business could be ruined. My business could be ruined. Ally’s going to be teased at school.
The phone rang. I checked the call display. Private number.
Julia?
I answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
A male voice said, “Is this Sara Gallagher?”
“Who’s speaking?”
“I’m your father.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m your real father.” His voice sped up. “I read about it on the Internet.”
A jolt of fear ran through me. Then I realized the voice was too young.
“I don’t know who you really are or what you read, but—”
“Are you hot like your mommy?” I heard laughter in the background, then another young-sounding voice called out, “Ask her if she likes it rough too.”
“Listen, you little—”
He hung up the phone.
I phoned Evan right away, but his cell went straight to voice mail. I thought about calling Lauren, but she’d be scared for me — hell, I was scared, which made me even angrier. Some teenagers were calling me and pretending to be my father just for kicks. What if Ally had picked up the phone? I was pacing around, fuming, when the phone rang again. I was hoping it was Evan, but it was Ally’s teacher.
“Sara, do you have time to talk when you pick Ally up today?”
“What’s going on?”
“Ally had a … disagreement with a classmate who tried to use some of her paints and I’d like to discuss it with you.” Great, just what I needed right now.
“I’ll talk to her about sharing, but maybe we can meet another time—”
“Ally pushed the girl — hard enough to make her fall.”
That’s when I called you. There is no way I can meet Ally’s teacher without talking to you first. I need to wrap my head around the fact that everything’s blown wide open. I can’t shake those sick comments, that awful phone call. And I know her teacher’s going to suggest that Ally meet with the school counselor again to learn how to handle her issues. She’s had problems before — yelling at other children, arguing with her teacher — but that’s just when she feels rushed. Her teacher also said Ally has difficulty transitioning from one subject to the next, and that’s when she stresses out the most. I tried to explain there’s nothing wrong with her — she just doesn’t like change. But her teacher kept asking if there were any problems at home. Let’s just hope she hasn’t heard about the Campsite Killer being my father.
I hate it when I get this upset, hate how my body reacts. My throat and chest get so tight I can barely breathe, my heart rate skyrockets, my face feels hot, I start sweating, and my calves ache with unused adrenaline. It feels like a bomb exploded inside my head, and my thoughts are flying everywhere.
We used to talk about how my anxiety was caused from growing up adopted and having a distant father: my subconscious was afraid I’d be abandoned again, so I never felt safe. But I think it’s more than that. When I was pregnant with Ally I read that you need to be calm or your baby will pick up on your negative energy. I spent nine months inside a woman who was constantly terrified. Her anxiety flowed into my blood, into my molecules. I was born in fear.