Page 73 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

I examine the receipt first. It’s for a money order for five thousand dollars. I recognize the name it was made out to, and my father’s signature at the bottom of it. My fingers go to the frayed, ripped fabric. It looks like it used to be black but has faded to dark gray. I turn it over and stitched to the other side is a name. I recognize that name too. My hand dips back into the envelope, retrieving a letter.

Carefully, I unfold it, already knowing the words inside are going to separate my life in two: before I knew the truth, and the aftermath.

I read the letter, gasping at every startling admission. It’s unbelievable, so much so, it feels like I’m reading a work of fiction but it’s not. It’s the truth... an ugly one at that.

I reach the final line:

I’ve taken these secrets to the grave, but that’s as far as I can take them.

Laura Thomas

FORTY-TWO

BETH

I don’t stop shoveling until the plots for Butterfly, Goofy, and Garfield are all dug up. And when I do, I collapse, staring straight up at the tangled branches, the dark sky above them. The wet mud isn’t the dirtiest thing I’m covered in—it’s the deceit, the grief, the shame. Rain slithers through the natural-formed canopy, splashing onto my sweaty skin. I know it’s thundering because I can feel the vibration in the soil, but I can’t hear it. I can’t hear anything except my own heart pounding inside my chest. Every thump feels like a warning—run, leave, tell someone, do something. But I just lie there, gasping for air, trying to understand how this could have happened... all of it.

I think I might be crying too. It’s hard to tell. It’s like I’m numb but I can also feel everything. My fingers ache from gripping the shovel. The palms of my hands are covered in blisters, already torn open. A sob lingers in my throat, stretching out the walls of my esophagus as it builds. I swallow hard, trying to force it down, but it’s not going anywhere. Rolling onto my side, I glance into the freshly dug holes.

It didn’t take long to figure out Butterfly’s identity. Susan used to call Emma that because she was bright and always fluttered around. Her skeleton is small and frail. It’s all that’s left, as her body has decomposed and her clothes have disintegrated.

I’m not sure who Garfield is, and I don’t recognize the nickname. I just know it’s an adult who’s been dead long enough for there to be nothing remaining but a skeleton as well.

I weep for Goofy. It was what Mom used to call Dad because he could never keep a straight face, even when he was mad. I know it’s him because of the gold wedding band hanging loosely from the bones of his ring finger.

My mother’s warning comes back to me, but now I understand what she was saying, at least part of it.

Your father. He didn’t disappear.

A familiar voice shouts my name but it’s like I’m hearing it underwater, a muffled call. I sit up and wipe my face. The tears, rain, and dirt smear together. I try to calm myself, so I can slow my heartbeat enough to get to my feet without falling over. I hear my name again. Louder this time.

“I’m here,” I cry out as I peel myself out of the sticky mud.

Twigs snap. Shoes clomp through wet grass. Overgrown weeds softly rustle as they’re pushed into one another.

“Hey,” I hear again.

The wind whips and whistles through the branches, carrying my mother’s final words to me one last time. It whispers, “Don’t trust...”

FORTY-THREE

NICOLE

On the highway, I swerve around a semitruck driving ten below the speed limit. He flips me off as I pass him. Usually, I’d return the gesture, but I’ve got one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other is desperately trying to dial. I hadn’t saved any numbers into my new phone, so I’m going off memory, typing each digit in. It goes straight to voice mail. I call again and again, and every time it goes straight to voice mail. Frustrated, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and grasp the steering wheel with both hands. My foot presses harder on the gas pedal, taking the station wagon from seventy up to eighty. The climb in speed is slow as the engine chugs, struggling to go faster.

The world passes by me in a blur, not because of how fast I’m traveling but because I’ve only just learned that everything I’ve ever known has been a lie. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to come to terms with that. I reach for my phone again and bring up the Call screen, dialing a new number. The line connects immediately.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.

“I need police to W9164 Hustis Street in Allen’s Grove, Wisconsin.”

“Ma’am, please slow down. What’s your name?”

“Nicole. Nicole Thomas.”

“And you’re requesting police? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“There are bodies buried. Three of them.”

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