lung to it, but I knew there was one test to make. I fed Cory’s pet mouse the sugar-coated doughnut we had, and as I feared would happen, he died just as any rodent would if it ate arsenic.
Did our mother know what we were eating, how it was slowly killing us, and how it had killed Cory? She left us up here suffering for almost a year longer than we had to.
We decided to leave the following morning. While we were planning, our grandmother appeared for the last time. Cathy thought she had snuck in many times and probably knew we could escape. She left, locking the door, but we had no time to worry about that now. We had to get ready to make our escape. We decided to take some samples of the doughnuts and the dead mouse in a plastic bag. If we were picked up by the police, we would hand it all to them and then tell our story.
Despite all this, there was still a part of me that hoped there was some explanation for what Momma did or permitted to be done to us. I hated myself for clinging to that and went to sleep chastising myself for being such a little boy when it was time to be a man and face up to the ugly fact that our own mother cared more about herself than she cared about us.
We didn’t have much of a plan for once we escaped this house. I knew that, but we had no choice. We could get to the train that had brought us here and ride it out and away to a future where we could grow healthy, pursue our dreams, and somehow, someway, bury the horror we had lived, bury it so deeply we could pretend it had just been a bad dream. Our mother had died with our father. Could I convince myself of that? Could Cathy?
I barely slept. While Cathy was getting Carrie ready, I wrote my last lines in this diary. I’m going to leave it hidden up here in a small metal box I found that will lock automatically when closed. There is no key to it that I can find.
As I write these last lines, I know that the diary belongs to the attic now.
Along with the four young children who trusted and hoped and the three who survived.
We were both crying when Kane closed the diary.
He embraced me, and we clung to each other for quite a while, rocking on the sofa.
Then, in silence, we rose, we restored the attic, and still without saying a word to each other, we left. I closed the door softly behind me. It would never be the same place for me. I thought in the near future, I would go through my mother’s things, take what I thought I could use sometime in the future perhaps, and then get my father to give away the rest to the local thrift store or some charity.
It was time to let go of things that would not bring back my mother. I would explain to him that we didn’t need them in order to remember her. She would live forever in our hearts and minds. I knew he would listen and nod in agreement. He simply needed me to be the one to say it.
“Let’s spend as much time today as we can with each other,” Kane suggested when we got to my room. “I’ll take you to a great restaurant, something lively and fun. Please,” he begged. “You said your father won’t be home for dinner.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t want to be alone, either.
While I showered and dressed and fixed my hair, I kept looking at the diary and thinking. I had promised my father I would give it to him when I was finished, but I knew he would either destroy it or throw it away, and more than ever, I didn’t want that to happen now.
Where did it belong?
Not buried away in my room, and not with Kane.
I didn’t find the answer until weeks later.
Epilogue
Everyone at school was focused on the Christmas holiday. I felt sorry for our teachers. The closer it was, the more difficult it got to keep our attention on the subject matter. Between classes, the chatter and the laughter in the hallways seemed to be at a higher, more excited pitch. Some of my classmates were going to spend the holidays in Florida and other warmer places, but the majority talked about family gatherings at their homes in Charlottesville. The teachers were looking forward to their break, too, and their annual holiday party. Everyone had more charity in his or her heart, and those who violated rules or stepped out of line found the benefit of a wider embrace of forgiveness.
All my girlfriends, especially Suzette, noticed how much closer Kane and I had become. There were small but telling revelations. More than ever, we held hands almost every opportunity we had. We sat closer to each other wherever we could sit together. We whispered and nudged each other gently. When we could, we kissed, quickly but lovingly. We were with each other almost every free moment after school and on weekends.
Of course, Suzette was the first one to suggest I had “crossed the Rio Grande.” All my other girlfriends waited to hear me confirm it. I didn’t have to do anything or say anything. My silence brought envious smiles. They knew now that I was in a relationship deeper than most. It was so strong that we were sure to coast easily into graduation together, and then into that time that tests all high school romances. Most didn’t survive the distance and the worlds between them. But it was still exciting to think about it. At least, we had something to remember, a time to cherish.
My more jealous friends wouldn’t miss an opportunity to remind me. In various ways, I heard, “Kane will date lots of girls, and you’ll date other boys.”
“What a threat,” I replied, which didn’t give them the satisfaction they hoped for.
Despite all this distraction, I aced my exams and quizzes and began to pull ahead of Theresa Flowman in a big way. Unless I stumbled in some serious manner, I was now the odds-on favorite to be our class valedictorian. Only one thing was happening that could have a detrimental emotional effect on me. My father was getting more serious with Laura Osterhouse. They dated frequently; she ate at our house as often as possible. Aunt Barbara and I chatted about it on the phone, and I gradually came to accept it. The three of us were going places together, and there was even a night when my father joked and said Kane and I could come along to make it a double date.
Every day, I anticipated my father asking me if I had finished with the diary, but for some reason, he didn’t. Perhaps he thought I had become bored with it and had decided it was better not to mention it and get me started reading it again. Occasionally, Kane asked me if I had given it to my father. I just shook my head, and he immediately changed the subject.
The construction at Foxworth had taken big leaps forward. The house exterior was complete, and all the work was now going on inside, which was perfect timing for the change in the weather. My father was busier than ever with it, and because of it, he was being offered some other opportunities. He was talking more about expanding his business and was meeting with accountants, lawyers, and even one or two investors. I saw that Laura was a big help to him during all this. Much of their conversation involved these new ideas and opportunities. Both their lives were fuller and more exciting. There was no room for me to feel or express any jealousy. If I had learned anything from Christopher’s diary, it was to cherish the joy your loved ones enjoyed, even if you weren’t part of it. Loving someone really meant hoping they were happy with or without you.
That weekend before our holiday break was to begin, my father called me from the building site and asked me to sift through some of his mail from the day before that he had left on his desk. He needed a quote from a tile company, and he had forgotten to include it in his bag when he left for the site in the morning. I was on the phone with him, reading off the companies until I found the right one and gave him the information he needed.
When I put the mail back, I noticed something, a handwritten letter. It wasn’t much more than a one-page note, but it was from Dr. West. In it, he made a specific reference to the future resident of the property and the importance of those “ramps to all entrances and not just the front.” From the fact that there was going to be an elevator for a two-story home, I already had guessed that whoever was going to live there was handicapped. But there was another interesting detail: “CC: Mr. and Mrs. William Anderson” under Dr. West’s signature.
I returned to my father’s desk. I