Play Dead
Page 74
I killed him. My jealousy pushed that gun against his head and pulled the trigger.
She had been so foolish, so impatient, so damn young. Why couldn’t she just have sat back and waited? Eventually, he would have realized his mistake and come back to her.
Why did I do it? Why couldn’t I have just let it be?
But these were questions that had haunted her for thirty years, and still she had no answers. If only she could have it to do all over again. If only she hadn’t acted so stupidly. She folded the photograph and put it back in her purse.
“Miss Simmons?”
She looked up. Her safety-deposit box rested on the bank clerk’s forearm. “Would you like to follow me, please?” The bank clerk led Judy into a private room. “When you’re finished, just let me know.”
“Thank you.”
The bank clerk smiled and left. Judy turned toward her box. Her hand reached down and pulled back the top. The first thing she saw were some old treasury bonds her parents had left her. Her father had died suddenly years ago when he was only fifty-seven; her mother had passed away just last year. She missed them both terribly. So few people in this world love you unconditionally.
She thumbed past her birth certificate, the old warranties, the useless financial statements. Then she spotted it. Her fingers reached down, gripped the leather cover and pulled. The small booklet came out. With shaking hands, Judy placed it on the table in front of her. She read the fading cover:
Diary 1960
Since nineteen fifty-five, Judy had kept yearly diaries. All the events of her seemingly average life were kept safely tucked away on these blue-lined pages. And for the most part, average the words were—gibberish about her loss of virginity, her first time experimenting with marijuana, her secret fantasies. In a phrase, her yearly journals contained nothing beyond the standard diary drivel.
But not nineteen sixty.
Judy kept all her diaries stacked neatly in a closet at home; all, that was, except for the one she now held in her hand. Nineteen sixty—the one year she wished she could pull out of her life as she had pulled its diary away from the others. She had never mentioned anything about nineteen sixty in her subsequent diaries. As far as her other writings were concerned, nineteen sixty never existed. She had tried to keep the whole horrible incident locked in this one journal in some bizarre attempt to keep the rest of her life uncontaminated by that year.
It had not worked.
Nineteen sixty had spread. It had poisoned them all. It occasionally disappeared from view for as much as a decade or two, but it was still there, always there, always waiting to rear its ugly head when they least expected it to.
Judy slowly flipped open the diary. She skimmed through the writings of January and February. Her teary eyes gazed upon the handwriting of the college-age Judy—so blithe and carefree with large, elaborate lettering that flowed smoothly from one end of the page to the other. Hard to believe the same person who was reading this diary had also written it:March 18, 1960
I’ve never been so happy, never known such happiness existed. Losing James has ended up being a blessing in disguise. Mary and James are happy and now I’m ecstatic! Could life be better? I doubt it. I am so filled with feelings of love. . . .
Judy shook her head and turned the page. She barely recognized the author anymore—just a faint feeling of déjà vu for a friend now long dead. Who was this love-struck girl who had written such corny, clichéd nonsense? If one of Judy’s students had ever handed in trash like this, Judy would have written a giant “See Me” on the top of the first page. But, alas, love was like that. By its definition, love called for corny clichés.
April 3, 1960
We’re going to visit my family today. I don’t expect them to be thrilled for me. I doubt they’ll understand. But how can they deny the glow in my face? How can they be upset when they see how happy we are? They will have to accept us. . . .
She smiled slightly. Reading the words, Judy once again felt the hope that had coursed through her young body so many years ago. How terrific life had been on that April morning. How beautiful the whole world had seemed. Even now Judy could still feel that tingle of excitement in her stomach. Everything was going to work out. Everything was going to be perfect, just like it was supposed to be.
Her smile vanished. How naive she had been. How fragile and elusive the few moments of joy had proved to be. But on that wonderful April day, who could have blamed such a happy, trusting girl for being blind to the cruelty that awaited her?
May 29, 1960
Help me. God, what have I done? The whole situation has become too much for me to handle. It’s completely out of control now. It’s taking on a life all of its own, and I don’t know where it will lead, fear the worst, but what else could possibly happen . . . ?
What else, indeed? Judy turned away from the diary. She did not read any more. May thirtieth was next. Her body felt cold. She could not bear to look at the words she had written on that day, could not bear to even think about that day.
May 30, 1960.
Her eyes closed in pain. Enough, already. Why was she tormenting herself like this? Why, when her relationship with Colin was bringing her true happiness for the first time in thirty years, had she come here in the first place? She should just let the past be; but of course, that was not what the past wanted. It cried out, demanding that its secrets be set free. And one day, the past would have its way. One day, Judy would be dead and this safety-deposit box would at last be opened. Its secrets would be let loose into the sunshine of truth, where, hopefully, they would wither and die. One day, this small booklet written by a hopeful, guileless young woman would let Laura know why her precious David had to leave her forever. And one day, Laura would learn what happened on May twenty-ninth and . . .
May 30, 1960.
Judy put the book back in the bottom of the box, closed it, and called for the clerk to take it back. She stood there and watched the clerk walk away with her most secret possession, not knowing that she would never see it again.
19
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since Laura had kissed Graham’s cheek, made him promise to call her as soon as he learned something, bade him good-bye, and boarded the Qantas Airways flight in Cairns. Now the Pan Am jet that had originated at LAX landed with a thud. Laura stared out the window, watching the blurry mass focus into Boston’s Logan Airport as the 747 coasted to a slower speed. She was exhausted, but Laura had not slept. Whenever she closed her eyes and tried, the same question kept nudging her awake.
She had been so foolish, so impatient, so damn young. Why couldn’t she just have sat back and waited? Eventually, he would have realized his mistake and come back to her.
Why did I do it? Why couldn’t I have just let it be?
But these were questions that had haunted her for thirty years, and still she had no answers. If only she could have it to do all over again. If only she hadn’t acted so stupidly. She folded the photograph and put it back in her purse.
“Miss Simmons?”
She looked up. Her safety-deposit box rested on the bank clerk’s forearm. “Would you like to follow me, please?” The bank clerk led Judy into a private room. “When you’re finished, just let me know.”
“Thank you.”
The bank clerk smiled and left. Judy turned toward her box. Her hand reached down and pulled back the top. The first thing she saw were some old treasury bonds her parents had left her. Her father had died suddenly years ago when he was only fifty-seven; her mother had passed away just last year. She missed them both terribly. So few people in this world love you unconditionally.
She thumbed past her birth certificate, the old warranties, the useless financial statements. Then she spotted it. Her fingers reached down, gripped the leather cover and pulled. The small booklet came out. With shaking hands, Judy placed it on the table in front of her. She read the fading cover:
Diary 1960
Since nineteen fifty-five, Judy had kept yearly diaries. All the events of her seemingly average life were kept safely tucked away on these blue-lined pages. And for the most part, average the words were—gibberish about her loss of virginity, her first time experimenting with marijuana, her secret fantasies. In a phrase, her yearly journals contained nothing beyond the standard diary drivel.
But not nineteen sixty.
Judy kept all her diaries stacked neatly in a closet at home; all, that was, except for the one she now held in her hand. Nineteen sixty—the one year she wished she could pull out of her life as she had pulled its diary away from the others. She had never mentioned anything about nineteen sixty in her subsequent diaries. As far as her other writings were concerned, nineteen sixty never existed. She had tried to keep the whole horrible incident locked in this one journal in some bizarre attempt to keep the rest of her life uncontaminated by that year.
It had not worked.
Nineteen sixty had spread. It had poisoned them all. It occasionally disappeared from view for as much as a decade or two, but it was still there, always there, always waiting to rear its ugly head when they least expected it to.
Judy slowly flipped open the diary. She skimmed through the writings of January and February. Her teary eyes gazed upon the handwriting of the college-age Judy—so blithe and carefree with large, elaborate lettering that flowed smoothly from one end of the page to the other. Hard to believe the same person who was reading this diary had also written it:March 18, 1960
I’ve never been so happy, never known such happiness existed. Losing James has ended up being a blessing in disguise. Mary and James are happy and now I’m ecstatic! Could life be better? I doubt it. I am so filled with feelings of love. . . .
Judy shook her head and turned the page. She barely recognized the author anymore—just a faint feeling of déjà vu for a friend now long dead. Who was this love-struck girl who had written such corny, clichéd nonsense? If one of Judy’s students had ever handed in trash like this, Judy would have written a giant “See Me” on the top of the first page. But, alas, love was like that. By its definition, love called for corny clichés.
April 3, 1960
We’re going to visit my family today. I don’t expect them to be thrilled for me. I doubt they’ll understand. But how can they deny the glow in my face? How can they be upset when they see how happy we are? They will have to accept us. . . .
She smiled slightly. Reading the words, Judy once again felt the hope that had coursed through her young body so many years ago. How terrific life had been on that April morning. How beautiful the whole world had seemed. Even now Judy could still feel that tingle of excitement in her stomach. Everything was going to work out. Everything was going to be perfect, just like it was supposed to be.
Her smile vanished. How naive she had been. How fragile and elusive the few moments of joy had proved to be. But on that wonderful April day, who could have blamed such a happy, trusting girl for being blind to the cruelty that awaited her?
May 29, 1960
Help me. God, what have I done? The whole situation has become too much for me to handle. It’s completely out of control now. It’s taking on a life all of its own, and I don’t know where it will lead, fear the worst, but what else could possibly happen . . . ?
What else, indeed? Judy turned away from the diary. She did not read any more. May thirtieth was next. Her body felt cold. She could not bear to look at the words she had written on that day, could not bear to even think about that day.
May 30, 1960.
Her eyes closed in pain. Enough, already. Why was she tormenting herself like this? Why, when her relationship with Colin was bringing her true happiness for the first time in thirty years, had she come here in the first place? She should just let the past be; but of course, that was not what the past wanted. It cried out, demanding that its secrets be set free. And one day, the past would have its way. One day, Judy would be dead and this safety-deposit box would at last be opened. Its secrets would be let loose into the sunshine of truth, where, hopefully, they would wither and die. One day, this small booklet written by a hopeful, guileless young woman would let Laura know why her precious David had to leave her forever. And one day, Laura would learn what happened on May twenty-ninth and . . .
May 30, 1960.
Judy put the book back in the bottom of the box, closed it, and called for the clerk to take it back. She stood there and watched the clerk walk away with her most secret possession, not knowing that she would never see it again.
19
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since Laura had kissed Graham’s cheek, made him promise to call her as soon as he learned something, bade him good-bye, and boarded the Qantas Airways flight in Cairns. Now the Pan Am jet that had originated at LAX landed with a thud. Laura stared out the window, watching the blurry mass focus into Boston’s Logan Airport as the 747 coasted to a slower speed. She was exhausted, but Laura had not slept. Whenever she closed her eyes and tried, the same question kept nudging her awake.
