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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

“The old house. Go there. Ask Gal and Gary. It’s the least you could do.” She pushed her chair out and left the room.

50

50

I drove straight there. Not because I owed Holly anything but because things should have been coming into focus, but they weren’t.

I matched the address she gave me to the address on the mailbox. I pulled to the curb in front of our old house and stared at the narrow two-story. How had all of us fit in there?

The wood siding was painted yellow. Baskets sprouting lush ferns hung from the fascia. Two white Adirondack chairs angled toward each other on the porch beneath the baskets. The house seemed worn, but loved. The current occupants were yellow-happy, hanging-baskets-happy. A minivan sat in the driveway. A maple with lumpy roots was buckling the sidewalk.

I felt nothing. No longing. No anger. No nostalgia. I barely recognized it. If Holly hadn’t given me the address, and I’d been on a walk in this neighborhood, I wouldn’t have known this was the house where I’d spent my first six years. Who remembers their first six years anyway?

I found comfort in that. Whenever I yelled at Emily or gave poor advice, I took a deep breath and told myself, she’s only six, she’ll never remember you this way. By the time she’s twelve though, you’d better have your act together.

Was our sugar maple, that peacock of a tree, still standing in the backyard?

The memory slid into focus: Becky hanging from the clothesline, one shoe on, one off, hands in tight fists, neck clawed, broken blood vessels webbing the skin around her eyes, the fall foliage a stunning backdrop of trembling yellow and peach. Branch creaking under her weight.

I didn’t want to know if the tree was still there.

Which house belonged to Gal and Gary?

I was pretty sure it’s the one to my left. I used to run out the back door of our house and swerve left to jump in their pool.

From the street, I had a view of where their pool had once been. They’d removed it and planted grass. Beyond the backyard, a stretch of thin forest.

This is the place where I once died. Drowned.

Based on a collage of my siblings’ memories, the whole family was at the Kenders’. My brothers were playing horseshoes with Gary. Mom, Dad, and Gal were sitting in lawn chairs, smoking and drinking beer.

They had an above-ground circular pool. It was crappy, but to us kids, there was nothing more magical. Becky and the Kender girls played Marco Polo. I was excluded because I was too small. Too little to play water-tag, but not too little to swim unsupervised in a five-foot-deep swimming pool, go figure.

I circled the pool, hand-over-hand along the edge. Occasionally I dolphin-dove, trying to touch the mysterious, sky-blue, bubble-gum-plastic bottom of the pool.