Twenty-One: Life Story

Susan kept the gun, but the Bay Café was a public place so Max wasn't too worried that she would use it. She was only fractionally worried. Like 1.8% worried.

They bought coffee and retreated to the furthest table at the back. And then they sat in awkward silence. After a minute or so, Max cleared her throat. "So... umm.. I'm Max and this Chloe. We–"

"I know who you are," Susan said without looking at them. "Joyce Price's daughter and her girlfriend, the photographer who's trying to do some sort of crowdfunding project for the town." She glanced up. "It's a small football field we're stuck in. Word gets around."

Sitting next to Max, close enough that their shoulders touched, Chloe gave Susan wary looks between sips of coffee. Max could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders that Chloe was in bodyguard mode again.

This was getting them nowhere. Maybe she needed to change tack.

"Did you get the job?" Max said.

Susan looked puzzled, but at least now she was looking up at them. "Job?"

Max nodded. "Last month you asked me if the bus had been by. You were going to a job interview in Newport."

There was no mirth in Susan's laughter. "Oh I got the job but then thanks to the storm I lost the one I had here. Along with everything else." Max swallowed a lump in her throat. That was her fault too. "But I didn't tell you my name," Susan said. She gave them a hard look. A prickling of fear made the hairs on the back of Max's neck stand on end; Susan still had the gun.

Chloe sipped her coffee, meeting Susan scowl for scowl. "I've been doing volunteer shit with the cleanup crews. I spotted the tree you and Michelle carved your names into. It was hella mangled by the storm and your box was tangled up in the roots."

Shaking her head, Susan wrapped her hands around her paper cup as if she were trying to warm them. "I buried that box eighteen years ago."

"Chloe and I found Jefferson's bunker last month. We've seen his... work." She had to swallow hard, remembering pictures of Kate... and of herself. The staring eyes, the duct tape. "When I saw the photo of Michelle I knew it was one of his."

Susan was staring at her now, eyes narrowed. "Hold on. That photo wasn't in the box."

Max blinked. "You're right, that was from the other box."

They explained about the lost and found boxes that they'd been sorting through, about how it had turned up in a pile of lost photos. Susan listened and then bowed her head, holding her face in her hands. She looked so unlike her younger self from the photos, so worn down, like a shirt that had been through the wash too many times and gotten threadbare and faded. "I can't believe this. I kept that photo. It was the only one I kept. As evidence. Just in case." She shook her head. "I thought I'd lost it when the storm hit. I lost everything except my car."

"We found it," Max said. "And the box. The rest we pieced together from the internet."

"And what exactly did you piece together?"

Max took a deep breath, hands balled on her knees. Under the table, Chloe placed a hand over one of those fists and squeezed. They exchanged a look. A tiny smile made its way to Max's lips. Maybe it wouldn't be the whole truth, but the story she told would be close enough. "Michelle went to Blackwell. She graduated in 1990. After that, the two of you left Arcadia Bay and went to Seattle together. She worked at a bar called Puget Fugit. In 1994, you both got caught in a drive-by shooting outside the bar. You had medical bills. You needed money. Jefferson was in Seattle then. He was just getting really well-known. I'm guessing you met him and he offered to pay Michelle to model and... something happened. He drugged her and she–" Max looked up. Susan's face was frozen–no expression, like a blank mask. "We found the obituary in the Seattle Times archives online."

"You found all this out from the internet?"

Biting her lip, Max glanced at Chloe. "Not just the internet. There were school records and–"

"You were the ones at Blackwell the other night!" Susan groaned. "I thought it was security."

Chloe leaned forward over the table. "Dude, what were you doing there? We thought you were going to blow our fucking heads off."

Susan shrugged. "I was looking for Jefferson's staff record." A long breath puffed out of Susan's lungs, her shoulders sagging, like she was a blow-up doll that had had its plug pulled. "It sounds like your research project worked out better than mine." She didn't look at them, her eyes on the table as if she were staring through it to something far away. "We met Jefferson through an acquaintance. We–no, it started before that. If we hadn't gotten shot..."

Her hand moved to her side, to where'd she'd been shot all those years ago. Then she shook her head and looked up at them. Again. "We both got hit by the same bullet. She had her arm around my waist and it went through her arm, into my back, and got stuck in a rib. We were both in the hospital. I had to have surgery. After that we were drowning in debt. We could barely cover rent and food and our meds." She paused, massaging her left temple as if it were beginning to ache. "I couldn't sleep after it happened. So I was taking these industrial strength sleeping pills. And she had pain meds. Her wrist hurt all the time. She had trouble doing anything with her left arm."

Susan's expression darkened as she went on. "So we met with Mark Jefferson. He said he was putting together a punk-themed collection. And he suggested we start with an informal shoot at our place so he could see us in our element." She rolled her eyes. "Oh we figured he probably wanted us to take our clothes off but we needed the money badly so..."

Susan's voice sounded shaky. Chloe shifted in her chair, obviously uncomfortable. Max didn't really know what to do either. If she'd been talking to someone her age, she'd have reached out, squeezed her arm maybe, but it felt weird to do that with someone who could've been her mom.

"He came over with his camera and a bottle of wine. He chatted us up and moved the lights around and took some pictures and then he broke out the wine. We all had some. And... I blacked out. I woke up in the morning and... and she didn't."

In the silence that followed, Max's thoughts walked that path along with Susan, what it must have been like to find Michelle that morning, lying in their apartment, not moving, not breathing. Calling 9-1-1. Paramedics rushing in. Did they try to resuscitate her? Or was it too late? Like it would've been for Chloe that day in the bathroom?

Under the table, Max squeezed Chloe's hand, intertwining their fingers, clinging to her. Chloe was real. Chloe was alive. She wasn't a ghost; she was flesh and blood, her beautiful, badass Chloe.

Susan crossed her arms tightly over her chest as if she were trying to hold all the pieces of herself together, and inspected the café's ceiling. "The official cause of death was accidental overdose. They said she must have taken my pills instead of hers by accident." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Bullshit," she spat. And then she looked right at the two of them. "We were careful with our medications. She kept hers with her so she could take them when she needed them, but I kept mine in the medicine cabinet. I always, always took them there and left the bottle there. Always. But that morning the bottle was in our living room. That bastard." She stopped, rubbed her eyes. An employee who was mopping the floor nearby gave them a speculative look. Max offered her best "everything's awesome" smile until he turned back to his work. "He used the bathroom. He probably went through the medicine cabinet while he was taking a piss and decided to dose us."

"I'm sorry," Max said, still clutching Chloe's hand. Chloe's knee bumped against hers and stayed there. And for a moment Max wished she could still rewind time so she could go back to yesterday morning and laze in the sunlight under mounds blankets with Chloe's bare skin pressed against hers. She wanted to camp out in that moment for the rest of her life and forget all this awfulness. All these terrible things that kept happening to people. "What about the police?"

A bark of laughter greeted Max's question. "The police didn't believe me. After all he was an up-and-coming photographer and we were..." Her hands balled themselves into fists, her knuckles blanching. "We were a couple of punks. Dykes. Sluts. Prescription drug-addicts."

Chloe leaned back into her chair, shaking her head. "Fuckers. Same shit, different decade."

"But what about the photo?" Max said. "They must have asked to see the shots he took that night and once they saw that one..."

Susan shook her head. "The photos he showed the police were all from before I blacked out. But that one–the one I kept... Someone slipped it under the apartment door. I showed it to the police but it didn't change anything." Her lips thinned. She took several short breaths. "I'm sure he's the one who left it for me. He was fucking with me. Bastard." She closed her eyes, and took a shaky breath.

"He does that," Max said quietly.

The scowl on Chloe's face was nothing short of ferocious as she leaned forward over the table. "Okay I get that you want to get your revenge and want to blow his fucking head off for what he did, but I need that gun back."

"It's not about revenge. I will not let him touch Belinda."

"Your girlfriend?" Chloe said.

"My daughter."

Chloe glared at her. "Wait back it up. You've got a kid?"

Susan brought her cup to her lips and then grimaced. "Cold," she muttered. "Yes. I have daughter. She's fourteen and she hates me. She's living with her father in Portland." Chloe was still frowning, her eyes darting down to Susan's coat, hanging off the back of her chair. She'd stashed the gun in the right side pocket. "You don't know," Susan said, shaking her head. "You have no clue. When you have it so easy."

"Easy?" Chloe said, springing to her feet. "Fuck that."

"Chloe!" Max hissed, tugging on her sleeve to pull her back down. She glanced over her shoulder to see the barista staring in their direction.

Susan looked from Max to Chloe. "You walk around holding hands. In front of everyone. In front of your parents. It wasn't like that for us. I had to leave home before my father could throw me out. Her mom pretended we were just friends. She told people I was her roommate." She said it like it was a particular nasty slur. "When her mother came for her things I had to hide whatever I wanted to keep. They wouldn't even let me go to the funeral."

"That's awful," Max said. Chloe had taken her seat again but her shoulders were tight, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at Susan.

"I need more coffee," Susan announced as she got to her feet. Chloe eyed the coat–a second before Susan pulled it off the back of the chair and slung it over her arm.

Chloe stared daggers at Susan's retreating form. "She'd better give me the gun back or I'm going to fucking turn her in to David."

"Chloe..." Max reached out, letting her hand rest on Chloe's shoulder. Chloe bristled.

"And she owes me for my truck window."

"She lost everything in the storm," Max said, trying to keep the volume low. They really didn't need to attract any extra attention.

Chloe huffed. "So did I."

"Not everything." The strain of the past day was starting to take its toll and her voice cracked.

When Chloe turned to look at Max, her expression had softened. She slung an arm around Max's shoulders and Max leaned her head against Chloe and for a minute they stayed like that until Susan returned with another paper cup of coffee.

Once Susan was back in her seat and sipping her coffee, Chloe spoke. "So why the hell did you come back to Bigfootsville? You got out. Why come back?"

"The bills," Susan said. "I was broke. And alone. Dad had buggered off by then–thank God–so mom took me in. And I..." She sighed and took another sip of coffee, cursing when she burned her tongue. "I came back to Arcadia Bay and decided I'd just pretend to be normal. Because why the hell not? Nothing mattered anymore. Not for a long time."

"So," Max began tentatively, "your mom hadn't told anyone you were..."

Susan raised an eyebrow. "Gay as a goddam rainbow? No." She sniffed. "She just told people I'd left for Seattle." And for a moment Max could see the girl from the photos sitting there in front of her–young, rebellious, and angry. "So I got married. As you can imagine," she said, waving a hand vaguely, "it didn't last long. But I had Belinda." She heaved a sigh and the girl was gone again, replaced by the worn down woman at the bus stop. "It was a year–a whole year–before I realized that Belinda was the name of one of the vocalists in Mich–" She faltered and paused, clearing her throat. "Michelle's favourite band. My Bloody Valentine. They had this album that came out just after we finished high school. She played it all the time. All the time."

"Did you go to Blackwell too?" Max asked, hoping to move to a less fraught topic.

Susan shook her head. "No. I went to Bay High. Michelle's family came here from Portland when she was a senior. She was a good student and they thought Blackwell would look better on her college applications." A huff of laughter. "And then she met me." She plucked the lid off her coffee and stared into her cup for a minute without speaking. Finally, she shook her head. "Her mother tried to get her to come home when I was in the hospital. If she'd just gone with her, she'd be alive."

"She loved you," Max said quietly.

"And look where it got her." Susan's hands clenched into fists again. "I won't let him do the same to Belinda. All I've wanted since she was born is for her to have a good life. To be able to be whatever she decides." Another huff of mirthless laughter. "So of course she decided she wants to be a photographer. And she wants to go to Blackwell to take classes with Mark Jefferson."

Max's heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. Only a couple of months ago she had wanted the same thing. And she had ended up in the dark room. "Did you tell her what happened?"

"Of course not. I haven't talked to anyone about this in eighteen years." Susan sighed. "My daughter thinks I'm an ogre because I won't let her go to Blackwell. But my ex–a complete jackass–decided that he'd pay for her to go to Blackwell when she turns seventeen." She gripped the edges of the table until her knuckles were white. "I would rather she hate me than have her go to that school while Mark Jefferson is there. I had this whole plan. I bought a gun. But then the storm hit and I lost it along with everything else." She shook her head. "When I read the news about all the other girls... People are saying that he's going to get off. That it's all some bullshit frame-up by the Prescotts." She looked up at them again, her gaze steely. "Blowing his brains out before he hurts anyone else still sounds like a good idea."

"You don't have to do that." Max couldn't help but think that she sounded a little desperate, just like she had that day on the rooftop with Kate.

"So you said." Absently rubbing the tattoo on her arm, Susan looked from Chloe to Max. "Well, I told you my life story so I think it's about time you tell me about the graveyard."

And so Max explained about the grave and the photo and Nathan. She explained about the message Nathan had left on her phone warning her about Jefferson and how little time Jefferson must have had to hide the body. And she explained about Jefferson's hints, about the games he'd played with his students. When she was done, Susan was still and pale.

"The thing is..." She swallowed and then paused to bring her cup to her lips before starting again. "I was at the cemetery the night before the storm. I... uh... I go sometimes to leave flowers. For Michelle." She cleared her throat. "And as I was leaving I saw him. He was there, getting something out of his car. I thought it was camera equipment but I was trying to hurry to get the hell out of there so it could've been something else. Like a shovel."

A sudden burst of–of something–hope maybe–sent Max's heart racing. It wasn't proof, but an eyewitness account of Jefferson snooping around the graveyard... Surely that had to be enough to get the Bay police force to at least look into it. "Will you go to the police? Please?"

"And give me that gun back?" Chloe added. Max supposed it would have been too much to ask for Chloe to add a 'please' or to make the request without staring daggers at Susan.

"I'll tell you what," Susan said, rising from her seat and pulling on her coat. "I'll go to the police and if they find the body I'll give your gun back. If not..." She patted her coat pocket. "Well... I might still need it."