Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

Dragon

We had a ring toss and a cornhole board in our backyard when I was little.

My dad used to play with me, and because I was way too little to toss the ring from where he could stand, I got to stand nearly on top of the thing, so I beat him every time.

Then he picked me up, threw me in the air, and said, “That’s my boy!”

I was four or five, and Mom was always stuck inside tending to Griffin.

Our grass was never green in the backyard. Colorado is notoriously dry, and if you don’t water your grass, it dies. Dad always kept the front yard watered so it looked good to passersby. But in our fenced backyard? He didn’t want to waste the money, so the grass always looked more like dirt.

That was okay with me. Little boys love dirt. I would run around in the backyard chasing bugs and butterflies and our old dog Cinnamon, who was my best friend.

She was a mutt. Looked a lot like a beagle. I loved that dog, and I was broken up when she died at the age of twelve, shortly before…

Fuck.

That’s how I think about my childhood.

There’s before.

And there’s after.

“Here you go,” my Uber driver says.

“Thanks.”

I get out of the car and stand in front of the house where I spent the first eight years of my childhood.

Looks the same, except that whoever lives there now doesn’t care about the front yard the way my father did. The grass is more brown than green.

The shrubs are the same, though much bigger now. The maple tree growing in front is huge, and the leaves have turned to gold and red.

I draw in a deep breath and walk to the front door.

I hate doorbells, so I knock.

A barking dog peeks its head through the window on the side of the door.

“Jacob, sit,” a woman’s voice says. Then she opens the door. She’s young, around my age, maybe even a little younger. Pretty, but not beautiful. Her mousy hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s dressed for comfort, not style. “Yes?”

I blink for a few seconds, unsure of what to say. Of course someone else lives here now. My parents wouldn’t want to live in the house where their daughter was injured and then abducted. Where their family was irreparably broken. This whole trip was for nothing.

Or was it?

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. But…I grew up in this house. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I was wondering if I could come in and look around.”

“Did you?” She looks me up and down. “My husband and I just bought this house a couple of months ago.”

“You did? From the Locke family?”

She shakes her head. “No, from the Garcia family.” She sticks her hand out. “My name is Lily Reinhart.”

I shake her hand. “I’m Dra…ven. Draven Sanders.”

Telling her my name is Locke might not be the best thing, and most people look at you sideways when you tell them your name is Dragon.

“It’s nice to meet you, Draven.” She gestures inside the house. “Sure. Come in. Pardon the mess.”

“Oh, no worries. I last lived here when I was nine, and I just happen to be in town.”

A child screams from the kitchen.

Lily widens her eyes. “Excuse me for a minute. She’s hungry.”

I peek into the small kitchen. A brown-haired baby sits in a highchair, and when she sees me, I smile at her.

She smiles back.

“She’s adorable,” I say.

“Yes, our little angel loves people.” Lily leans down and gives the child a kiss on the cheek. “She’ll smile at anyone. This is Draven, sweetheart.”

She bangs her fists on the tray of her highchair and smiles again.

Lily puts some Cheerios on the tray, and the baby eagerly gobbles them up.

“Go ahead and look around,” Lily says. “I need to get her fed.”

“Yeah, of course.” I nod. “And thanks for letting me in, though I think all I really need to look at is the backyard. It was a happy place for me when I was little.”

“Oh, sure. Go on out.” She points to the screen door that leads to the back.

Once I got in here, I knew I couldn’t look at my bedroom, where I had been when someone came through a window and hurt my baby sister. I sure as hell couldn’t look at Griffin’s bedroom, where I picked up a knife covered in my sister’s blood. Where my parents found me and thought the worst of me.

Those assholes didn’t believe me then, and they won’t believe me now. Why the hell did I come here again? What if my parents still lived here? What exactly did I think I’d say to them?

“Jacob’s out there,” Lily continues, “but he won’t hurt a fly. He’ll probably bug you to death for pets.”

“Not a problem. I love dogs.” I force a smile. “And thank you again. I’ll just let myself out of the gate when I’m finished.”

As I walk out onto the concrete slab outside the sliding glass doors, I marvel at how trusting this woman is. I don’t mean anyone any harm, but she has no idea who I am. I’m dressed fairly nicely in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, my long hair tied behind my back in a band, so I guess she doesn’t think I look like any kind of threat.

The outside is much like I remember it, and in my mind, I see the ring toss and the cornhole set. The old shed is still there, but its metal doors are rusted.

There’s a patio table on the old slab rather than the plastic lawn chairs that were there when my family lived here.

Again in my mind’s eye, I can see Griffin in her bouncer, toddling along on the slab of concrete. I see her squinting her eyes and grimacing from baby brain freeze when I gave her a bite of my popsicle.

God, I loved her.

Tears well in the bottoms of my eyes, but I sniff them back.

I got over crying about Griffin long ago.

And I only cried about my parents once.

I give Jacob a pat on the head, and then I leave the backyard, making sure to latch the gate so he can’t get out.

I stand in front of the house for a few moments, letting myself remember. The wreath on the front door, welcoming people. My mother always had a wreath on the door, no matter the season. A wreath of pink blossoms for springtime, another with dandelions for the summer. Wreaths of autumn leaves and harvest vegetables for fall, and then of course the traditional Christmas wreath.

After Christmas, it became a winter wreath, decorated with winter berries and white flowers. She had hearts for Valentine’s Day, shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, and then she started again with the springtime blossom wreath.

There was a time when my parents meant the world to me. A time when I could never imagine life without them, never imagine them turning on me.

Part of my therapy has always been to put myself in their shoes, try to understand what they were feeling the day they walked into Griffin’s bedroom, found her cut up, and found me holding the bloody knife from our own kitchen.

Since I’m not a parent myself, I’ve been told I can’t imagine the horror they must have felt seeing their baby sliced open.

Griffin lived, though I imagine she probably had a scar on her cheek from the deep cut.

How?

How could you turn your back on one child for another? I remember being frantic. Screaming, crying that I hadn’t done it.

That I would never hurt Griffin.

Didn’t they notice the open window?

I don’t know what they were thinking.

And I didn’t look back.

Not until now.

This is the first time I’ve set my sights on this house since the day I left it when I was eight years old.

I never looked at anything else, either. My therapist has advised me to pull the police report from the night Griffin was attacked as well as the night she was abducted.

But I haven’t.

I wasn’t even sure my parents filed one the night she was attacked. After all, they thought I had done it.

But then my therapist told me what I hadn’t allowed myself to consider. They most likely did file a police report. They would’ve had to in order to give up their parental rights.

The police department is closed now, but maybe tomorrow I’ll drive back up here and pay a visit to the Thornton Police Department to see the records.

Or perhaps they’re accessible online. That would certainly be easier.

But I can’t think about any of that now.

I close my eyes and try to remember the good times at this house.

Like the Christmas before Griffin was born, when I got Hot Wheels that went upside down.

I had seen them on TV, and I wanted them, and they were there under the Christmas tree from Santa. I spent the entire day staring at my new toy, mystified by the physical forces that allowed the small cars to stay on their tracks, seemingly defying gravity.

And of course I revisit the warm memory of my father giving me my first drum after Griffin was born.

It wasn’t all bad.

I walk up the block, looking at my neighbors’ houses for the first time in many years. The Osbornes lived two doors down, and I used to play with their little boy, Ricky. He had an older brother, Malcolm, who was a teenager. He used to help my mom with odd jobs when Dad was working overtime. He loved Griffin and always sneaked candy to her, but he couldn’t stand Ricky and me. Thought we were a pain in his ass, which we kind of were. He especially hated my drum. He always said he wanted to take a hatchet to it. Whatever happened to them?

An older couple lived a few doors down from the Osbornes. Mrs. Ortiz baked the best cookies. When we were out playing and got hungry, we’d run to her house, where she’d invite us in for the very best warm oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. She often brought my mother homemade breads and cakes. Those were good days.

I walk out of our neighborhood and up toward the strip mall where Ricky and I used to ride our bikes and get sweets at the old-fashioned candy store.

That store is long gone, and in its place is a plasma donation center.

It’s open, so I walk in.

“Hello,” a receptionist greets me. “How can I help you?”

I look around. “Just wondering a little about this place.”

The receptionist grabs a pamphlet. “Are you interested in donating?”

“I don’t know.”

“We pay fifty dollars per donation, if that spurs your interest.” She hands me the pamphlet.

My eyebrows nearly jump off my forehead. “You pay ?”

“We do.” She smiles. “Fifty dollars for the first five donations, and forty dollars per donation after that.”

“Is it like giving blood?”

“Sort of. Donating plasma is a process that involves extracting plasma from your blood and returning the remaining components back to your body.”

“And you’ll pay me for that?”

“Yeah. We’re always looking for more people to donate. Plasma donations are crucial for medical treatments, including treating burn victims, patients with immune disorders, and those undergoing certain medical procedures.”

Seems like a no-brainer for someone who needs money. “Sure. Sign me up.”

“Okay.” She hands me a clipboard. “Fill this out and bring it back to me.”

I take a seat in one of the plastic chairs and read through the form. When I get to the section on previous drug abuse, I freeze.

So much for making an extra buck on the side.

I put the clipboard down on the chair next to me, and without saying another word to the cheery receptionist, I walk out.