Never Knowing

doing with my time. I tried to envision myself feeling light and happy as I looked at wedding decorations and invitations. But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the Campsite Killer — where he was, who he was. I even went back to the site and looked at the photos of all his victims again. My thoughts always turned to Julia. Did she get my message? Did she hate me? On Monday I got my answer.

I was out in my workshop, scrubbing varnish off my hands while Stevie Nicks belted out “Sometimes it’s a bitch…,” when I heard the phone. I scrambled through the pile of tools and equipment on my bench to a mound of rags, under which was the cordless. The number was private.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Sara, please?”

I recognized the cultured voice. My pulse sped up.

“Is this Julia?”

“Are you alone?” Her voice sounded tight.

“I’m in my workshop, Ally’s at school. I was just getting ready to go inside for some lunch — I skipped breakfast this morning.…” I was babbling.

“You shouldn’t have called again.”

“I’m sorry. I’d just found out who you really are and I wasn’t thinking—”

“Obviously.” It hurt, and I caught my breath.

“Don’t call here again.” And she hung up.

I handled it with my usual grace and aplomb — chucked the phone clear across my workshop, which knocked the battery out of the back and sent it spinning under a shelf. Then stormed into the house and ate a bunch of Ally’s Oreo snack packs and Ritz Bits cheese sandwiches, cursing with every mouthful. She’d spoken to me like I was something she’d stepped in, something she wanted to scrape off her shoe. My face burned and tears stung my eyes when I thought what I always thought after an ex-boyfriend dumped me or stood me up, or when Dad didn’t hold my hand when I reached for his: What’s wrong with me?

An hour later I was still too upset to focus on any work. And wedding stuff? Forget about it. I considered calling Evan, but then I’d have to explain what I’d done in the first place. I grabbed my car keys.

Lauren and Greg still live in the first house they bought after they were married — Mom and Dad helped with the down payment, which meant Dad told them what to buy. It’s just a basic 1970s-style four-bedroom box, but it overlooks Departure Bay and has a fantastic view of the ferries as they come around Newcastle Island. I’d wanted to move to the same neighborhood, but nothing was for sale when Evan and I were house-hunting. We ended up in a newer subdivision, but I love our home. It’s a West Coast contemporary with cedar plank siding, earth-toned granite countertops, and stainless steel appliances.

Greg’s still in the process of restoring their house, but it’s going to be beautiful when they’re done. Lauren’s brightened it up a lot over the years with handmade curtains, pastel walls, vases full of fresh flowers. I’m constantly pilfering from her vegetable garden.

I rapped on the back door, then pushed it open. “Hey, it’s Sara.”

She yelled down from upstairs, “Brandon’s room!”

When I got to the room — decorated in hockey motif — I found Lauren putting away laundry. I curled up on the quilt with its Canucks logo and hugged the pillow as I watched Lauren, envying how content she is with her life.

She paused with a pair of socks in her hand. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Her voice was teasing as she said, “You have to tell me now.” She held a sock up like she was going to throw it at me.

“I’m okay. I just wanted to hang out for a bit.”

“Are you still upset about your birth mother?” She turned and put the socks away, opened the next drawer.

I hadn’t planned on telling her, just wanted to be around her warmth for a while, but before I knew it the words were coming out.

“I found out who my real father is.”

She turned around, a small blue T-shirt clutched in her hand.

“You don’t sound happy. Who is he?”

I was torn between my fear of what Lauren might think and my need for her to tell me it was okay, to make me feel better like she always does. I remembered Evan’s warning not to tell anyone. I remembered my vow to Julia not to tell anyone. But this was my sister.

“You can’t tell anyone about this — not even Greg.”

She placed her hand across her heart. “Promise.”

My face felt hot as I said, “You’ve heard of the Campsite Killer, right?”

“Everyone’s heard of the Campsite Killer. Why?”

“He’s my father.”

Her jaw dropped open and she stared at me with a stunned expression for what felt like hours. Finally she sat beside me on the bed.

“That’s just … Are you sure? How did you find out?”

I sat up, the pillow in my lap, and told her about the private investigator and everything that had happened since. I searched her face, waiting to see all the horrible things I’ve been thinking mirrored in her eyes. But she just looked concerned.

She said, “Maybe Evan’s right and it’s just a coincidence?”

I shook my head. “The way she spoke to me today — she hates me.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. She probably—”

“No, you’re right, it’s worse than that, it’s like I disgust her.” My voice was thick as I tried not to cry.

Lauren rubbed my back. “I’m so sorry, Sara. The people who matter love you. Does that help?”

Except Dad didn’t love me, and the fact that she wouldn’t see it made it even more painful.

“You don’t understand what it feels like to be adopted, to have your birth mother give you away like you’re a piece of garbage, then reject you again. I’ve been waiting to meet her for years, and now…” I shook my head.

“I know it hurts, but you can’t forget all the good in your life.”

Lauren was about to say something else when we heard a voice downstairs.

“Hello, hello, hello, witches.” Melanie.

Lauren said, “We’re up here.” I gave her a look and she made a zipping motion across her mouth.

Melanie came around the corner and dumped her purse on the floor.

“Thanks for hogging the whole driveway with your Cherokee, Sara.”

“Not like I knew you were coming over.”

She ignored me and turned to Lauren. “Thanks for your help the other day. Kyle and I appreciated it.”

Lauren waved her hand in the air. “No problem.”

I said, “What’s going on?”

“Not everything’s about you and the wedding.” Melanie smiled like she was joking, but it didn’t meet her eyes. Melanie looks Italian like our mom, but she wears her dark hair in a short spiky cut and favors bold red lips and kohl-circled eyes. When she’s not glaring at the world or sulking about something, she’s a knockout.

Dad loved taking her to all his logging camps with him when she was growing up — he was convinced she was going to be an accountant and help run his business. But as soon as she hit her teens the only thing Melanie wanted to spend time counting was boyfriends. And she found plenty of them at the pub where she tends bar. It used to be Dad’s favorite hangout, but he hasn’t stepped foot in the place since she started working there when she turned nineteen.

Lauren said, “Kyle needed a place to rehearse so I let them use the garage.”