Never Knowing

picked up the story, comparing her to one of Ted Bundy’s victims who had also escaped. When Karen disappeared the articles changed to speculation about where she was, then gradually the coverage disappeared.

That morning I also got the e-mail from Tom with Julia’s photos at the university, walking to her car, outside her home with Katharine. I compared hers to online photos of Karen Christianson. It was definitely the same woman. In one shot Julia was touching a student’s arm, smiling encouragingly. I wondered if she touched me after she gave birth, or just told them to take me away.

This week I went through the motions, but I felt flat, disconnected — angry. I didn’t know what to do with this new reality, the horror of my conception. I wanted to bury it in the backyard, far away from anyone’s eyes. My skin crawled with knowledge, with the evil that I’d looked into, that had created me. I took long showers. Nothing helped. The dirt was on the inside.

When I was a kid I used to think my birth parents would come back if I was just good enough. If I got in trouble, I worried they’d find out. Every good grade in school was so they’d know I was smart. When Dad looked at me like he was trying to figure out who let me into his house, I told myself they were coming. When I watched him play piggyback with Melanie and Lauren after telling me he was too tired, I told myself they were coming. When he took the girls to the pool and left me to mow the lawn, I told myself they were coming. They never did.

Now I just wanted to forget they existed. But no matter what I did or the million ways I tried to distract myself, I couldn’t get rid of the dark, heavy feeling pressing down on my chest, grabbing at my legs. Evan had been out of cell range for most of the week with a group. When he was finally able to phone I tried to listen about the lodge, tried to make the appropriate responses, tried to share about Ally’s day, then I ended the call after a while, claiming fatigue. I was going to tell him, I just needed more time. But the next morning he picked up on it right away.

“Okay, what’s going on? Don’t want to marry me anymore?” He laughed, but his voice was worried.

“You might not want to marry me after you hear this.” I took a deep breath. “I found out why Julia lied.” I looked at the door, knowing Ally would be up soon.

“Julia? I don’t know who—”

“My birth mother, remember? I heard from the PI last week. He told me her real name’s Karen Christianson.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you found her?” He sounded confused.

“Because I also found out my real father is the Campsite Killer.”

Silence.

Evan finally said, “Come on. You don’t actually mean—”

“I mean my real father’s a murderer, Evan. I mean he raped my mother. I mean—” I couldn’t say what else has been driving my nightmares: My father’s still out there.

“Sara, slow down. I’m trying to take this all in.” When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Sara?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “I don’t … I don’t know what to do.”

“Just start at the top and tell me what’s going on.” I leaned against my pillow, clinging to the strength in Evan’s voice. Once I was done explaining everything, he said, “So you don’t know for sure Julia is this Karen person?”

“I looked at her photos online myself. It’s her.”

“But there’s no proof the Campsite Killer is your father. It’s all just speculation. She could’ve hooked up with a guy after.”

“Rape victims don’t usually just ‘hook up’ with someone right away. And there was a woman at her house — I think she might be gay.”

“She might be now, but you don’t know what she was into back then. For all you know she was pregnant at the time of the attack. This private investigator could be scamming you.”

“He used to be a cop.”

“So he says. I bet he calls and tells you he can find out more for a price.”

“He wasn’t like that.” But was Evan right? Had I jumped to conclusions? Then I remembered the look on Julia’s face. “No, she was seriously freaked out.”

“You showed up on her doorstep and demanded she talk to you. That would scare anybody.”

“It was more than that. I can feel it — in my gut.”

Evan paused for a moment, then said, “E-mail me the links — and the photos that guy sent you, his Web site too. I have some time this morning, I’ll read over everything and call you at lunch. We’ll talk about it, okay?”

“Maybe I should call Julia—”

“That’s a really bad idea. Don’t do anything.”

I didn’t answer.

“Sara.” His voice was firm.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay, okay.”

Ally was now talking to Moose in her room, so Evan and I said our good-byes. I tried to be cheerful for Ally as we made toad-in-a-holes with ketchup smiley faces. But every time I looked into her innocent eyes I wanted to cry. What will I say when she’s old enough to start asking about my family?

After I drove Ally to school I took Moose for a hike, thinking the fresh air might help. But I knew it was a mistake as soon as I stepped into the woods. Normally I love the scent of fir needles in the air, of earth rich and fragrant after a rain the night before. All the different woods: red cedar, Douglas fir, Sitka spruce. But now moss- covered trees loomed over me and blocked out any light. The air seemed thick and quiet, my footsteps loud. Every dark corner of the forest caught my eye. A gnarled stump with one branch reaching out, a dead tree with ferns growing from it, the gap behind it blanketed by rotting leaves. Did he rape her in a spot like that? Moose, running ahead, startled a deer and it bounded off, its brown eyes wild with fear. I imagined Julia fleeing through the woods, her body cut and bleeding, her breath frantic, hunted down like an animal.

I came home and tore apart my workshop. The plan was to organize my supplies and clean my tools, then hang them back up in some semblance of order, but when I saw the mess I’d made — chisels, rubber mallet, clamps, orbital sander, brushes, rags, and paper towels piled up all over my workbench — I couldn’t think straight enough to hang a ruler. I picked up a broom and started sweeping up shavings.

Evan phoned at lunch as promised, but his cell kept cutting out.

“I’ll call when … off … water.… Following … pod … humpbacks.”

Back in my shop I concentrated on sanding a mahogany Chippendale-style chest. As I smoothed away years of scratches and grooves, I reveled in the fresh wood scent, the rasp of sandpaper. With each stroke my muscles relaxed and my mind began to calm. But then the mahogany wood made me think of Julia’s office. No wonder she didn’t want to talk to me — she was still traumatized by what had happened, and seeing me brought everything back. But she didn’t have to be scared of me. Maybe she was just afraid I might expose her secret? I stopped sanding. If I reassured her I wouldn’t tell anyone …

The phone was on my desk. Julia’s number at the university was still on a Post-it stuck to the base of my computer.

After four rings I got a computer recording: “You’ve reached the mailbox for Professor Laroche in the Art History Department. Please leave a message.”

“Hi, it’s Sara Gallagher. I don’t want to upset you again, I just…”

The silence stretched out. I started to panic. What if I said something wrong? Stop, calm down. I took a deep breath and said, “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry I came to your house like that, but I understand now why you were so upset. I just need to know my medical history. I was hoping we could talk?” I rattled off my number, twice, and my e-mail. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but I’m a nice person and I have a family and I don’t know what to tell my daughter and—” To my horror my voice broke and I started to cry. I hung up.