She cuts into a parking spot in the center of town, and as we walk down the street it soon becomes clear that Linda Rowan is nothing new in the village. The locals watch us as we walk and stare at Linda, not in an oh, they are famous sort of way, but rather an oh my god the weirdo has returned type way. For what it’s worth, Linda behaves nicely in Lake George. Please, thank you, and other pleasantries.

Unexpectedly, she pulls me into a thrift store. “If you need any more clothes this is the best place to find it in the village. You wouldn’t believe the shit they have here.”

She starts searching busily through tables and racks. We try on silly hats, rummage through purses, and Linda falls in love with an incredible sixties style mini dress that somehow managed to end up on a Goodwill table. She looks beautiful in it, Linda looks beautiful in everything, and I smile as she pays for the dress. This the little dress from the thrift store makes her happy in a way I haven’t seen before. Is Linda happy underneath it all? It’s hard to tell. It is hard to tell what any of the dysfunctional feel.

Linda tucks her wallet into her purse. “Why didn’t you buy anything? Are you a snob or something?”

I laugh because I know she’s just messing with me. “You got the best dress there.”

She smiles and drags me from the store. “I used to love thrift shopping when I was in college. No money, just trying to find treasures. Do you girls do that in Santa Barbara?”

“Not so much.”

Linda’s face lights up. “I love this place. I need to grab some books. It’s going to be a long week without any new ones.”

We next stop at a used bookstore, because Linda likes used and not new. We are very similar in some ways. I toy with the idea of stopping in at the little boutique on the corner to buy some new clothes, so I can return Linda’s things to her, but I haven’t worked out in my head how to return them without hurting her feelings. She was happy to be able to lend them to me. I don’t have the heart to tell her I hate them.

As the day wears on, I start to feel a little emotional. Linda’s manner is almost parental, and I wonder if shopping with Mom would have felt like this if she had lived. I never got to do any of these girl things with my mother, not like this.

As we buy ice cream, I get the courage to ask. “How old are you, Linda?”

Linda’s laughs. “I’m thirty, and yes I know I come across as a mother hen. Just part of always having to be the one who keeps everyone from killing each other.”

We take our ice cream to a bench by the lake and sit there, staring out at the water.

Linda closes her eyes, exhales slowly, smiles, and then opens her eyes again. “I love sitting and just watching people.”

“Me too.”

“It’s good that you’re getting a little quiet time for yourself. This can’t be an easy adjustment. I remember what it felt like for me when I was you.”

“You?”

Linda laughs. “New girl in the pack. Fortunately, only Kenny and Bianca were together back then. The guys hated me. Len gave me such shit.”

Oh no. Something in her voice makes it nakedly clear why she and Alan are so close. They had a thing together, probably before Jeanette. At some time in Alan’s complicated history they had a thing.

I look at Linda and I feel sick. Why does everything about Alan contain some sort of hidden bomb, unexpected and emotionally unsettling. I toss my cone into the trash.

“Can we go back now?”

She rummages through her purse for her keys. “Sure. It’s almost dark anyway, and I hate to drive those roads in the dark. No street lights.”

Linda takes a fast lick of her cone, tosses it, and springs up from the bench, totally unaware that she’s just killed the enjoyment of the day for me.

She plops down into the driver’s seat and waits for me. “I think you have dinner duty tonight. Bianca turns into a total bitch if we ignore her schedule. Like she’ll have to wash one extra dish once in her life. So obsessed with the equality thing.”

“Then we have a problem. I don’t know how to cook.”

I turn to stare out the window. She jams the car in gear and pulls from the curb.

I can feel her eyes studying me. “That’s OK. I can help you.”

“No, Alan can fucking do the cooking for me since he’s the reason I’m trapped here.”

“OK.”

Linda backs off. We drive in silence, Linda alternately staring at me and the road.

I start to cry halfway back to the farm. Linda is trying to drive and is anxiously studying me.

“Please, Chrissie, stop crying!”

I stare out the window and ignore her.

Linda slaps her mouth with her hand. “Me and my big mouth. I’m sorry, Chrissie. I would never do anything to hurt you. It wasn’t deliberate. I don’t think sometimes. I just really like you. I feel comfortable talking to you, and I just don’t think.” I can feel her stare on me. “Shit! Me and my big mouth.”

“It’s no big deal. I’m fine.” My voice is quiet, hollow, like a pouty child and I hate that.

“Bullshit, you are not fine and I can see it.”

The Ferrari screeches as she turns off to park on the side of the road.

Her probing stare is locked on me again. “Chrissie, if it’s no big deal, why are you crying?”

“I’m just a fucked up girl. Can’t we just leave it at that,” I snap, still not looking at her.

“No,” Linda says, in a long and heavy way. “You brought me into it, so no I’m not leaving it alone. And by the way, everyone is fucked up. That doesn’t make you special around here.”

Her weird reassurance pushes a soggy laugh out of me. I look at her now. “OK, this is stupid. I know it is stupid. It’s just people…they’re not easy for me. I never feel like I’m close to anyone. Like I get them. Not my dad. Not you. Not Alan. And not my brother. And I’m just so tired of always being surprised and hurt by everyone.”

Linda sits quietly for awhile, waiting for me to calm. “People have shit, Chrissie,” she says intensely. “It has nothing to do with you. We’ve just all got our own shit that we’ve got to deal with.”

“I hate my shit, Linda. I wish it would all go away.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she says in sudden alarm. “Chrissie, you’re scaring me. I don’t like the way you sound.”

I take off my Tiffany bracelet and I show her. For the love of Jesus, I don’t know why I’m doing it, why I want to share this with Linda.

She stares at my scar, shaking her head in a way that tells me I don’t need to explain. “Why the fuck would you do that, Chrissie?”

The tears come. I can’t stop them and they are dragging with them words. I just want to say it, say it to someone, and there no logical reason why Linda is the right choice for this, but I need to say it.

“It’s my fault my brother is dead.”

I start to hyperventilate and shake the moment I get it out. I’ve been hiding from the truth for so long, but when I picked up the needles in Alan’s bathroom, more fragments appeared and I could remember every part of that night, my part in Sammy’s death, from beginning to end in unmerciful clarity. I didn’t just find my brother dead. I was with him when he died. I was there in the room, I didn’t get Sammy help, and I watched my brother die…

I finally get the courage to look at Linda. She is just sitting there, staring at me, confused and steamed.

She leans back into her seat, making a taut line with her arms from body to steering wheel. Her fingers are curled tightly around it, so tightly they don’t have color.

She starts shaking her head. “Jesus Christ, Chrissie. How could you think that? What were you when your brother died? Nine? Ten? How could you possibly believe it was your fault? Whatever you think you did, you are thinking wrong and you have to cut out that burning shit.”

I can’t begin to reason why I start to tell her every part of that night, the parts that have haunted me, the parts newly remembered, and the most terrible part, my part in this, that I watched him die and never went for help.