The Companion

by Katie Alender

  But it was Laura who stood outside, wearing a baby-blue silk blouse and a pair of white pants, with a small blue-and-white scarf knotted neatly around her neck. Her hair was in a low, tidy bun, and her makeup was perfect. I wondered how long it took her to get ready in the morning. You got the feeling she had it down to a ruthless science, without a single second wasted.

  Her smile was slightly shy, which reminded me instantly of our mutual meltdown the previous night. If she brought it up, I might die of embarrassment. Fortunately, she seemed eager to leave it in the past.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  I paused. Was this a trap? Did she know about the nosebleed?

  “Was the mattress comfortable?” she asked, a little more gently.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes. Yes, it was very nice. Thank you. Nice. Yes. Thanks.” Babble some more, Margot, it makes you sound incredibly sane.

  “We’re heading down to breakfast,” she said, indicating Agatha, fully dressed and seated in the chair by the window. “No need to rush. But I wanted to let you know that I’ve brought you some clothes, in case you need anything to tide you over before we have a chance to go shopping.”

  She motioned to the far bed, which was strewn with small stacks of clothing.

  “Take your time, look it over. Anything you like, keep. They’re extras of Agatha’s.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Are you sure she doesn’t need them?”

  “She has plenty of clothes,” Laura said. “And it’s important to us that you feel comfortable here. I don’t want you to be worried about how you look. Just let me know if you want me to get rid of your old things for you.”

  I nodded and stared wide-eyed at the bed, suddenly feeling the worry she suggested. Just how bad did she think my “old things” were?

  Too late, I noticed that she and Agatha had left before I could thank her. I imagined a scorecard somewhere, and a check mark appearing in the BAD ORPHAN column.

  I walked over to the clothes, leaning down to inspect them. To say they weren’t my style would be the understatement of the year. There was an assortment of cashmere sweaters and silky blouses in pale, chalky tones, and several pairs of pants in muted neutrals—gray, beige, ivory, darker gray. Under the pants were skirts in dusty tones of plum and peach. There were shoes lined neatly on the floor, loafers and sandals in various shades of brown, ranging from caramel to chocolate. On one corner of the bed, segregated from the other things, was a pile of brand-new bras and underwear, and pairs of socks still tethered together at the toes.

  These were the clothes of a person who emerges from the shower smelling like roses. They were, without a doubt, Agatha’s clothes. If I wore them, I would look like a shorter version of her with a bad haircut. Also less pretty. And poor. And friendless. (Actually, friendlessness was the one thing we seemed to have in common.)

  I tried on one of the loafers and was surprised to find that it not only fit but also seemed like it had been made for my foot. The leather was supple and soft, and it felt more like wearing a sock than a shoe.

  I examined the clothes one piece at a time, and decided in a rush that felt like an impulsive, dangerous choice that I would keep and wear it all. Who cared if it wasn’t my style? No one was around to judge me. And how could I possibly reject such a generous gift?

  Still, it was with great relief that I found a small pile of jeans folded under the sweaters. They were made of stretchy denim, and the cuts were slim, but not tight—far from trendy, but they would do. I pulled on a pair and chose a light pink sweater. I’d noticed that Laura kept the house cool, the air conditioners running almost constantly—an extravagance that would have scandalized my own mother.

  I didn’t own any makeup besides a single tinted lip balm and a tube of mascara I’d impulse-bought on a trip to the grocery store. There didn’t seem to be much use for eye makeup here—I didn’t want Laura to think I was trying to look glamorous or anything—but I brushed my hair and balmed my lips and put on a pair of white socks. I carefully made my bed, sitting Blue Bunny up against the pillow. Then I took a deep breath and headed out into the hall.

  Feeling less overwhelmed than I had the previous day, I went slowly toward the stairs. I studied everything from the burgundy wallpaper, with its design of delicate flowers in faded tints of orange and gold, their long stems intertwined, to the opulent brass light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, with frosted glass bowls hiding the bulbs.

  Hung on the walls between the doors were a number of oil paintings. They depicted people and life from at least a hundred years ago, including a portrait of a woman in a lace-collared black dress with a tiny black cap and a sheer black veil trailing down from the back of her head. Her eyes were large and soft and hazy with sorrow.

  A small brass plate was affixed to the wall under the bottom left side of the frame.

  THE WIDOW COPELAND—CIRCA 1884, it read.

  I gazed around the somber corridor. How spooky and strange to be a child in this house.

  As I reached the top of the stairs, a cheery voice shocked me out of my reverie.

  “Hey! She’s awake!”

  John stood at the foot of the stairs, dressed in tan slacks and a green sweater. He looked better today than the day before—happier. Maybe the stress of having lured me here had worn on him, and now that the hard part was done, he’d managed to sleep it off.

  “I’m sorry I missed dinner last night,” he said, pausing to wait for me as I came down the steps. “Was the food all right? You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

  “It was great,” I said. “Um . . . I’m allergic to eggplant, but that’s it.”

  “Really? Eggplant? I’ve never heard of that.” He smiled. “I mean, I’ve heard of eggplant, but not of being allergic to it.”

  “It helps that I hate it,” I said.

  “I hate it, too. Spongy, you know?” He was downright jolly. “Are you headed to breakfast? You look nice. Did you bring those clothes with you?”

  “Yes—to breakfast,” I said. “And no, I didn’t bring them. Laura gave them to me.”

  “Good, good. Like I said, we’re happy to provide whatever you need. Talk to Laura about it and she’ll arrange everything. She’s a world champion in arranging things.”

  “She’s been very helpful,” I said.

  He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, the carefree happiness had drained from his voice, leaving in its place a bleakness that made me realize it was all an act. All the hey-ho and good-humored compliments and small talk were part of a mask that hid something else. Something darker.

  “She’s a very caring woman,” he said. “And her heart has been broken—more than once, I’m afraid.”

  And that’s when I realized that my happy face had been a mask, too.

  “But I don’t have to lecture you about that,” John said quietly. “I imagine you know all about it.”

  * * *

  “I’LL BE RIGHT downstairs if you need me,” Laura said for the eighth time. “Just open the door and—actually, I’ll leave the door open. Give a yell and I’ll come right up.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said. In spite of the dread I felt at being left alone with Agatha (John’s idea, and apparently when John had an idea, we all went along with it), Laura’s nervous energy was on the verge of making me laugh. What exactly did she think was going to happen? Agatha, the cause of all this anxiety, was currently sitting in her chair and staring placidly out the window. Today she wore a sage-green dress with softly ruffled cap sleeves. Her hair, so perfect it could have been a wig, fell over her shoulders in bouncing layers.

  Finally, Laura had no choice but to retreat down to her office (“the morning room”) and leave Agatha and me to deal with each other.

  Which we did, by Agatha remaining in the chair by the window while I carefully hung and folded my new clot
hes in my tiny bedroom.

  As I worked, I tried to reconcile Laura and John’s image of Agatha with the impression she’d made on me. Was I misinterpreting the things she’d done? After all, how bad was any of it, really? Hiding from me and putting my things on the floor? Those were just little pranks. Or it was entirely possible she’d just been confused. Maybe Agatha didn’t like change. Maybe she didn’t even understand what was going on.

  After a few minutes, I started to feel genuinely guilty for my negative assumptions. I also worried that maybe I was missing the point of this exercise, which was for us to spend time together. So I walked over to the window—slowly, so as not to startle her—and said, “Agatha, would you like to come sit with me while I put away my new clothes?”

  I figured I’d let her ignore me for a respectable amount of time and then get back to work. But just as I was about to give up, she stood.

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think you were actually going to come. Okay, hang on. I’ll clear you a spot.”

  I hurriedly pushed some of the clothes out of the way to make room for her.

  She sank onto the bed without comment, then proceeded to stare at the door.

  “It was nice of your mom to give me these clothes,” I said. “I guess they’re yours, so . . . thank you.”

  No answer, obviously.

  “They’re not really my style, but they’re, um, high quality. I mean, I don’t have a style anymore. I used to—I used to be, like—well, not trendy, I just wore what I liked. I was cool, though, I had cool friends. I can say that now because I’m not cool anymore.” As if that needed to be pointed out.

  My voice trailed off as I realized that nothing I was saying seemed to be making any sort of impression, positive or negative.

  I looked at her for a second and sighed. How could I have thought she was plotting against me?

  Whether she answered or not, it felt wrong to be in such close quarters with someone without talking. So I babbled on.

  “I can’t imagine growing up in a house like this,” I said. “It seems like there’s so much history. My family’s house was built in like 2008. It was two stories, and halfway up the stairs was a window seat with built-in bookshelves around it. I used to sit there and read. Rainy days were the best. There was a little lamp on the wall with a ceramic goose head for a shade. My mom got it at a flea market in California. She was obsessed with flea markets. There were cute things like that all over the house.”

  I noticed that Blue Bunny, who’d been leaning on the pillow next to her, had tumbled over and landed on his face, so I sat him up before returning to my work, folding sweaters and hanging pants.

  The minutes ticked by, and Agatha’s silent presence started to feel less intimidating once I came to the conclusion that she really, truly didn’t care whether I was a human or a feather duster, whether I hung up clothes or danced the cha-cha, spoke to her or recited epic poetry aloud.

  Blue Bunny had fallen over again, so I set him back up.

  Without moving her gaze from the closet door, Agatha reached over and swatted him down.

  “Hey,” I said, grabbing him and holding him to my chest, my heart pounding. “Why’d you do that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Because I hate bunnies, Margot,” I said in a high-pitched voice. “Bunnies are the worst.”

  “Well,” I said to Agatha, setting Blue Bunny up on the dresser, “he’s my only friend. So you’ll have to learn to like him.”

  She slapped him down again.

  “Agatha,” I snapped. “Quit it!”

  Her shoulders stiffened.

  “Why did you do that?” I demanded.

  No answer.

  “Also, why were you out of bed last night?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  Agatha’s eyes meandered up to mine, and deep behind their glassy surface, I imagined that she was thinking: Why were you?

  I felt slightly ashamed for losing my patience. I left the bunny as he was and got back to work.

  After a while, Laura came in, her mood much improved now that the trial hour was over. When she asked how it had gone, I was able to give her a favorable update (not mentioning the stuffed bunny shenanigans), and she smiled approvingly. Checkmark, GOOD ORPHAN.

  After she led Agatha out of the room, I sat down on the edge of the mattress, feeling suddenly exhausted, like I’d passed a huge, important exam by two measly points.

  Now what? I could go down to the library. Or take a nap. It was only 10:30, which meant there were two hours until lunch. And after lunch, a whole long afternoon before dinner.

  I flopped back against the pillow with Blue Bunny on my chest.

  Could I really spend the next two years in this suffocating, isolated house? Trying to live up to Laura’s expectations, trying not to overstep in any way that might be annoying to her or John—or, God forbid, damaging to their family’s vaunted legacy?

  So much of me was already numb. If I closed the curtain on the rest, what would be left? But maybe that didn’t even matter. Misery was misery, right? So what if I was miserable here versus being miserable somewhere else? At least here I could take long showers. And the food was good.

  Enjoy it, purred the cynical voice inside me. The air was still and quiet, and I began to coast downhill toward sleep. Give up and enjoy it . . .

  “Go!” said a voice.

  My eyes flicked open.

  “Agatha?” I asked, my voice groggy with sleep.

  Slowly, I sat up and looked around, but I knew even before my eyes made it all the way around the room that I was alone. That I’d been alone the whole time. No one could have come in here, could have opened that creaky door while I was—

  I froze.

  On the wall behind the door in streaky, handwritten black letters was a single word:

  GO

  I climbed off the bed and approached the wall, thinking that I must be seeing things, that this was a trick of light and shadow and my exhausted imagination.

  But no. When I touched it, my fingertip came away black. I stared, dumbfounded, wondering who could have done such a thing.

  I mean, there was only one explanation, right?

  Agatha must have sneaked in here after I’d fallen asleep.

  The weird thing was . . . I didn’t really think I had fallen asleep.

  It didn’t make sense. Just say she did get through the loud door and move in utter silence across the squawking floorboards while I dozed. There would still have been some noise. The sound of a bottle opening? The swish of a brush?

  One thing was clear, at least: the meaning of the word GO. I didn’t need that spelled out for me.

  There was a knock at the door, and without stopping to think, I leaned against it with all my weight, holding it shut.

  “Yes?” I said, trying to disguise the tension in my voice.

  “Hello, Margot.” Laura’s voice was softly insistent. “Could you please open the door for me?”

  I froze. Why, no, in fact, I cannot.

  “Margot?” she repeated.

  I opened the door. What would she say? Would I have a chance to explain, or would the sight so enrage her that she would immediately send me away? Would she think I had done it?

  Laura stepped into the room. She turned to the right. A half step more and she would see the word. But then her eyes flashed back to mine.

  “Looks nice,” she said. “You’re very tidy.”

  I froze, too distracted to form a sensible sentence.

  Laura seemed almost embarrassed. “I was wondering . . . would you like to see the garden?”

  “Okay,” I said hurriedly. Anything to get her to leave.

  “Great,” she said. “Come on down. Agatha's downstairs in my office. John will keep an eye on her.”

  But—if Agatha was downstai
rs, how had she managed to write on my wall?

  Laura ducked out for a moment and returned with a bundle of clothing in her hand. “I brought you some things to wear. Gardening clothes. I hope that’s not presumptuous.”

  She could have reached over and pinched my cheeks and I would have been too surprised to consider it presumptuous. I accepted the stack of clothes and agreed to meet Laura downstairs in ten minutes.

  After she left, I closed the door and slowly turned back to the mess on the wall. The mess that Agatha hadn’t made.

  But if it hadn’t been her, then who . . . ?

  GO

  My chest felt tight, on the verge of panic. I had to clean the wall before anyone saw, but what could I use? When I tried some toilet paper, it came away in sticky shreds. Finally, I opened the top dresser drawer and stared down at my HOTTER THAN HO shirt. In spite of how much I hated it, I was still reluctant to ruin it. But I had no other options, so I wet it in the bathroom sink and then scrubbed away at the writing.

  It took a couple of minutes, but it worked.

  When I went to rinse the black substance off the shirt, it stayed put. So after a few seconds of trying to make sense of the simmering swamp of emotions it conjured, I balled up the shirt and threw it away.

  Not like I had any use for it here, anyway, right?

  CHAPTER

  9

  I PUT ON Laura’s gardening “things,” which consisted of army-green pants made out of some parachute-like material, a tan T-shirt, and a white apron with approximately four hundred pockets. In the hallway downstairs, she met me with a pair of rubber clogs and a straw hat that made me feel like someone’s grandmother.

  I was kind of excited to see the garden, though I’d never gardened in my life—we always had a yard service that came once a week to mow, rake, and weed. Maybe it was just the idea of getting out of the house.

  From the back door, we went through a gate in a high stone wall and followed a narrow path between two colossal rows of shrubbery. Where the shrubs ended, a pair of wrought-iron benches faced each other, with a mirrored sphere the size of a bowling ball on a stand in the center of the path.