The Companion

by Katie Alender

  Her eyes searched the distance absently. Then she sighed. “I could have told you about Lily before. But I didn’t want you to think I would leverage my personal tragedy to try to force a connection with you.”

  That made sense.

  “The sad truth is . . . I don’t think about her very often anymore. Life has a way of carrying on. With the children, and the business of running the house, I’ve just managed to stay busy.” Her cheeks softened as her eyes relaxed. “Is that terrible?”

  “No,” I said. “You just do what you have to do to get by. I mean . . . maybe you’re not thinking about it on purpose. And that’s okay.”

  “She was my big sister. I looked up to her. She was the heiress, the one who was supposed to take over the estate. And then . . . she got sick, and I had to step up. Our mother died when we were young, you know. So here I am, fifteen years old, and one day my sister simply . . . collapses.”

  “That must have been terrible,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. It was. She . . . lingered for a few months, but was never her real self again. There was nothing anyone could do to help her. It was awful.”

  Watching someone deteriorate before your eyes, being powerless to save them? I wondered briefly if that would be worse than losing a person suddenly, out of nowhere, the way I had. At least she had a chance to say goodbye, I thought.

  “Do you want to know something?” Laura said quietly. “I’ve never told anyone this. But maybe the reason I don’t talk about Lily is because we didn’t get along.” She turned to me, anxious. “I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, but Lily . . . she was something else. She was a liar.”

  I held my breath.

  “Pathological,” Laura said. “And she disliked me immensely. She was vicious. But what had I ever done to her, besides try to be supportive?”

  “So, did you get to be better friends when she was sick?” The obituary had said Laura was her constant companion—but I couldn’t admit to having read the obituary.

  “Not exactly friends,” she replied. “I nursed her the whole time she was sick. I was there by her side. It was thankless, and it made her hate me even more.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “Really. I’m sorry.”

  “Life is terrible sometimes,” Laura said, shrugging her thin, tense shoulders. “That’s just the way it goes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who knows what Lily would have grown into? She fell in with some very questionable friends.” Laura clucked her tongue. “Who knows what she might have done to Copeland Hall if she had lived.”

  I felt stunned and slightly horrified. It almost sounded as if Laura was glad her sister had died. That didn’t make sense at all. But it did make me wonder if this was how she had developed her fear of Agatha falling in with bad kids.

  I didn’t ask for clarity. We’d almost reached the house, and I knew that we weren’t going to be continuing this talk. As if it was a dirty thing that belonged out in the wild and shouldn’t be brought inside.

  * * *

  I WENT UP to the nursery, looking forward to scrubbing away not only the sweat and dirt but also the feeling our conversation had left with me.

  “Ags—” I cut myself off when I walked into the nursery. Her chair at the desk was empty. I walked back out and checked the hall bathroom, and then I went back and looked into my bathroom and my bedroom. Finding both of those deserted, I went out and stood in the hall helplessly.

  I was about to go downstairs when, across the hall, Agatha’s old bedroom door opened. Agatha herself came out, with something tucked under her arm.

  She shoved the object at me, and I heard a clunk.

  It was a shoebox, and the photo on the front was of a pair of royal-blue high heels.

  “Okay . . . thank you,” I said. “But I don’t really need blue shoes. Should we put them back?”

  She pushed it at me again, clearly wanting me to take them. It seemed morbid, like something a dying person would do. I’d spent enough time that day talking and thinking about dying people, so I stopped protesting. I went into my bedroom and set the shoebox on the floor by the dresser. I’d just return it later.

  Agatha followed me in and sat down on the bed, without being invited.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. She didn’t answer, but she seemed fine, so I let it go.

  Laura’s gentle knock came from the door, and she peeked into the room. “Have you seen—oh, there she is.”

  “Yeah, I guess she wanted to hang out in here.”

  “How lovely,” Laura said. “Come, Agatha. Don’t bother Margot. She’s busy.”

  I wasn’t. Not at all. But oh well.

  * * *

  THE SOUNDS THAT woke me were low and constant—a steady stream of mumbles and unhappy whimpers. At first, I thought it was me. Then I realized it was coming from the other room.

  I ran into the nursery. Agatha was thrashing in her bed like a madwoman, and the cries that escaped her were primal, animalistic.

  “Agatha!” I cried. I tried to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away. I got a glimpse of her face—she was crying, raking her fingers down her cheeks. She’d already left two long scrapes on the right side. “Stop! Please, stop!”

  I knew I should go get Laura, but I didn’t want to leave Agatha alone when she was having some kind of fit. Then she grabbed her hair in her fists and pulled so hard I expected it to come out of her scalp in great chunks.

  I kept repeating her name: “Agatha, Agatha, Agatha—” And finally, my voice seeped into her head and she looked at me, scooting all the way back across the bed as if I was going to hurt her somehow.

  But she was calmer now—still freaked out, tears still rolling down her cheeks, wide-eyed and terrified—but calmer.

  “It’s me,” I said softly. “It’s me, Margot. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here. I’m here.”

  In spite of the horror of this outburst, something inside me was amazed and hopeful. There was an awakeness about her I’d never seen before.

  “Do you know me?” I asked.

  She gave me a quick little nod. And then it was like she couldn’t stop nodding.

  “Right,” I said. “I’m Margot. I’m here, Ags. I’ll help you. You’re so upset. What’s wrong?”

  She opened her mouth to speak. “Kah!” she spat. “K—gah. Gah.”

  I watched, holding my breath. She seemed to be completely breaking down.

  “G—go!” she finally said. “Go!”

  I froze.

  “Go?” I repeated. Was that what she’d been trying to say all this time?

  She waved her arm at me. “Go,” she said. She was almost pleading.

  “I’ll go,” I said. “I’ll go right now and get your mom.”

  Then she let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

  “No, no, no!” she yelled. She began thrashing again. “No!”

  “Okay!” I said. “I won’t! I’ll stay. I’ll stay. Agatha, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

  She was talking. She was communicating. Was it possible that this fit overtaking her was like a fever breaking—that point where your body throws everything it has into overcoming your illness?

  What if she was better after this?

  “Ags, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m here. Do you want some water?”

  She pressed back against the wall and stared at me. Finally, she nodded.

  I passed her the water cup from her nightstand, and she drank it down, then passed it back. Her arm shook.

  Laura should be here; she should see this for herself. How would I describe it to her? Or what if it was some kind of serious mental break? What if Agatha was worse after this?

  “You’re safe,” I said, holding my hands up like she was robbing me. “You’re safe. Do you understand me?”

  She whimpere
d and shrank back.

  “Agatha, it’s me,” I said. “It’s Margot.”

  I stepped closer, and she leaned farther away.

  “Go,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. I was getting exhausted. “I’ll go.” I started to turn away.

  “Margot!” she yelped.

  I gasped and turned around.

  “Margot,” she said again, like she was practicing. Then she looked at me and shook her head. Her eyes were clearer now, but no less frightened. “Go. Go.”

  “You can speak,” I said, stepping closer. “You can speak, do you hear yourself?”

  “I . . .” she said. She seemed to lose track of what she was saying, and she shook her head furiously. “I—”

  I stepped closer.

  “I’m not—”

  There were frantic footsteps in the hall outside, and Agatha’s eyes widened.

  “You’re not what?” I whispered.

  Her mouth moved, she shook her head. She couldn’t find the word.

  But I had a guess.

  “Sick?” I asked.

  She drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes gleamed.

  “You’re not sick?”

  But Laura came storming into the room. “Margot, what’s going on? Agatha!”

  At the sight of her mother, Agatha began to thrash and howl again.

  “Margot, help me!” Laura said. “Help me! Grab her legs!”

  “She was talking,” I protested. “She was making sense!”

  “She’s going to hurt herself. Or us. Grab her legs and sit on them!”

  Everything happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to refuse. Laura basically tackled Agatha, and I reached out and grabbed her legs, then put my body weight on them. I felt terrible—she was struggling underneath us.

  Laura pulled the cap off a tiny syringe and shoved it into Agatha’s arm. Laura was strong—she held Agatha in place until the medicine started to take effect, and I felt her legs go limp underneath me.

  With an undignified grunt, Laura climbed off the bed. Agatha fell to the side and landed awkwardly on the pillow, too weak to catch herself.

  I stepped forward to try to make her more comfortable, but Laura waved me back.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I heard her—she woke me up—I came out and she was kind of freaking out. But she was trying to talk—”

  Laura roughly rearranged Agatha on the bed and then began searching the bedding, lifting the pillow, running her hand under the blankets. Then she got down on her knees and searched the floor. With a little sniff of triumph, she grabbed something and shoved it into her pocket.

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  “She’s all right. I’ve sedated her. She’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “What did you find on the floor?”

  “Her medicine,” she said. “She used to spit it out—I guess she’s back to her old tricks.”

  With the efficiency of a nurse, she moved Agatha back into place on the bed. Agatha’s eyes were struggling to stay open, and a line of drool had escaped the corner of her mouth.

  “Back to bed, please, Margot,” Laura said with a sigh. “I’m terribly sorry that she disturbed you.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “But I think maybe she was going to say something important.”

  Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to still. Laura turned to me, too calm, and said sweetly, “What do you think she was going to say?”

  “Well—she said my name,” I said. “I think.”

  “You think,” she said.

  “It was kind of garbled,” I lied. “I mean, like, you know when babies start to talk and they—”

  She nodded impatiently. “You’re such a dear for having that kind of hope. But Agatha simply isn’t in a place where she can speak. Even your name, and we know how much she values you.”

  I nodded. “I guess . . . I guess I was wrong.”

  “To bed,” Laura said lightly.

  I nodded and went back into my bedroom. I felt a fresh wave of fear as I climbed under the covers and switched off the light.

  I waited until I heard the nursery door close, and then I went back out, tiptoeing to Agatha’s bedside.

  The sticky drool was still on her chin. I wiped it away with my sleeve and then looked down at her. Her eyes were slits—but she was still awake.

  “You’re not sick?” I whispered.

  I felt something on my arm—and I realized she had wrapped her hand around my wrist.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “Good night.”

  Her eyes shut.

  I was back in my own bed, feeling wired, when suddenly my door opened.

  Laura stood against the dark.

  “That was such an adventure,” she said quietly. “I thought you might like some tea to help you calm down.”

  She set the teacup down on my nightstand.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Do you want me to sit with you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

  “All right. Just checking.”

  She backed out of the room and closed the door.

  I stared down at the tea, then picked it up and took a sip.

  I’m not sick.

  Of course, she could have just been saying that, but . . .

  If she needed that medicine, shouldn’t Laura have given her more?

  As I thought about this, I sipped my tea. And I began to feel relaxed.

  Then I had a thought. I set the teacup down and crossed the room to my dresser, where I opened the bottom drawer and took out Lily’s journal. I hadn’t had a chance to read it yet.

  I carried it back to my bed and turned on the flashlight on my phone, then aimed it at the notebook. I was beginning to have trouble keeping my eyes open—my head felt heavy and wobbly.

  I set the book down and aimed the light at it. Then I opened it to the first page:

  My name is Lily Copeland.

  I’m being locked in a room in my house.

  They keep giving me medicine.

  But I’M NOT SICK.

  CHAPTER

  25

  I WOKE UP groggy. My phone was pressed up against my arm, which was numb, and there was something hard under my shoulder blade.

  As I sat up and saw the journal, the previous night came flooding back—Agatha had said my name. She had told me to go. She had told me she wasn’t sick.

  And Lily hadn’t been sick, either.

  My head felt fuzzy and slow. I looked down at my teacup, then picked it up and sniffed. The smell made me draw back—it was sharp, cloying, and it made me feel a little dizzy.

  I needed to read more of the journal. Was this true? Any of it? Was Agatha really not sick? I’d seen last night that she was capable of speaking, of understanding and making sense.

  And Lily . . . if she wasn’t sick, what had killed her?

  Or . . . who?

  * * *

  THERE WAS A light rap on my door, and I just managed to put the notebook under my pillow before Laura opened it.

  “Hello, sleepyhead!” she said cheerfully. “It’s almost ten thirty.”

  “Oh,” I said, sitting up. “Wow.”

  “Agatha’s downstairs . . . would you like to get up and around and then cut some flowers for the breakfast room?”

  “Sure,” I said. Anything to have a little time to myself.

  I pulled on some clothes, purposefully choosing a bulky cardigan so I could hide the journal. Then I tucked it into the back of my waistband and headed downstairs. I had my phone in my back jeans pocket.

  “Would you like a doughnut?” Laura called from the breakfast room.

  “No, thanks,” I replied. “I’ll go get
the flowers.”

  I grabbed the shears and the special flower-gathering bucket (it’s a country estate thing, you wouldn’t understand) and went outside. I hurried to the garden, aware of my wooziness and trying to make sure I didn’t trip. I did sort of wobble into the bushes at one point, but I righted myself.

  In the garden, I hurried around until I had a respectable assortment, and then I sat down on a bench hidden from view of the house. I pulled Lily’s journal out and opened it to a random page.

  There were lines and lines, written in Lily’s slightly bubbly, childish handwriting:

  The proof of virtue is the ability to obey in the face of inner resistance.

  A demand for obedience performed against the will is the ultimate test of rectitude. A child is led to righteousness by the lantern of his parents’ steadfastness and must by firm hands be molded into a creature of exemplary humility and worth. Abandoned to the darkness of parental deficiency, the child’s quality of character will assuredly be as weak as a lily grown in shade.

  I could barely breathe. This was the exact text in Agatha’s notebook.

  I remembered what Barrett had said: That they’d had to copy passages from Loretta’s book as a punishment. But why was Lily being punished? She was sick.

  No, she wasn’t.

  I flipped back to the prior entries. The last page before those, the final real entry, was written in small purple print:

  Laura came in and told me Missy got hit by a car and died.

  She’s lying. She killed her. I know she did. She won’t let me see the body. They buried her already. In the garden. Laura says Dad doesn’t even want me to look at the grave but I told her I just wanted to see it. And she told me “curiosity killed the cat.” She’s evil. She’s vile.

  The cat first. Me next. Everything she gives me is poison.

  I hate her I hate her I hate her.

  The next page had only one line:

  I’M NOT SICK.

  I dropped the journal as if it was on fire.

  My body felt chilled by fear and nerves and a general sort of exhaustion. I thought of the cat collar I’d found—Missy. Had Laura killed her sister’s cat?