Mom closes her eyes, pressing them so tight that crow’s feet form. “My credit card was denied tonight, and I had to pay cash. I was so embarrassed.”
Of all the issues we’ve had in life, money hasn’t been one of them. “Did someone steal your card?”
She rocks her head against the porcelain. “Your dad didn’t send the child support check.”
My mouth opens in shock, but it doesn’t take long for rage to boil up from my gut. “What?”
“He hasn’t sent anything for the last few months. I make enough money to support all of us, and I didn’t want you guys to be disappointed in him, so I didn’t say anything, but then I had to pay a few unexpected bills, your medical bills, and I forgot that I’d have to pay our mortgage at the old house and a first and last month’s deposit here and then there were costs associated with selling the house and the new house…”
Sweat breaks out along Mom’s forehead, and my stomach turns as I try to understand where this is all headed. Mom’s body shakes as goose bumps form on her arms. “I didn’t realize how much I had put on the card or how low the checking account has become. I’m afraid that the check for this apartment is going to bounce. Our landlord said his daughter was going to deposit it soon. I’ll be fine when I get paid again, but … I’m sorry, Sawyer. I’m sorry.”
And as Mom opens her mouth to say something else, she lifts her head and vomits into the toilet again.
VERONICA
Lucy’s brother is a jerk, their mom is a Dumpster fire, but Lucy is the shining star of the family. After she saw my old dollhouse in the corner of the living room, Lucy quickly forgot her fears. She played for a few minutes, and now she sits at our high kitchen table and swings her legs as she surveys the room with wonder. “There’re a lot of turkeys.”
“There are.” I fish out a box of crackers from the pantry. That’s what little kids like, right?
“Who made them?”
“Me. Would you like to make one?”
“Sure.” Her grin is mostly baby teeth. After opening a package of crackers and sliding them to her, I pull out everything she could think of or need to make a paper turkey—construction paper, crayons, markers, glue, tissue paper and the golden grail of glitter. It takes a few more minutes for me to dig into the bottom of my Tupperware drawer to find safety scissors. I finally find a pink pair, and Lucy seems satisfied with the tubes of glitter she holds up to the light.
“I like it here. It’s happier than downstairs,” Lucy says. “Why do you have so many turkeys?”
“I think the better question is why doesn’t everyone have turkeys hanging on the wall?”
Lucy tilts her head as if my answer was profound then eats a cracker. Crumbs fall from the corner of her mouth.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Six,” she says through bites. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“My birthday was in July,” Lucy declares. “When’s yours?”
“May.”
“I have one brother and no sisters.”
“I don’t have any.”
“That’s sad.” And her little brown eyes show how serious her words are. “I like having a brother. He’s fun.”
I’m sure he is.
“I’m going to have a new brother or sister in a few months.”
My eyebrows rise. “Your mom is pregnant?”
Lucy shakes her head so fast that her hair flips across her face. “No. The new girl Daddy dates is having a baby. Mommy doesn’t know yet. Sawyer said he’d tell her. I’m glad I don’t have to. I don’t like it when Mommy cries. If Mommy cries, it’s usually during the week. Mommy laughs more on the weekends, but that’s when she gets sick. I don’t like that, either.”
Fantastic, our new tenants aren’t just a dumpster fire, but a wildfire inferno. “So why were you so upset earlier?”
Lucy slows her cracker chewing and sorts through the construction paper until she finds a sensible brown. I purse my lips, and she notices. “What?”
“Brown is a fine choice, but why make a turkey everyone else makes? Why not make your turkey a Lucy original?”
“Because turkeys are brown.”
“But they don’t have to be.”
“But if you see a real turkey, they’re brown.”
“Maybe they’re brown because everyone keeps telling them they are. Maybe we need to stop labeling the turkeys and set them free.”
Lucy glances around at my colorful array of turkeys then sorts through the construction paper again. This time she picks purple. I pick out blue and we begin the process of cutting, gluing and coloring in silence. As I tear up green tissue paper and start the daunting task of twisting the ends and gluing them to the wings, Lucy says, “Sawyer won’t believe me.”
I only allow myself a quick glance at her because if I seem too interested she’ll shut up. At least that’s what I would do. “What won’t Sawyer believe?”
The sound of scissors cutting paper ceases, and I look up again to find Lucy staring at me. Sheet-white, her little eyes as big and round as saucers. “You won’t believe me.”
“What if I do?”
Her throat moves as she swallows, then she whispers, “I saw a ghost.”
I watch her for a few more seconds to see how serious she is, to see if she’s testing me, to see if her brother put her up to some sort of joke as there have been rumors about this house. When the fear doesn’t leave her eyes, when her tiny fingers fist the scissors tighter, I know this isn’t a con. “What did the ghost look like?”
“A girl. Like me, but in a dress. Her dress looked weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Not the kind of dress I’ve seen anyone wear. It was longer. Past her knees.”
“Did she hurt you?”
Her forehead wrinkles as if that wasn’t the question she was expecting. “It was a ghost.”
“Yes, but did she hurt you?”
“No.” A pause. “She scared me.”
“Did you ever think that maybe you scared her? I mean, according to my mom, the little girl has lived here a long time, and she’s used to me and Dad, but you”—I point at her with the tip of the glue—“are brand new. How do you think a ghost would feel when they strolled into their old bedroom and surprise! You’re in there and screaming. I know I’d freak out. The proper thing to do would have been to introduce yourself or at least say hi.”
Lucy twists a ribbon from her nightgown around her finger then sticks the ribbon into the corner of her mouth, nibbling on it without thought. “But ghosts are scary.”
“Says who?”
She leans forward on the table to impress upon me the soberness of the situation. “Everyone.”
“Well, Miss Lucy, I’m here to tell you that this ‘everyone’ you speak of is usually wrong on a lot of things. And ghosts are one of them. Ghosts are only people who had to leave their bodies, but they aren’t ready to leave home yet.”
Lucy’s lips turn down and the sight causes my lungs to pinch. I put down the tissue paper and curse that my fingers are so sticky with glue that if I touch Lucy, I’ll be stuck to her forever. “What’s wrong?”
“I miss my home.”
I exhale slowly as I remember my first night in this house and how I sobbed in my mother’s arms as I missed my home, too. “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, the ghosts here won’t hurt you. I promise.”
Wetness lines her eyes and her cheeks flush red. “How do you know?”
I do a quick wash of my hands at the sink then stand in front of Lucy. She’s so heartbreakingly young, so desperately scared, so innocent that it’s wrong to keep my secret from her.
But that’s the thing, this is my secret. My secret no one else knows and a secret I want to keep to myself. But who I am to let this poor girl hurt? “If I tell you a secret, my most private secret, do you promise to never tell anyone? And if you keep this secret, I promise in return to let you come up here whenever you want, make as
many crafts as you can dream of, eat my food and watch my TV as long as I’m here.”
Lucy nods, and I guess that’s the best I can hope for. I tuck her hair behind her ear, just like my mom did for me. “There are ghosts in this house, and they won’t hurt you. I know this because…” Courage. Take courage. “Because my mom is one of the ghosts. She’s watching over us, and I promise she’d never let anyone or anything hurt us, ever.”
Lucy’s expressions softens, like she believes me, and the relief inside me is akin to joy.
“Can I tell you another secret? I mean, some of it’s a secret, but not.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to do this English project that’s going to prove to the world that ghosts exist. I’m doing it for my dad. He doesn’t see the ghosts, and I think it’s because his mind isn’t open to believing so I figure if I do my project on ghosts and prove to him that they’re real, he’ll see the ghosts, too.”
“Can we show Sawyer your project when you’re done?” Lucy asks. “I want him to believe, too.”
“Sure. The more who believe, the merrier.”
SAWYER
Thursday Jan. 3: Weight 119 Diary dear, I met a new fellow this morning, a friend of Sue’s from Amsterdam. He’s real nice looking … Oh dear, I want a letter from Jack. I certainly did miss him tonight. I’ve gained three pounds this week. Hope it keeps up. I sure have the blues tonight.
Mom collapses onto her mattress in the middle of her bedroom, and I lay a sheet over her. I only had time to put Lucy’s bed frame together today. Mom’s frame is first thing on the list tomorrow after she wakes. I place a towel near her head and one on the floor in case she’s not done barfing then close her door behind me.
In the living room, our furniture is haphazardly placed in the middle and the mountains of boxes line the walls. With the lights on, the eerie sensation from earlier is gone, and I shake my head at myself for being whipped into a frenzy. I need more sleep, and so does Lucy. It’ll help when we don’t live in a two-hundred-year-old house, but we’re months away from that reprieve.
I leave our apartment, climb the stairs and hesitate at the old wooden door. The muscles in my back tense with how terrible the last twenty-four hours have been and the torture isn’t done yet. Two quick raps on the door and I hear footsteps on the other side.
The beep of buttons being pushed, a chain rattling as if it’s being undone, a dead bolt being pulled, and then the knob rattles as I’m assuming that’s also being unlocked, then the door only opens a crack.
And there’s the pissed-off blue eyes I remember from earlier today. “Yes?”
Yes? Like it’s a question as to why I knocked. “I’m here for Lucy.”
The door squeaks as Veronica opens it wider. She watches me like she’s a hawk and I’m a field mouse as I walk in. A fast survey of the room and I’m quick to jealousy. This place is a hundred times better than the dump downstairs. The walls are a sky blue, the trim a bright white, and the lighting from this century.
The entire floor is open. The kitchen is to the right of the door. Before me is a couch, a recliner, and a small flat-screen TV is mounted to the wall. To the left is a semicircular window seat in the turret along with an office area filled with a desk, a computer, bookshelves, filing cabinets and a piano.
On the couch is a sprawled-out lump covered with a blue velvet blanket. That lump is my sister, and she looks completely at peace with her eyes closed and little chest moving up and down in even breaths.
Veronica leans back against the counter in the kitchen and watches me. She’s in cotton shorts and an oversized T-shirt that has Mickey Mouse on it. Her arms are crossed, and she’s definitely not impressed with me.
“You should have left the chain on before you opened the door all the way to check who was knocking.”
Veronica points one finger, and I follow to see a small television on the kitchen counter. The image is separated out into several shots, and one of the pictures is of the steps at her door.
Okay then. They have a security system. A fancy one at that. That’s smart and makes me uneasy. Guess she’ll have a nice view of our dysfunction for the next couple of months.
“Thanks for taking care of my sister.” The sincerity is real, and the suck part is, I feel like I should be able to say more to Veronica, but I don’t know what to say or how to say it. I shove my hands in my pockets because that’s wrong. There’s a lot to say, I just don’t like saying it. “I’m sorry about what you overheard between me and my friends. It wasn’t right and—”
“Thank you for the apology.” Veronica cuts me off, and that brings me up short. As I helped my mom, I had come up with a plan, with a speech, and one part led to another part that was going to end with me somehow convincing Veronica to give us a few days until she cashed our deposit check, but she blew that plan to pieces.
Veronica continues to watch me. She’s waiting for me to gather my sister and go, and that’s exactly what I want to do, but I need to try and make life easier for my mom.
“I really do appreciate your help with Lucy, and I hate to do this, but I was wondering if it was possible for you to take a few days to cash the—”
“Just so I know how to handle this situation, does your mom have a problem with alcohol?”
“No.” My answer is immediate, and Veronica tilts her head as if she doesn’t believe me.
“Really? Because your sister said she gets sick on the weekends. I’m assuming ‘sick’”—she uses quotation marks with her fingers—“is a loose term for the drunk I saw earlier.”
“She has a few drinks with friends on the weekends. Sometimes they go out and have a few too many, but she never touches anything during the week.” Why I feel the need to defend Mom, I don’t know, especially when I’m pissed that I currently smell like vomit.
“Your mother’s check bounced,” Veronica says in an even voice.
My eyes briefly shut. Damn. “Does your dad know?”
“Not yet.”
Can this girl give me anything or is she going to make me beg for everything? “We’ll have the funds on the fifteenth.” A week from now and that feels like a lifetime away. My brain races—I have a job as a lifeguard, but that’s barely minimum wage and we haven’t gone grocery shopping yet and Lucy needs school supplies and I’ll start swimming again tomorrow and that means fees for the Y, for my coach, for the school league, for my outside swim league, for …
Her deadpan expression is one of the most paralyzing things I’ve come across, and I’m the guy who does death-defying feats.
“Do you have a car?” she asks, and I’m stunned as I try to understand why she’d ask that.
“Yes.”
“Your sister is welcome in my part of the house whenever I’m home.” It’s unspoken that I’m not. “You have until next Friday to give me another check that won’t bounce. You’ll need to add forty dollars to cover the fees we incurred. If that check bounces, then I’ll have no choice but to tell my dad. Not just about the check, but about what I saw here tonight.”
She’s dismissing me, but I’m stuck in place. “Please don’t tell anyone about my mom.” My tongue feels thick. “About the check or what you saw tonight. I get that you might have to tell your dad, but you won’t as I’ll get you the money. But if people find out … that would embarrass her.” And me.
“I’m not the type who gossips. There’s enough people in our town who like to say mean things so I figure no one needs my help in that department.”
I wince. Message received loud and clear. She hates me. It’s okay. I hate me, too.
“Thanks,” I say again. “For Lucy.” I walk over to the couch and gather my little sister in my arms.
“I’m curious,” Veronica says, “about the diary you had at the TB hospital. Where did you find it?”
In my arms, Lucy’s a hot, sweaty mess, yet snuggles closer to me. “I found it on the window seat of the front bedroom.” This entire time I’ve been trying to br
eak through Veronica’s wall, and it’s with that answer that there’s a flicker of emotion other than hate. “I assumed it was from the last tenant. Is it yours? Do you want it back?”
Veronica looks over at the empty window seat of her living room and then back at me. “Are you reading it?”
When she says it like that, reading it seems wrong. Like I shouldn’t be prying into someone’s words—dead or alive.
“It’s okay if you have. It’s what it’s there for.”
I nod.
“Then keep it. For now at least. You can give it to me when you’re done.” Veronica opens the door, and I leave.
* * *
Mom woke up with a hangover, Lucy woke up whining about not being able to find her toys and each time they opened their mouths, my skin shrank. And it kept shrinking. To the point that my bones started to feel as if they were being crushed into dust.
I finally settled Lucy in front of the TV with two boxes of her things, Mom resting on the back porch with a thick novel, her sunglasses and sunscreen, and I got the hell out.
A quick doctor’s appointment, my cast is off, I’m free and that’s not a good thing.
The speedometer of my car rises higher and higher as I press harder on the gas. Rocks and dust fly behind me as I take the sharp curve too wide. It’s a dirt road, one that was closed a few miles back. There were NO TRESPASSING signs. Many of them along the route. But I don’t care. That only adds to the growing high.
At the top of the old rock quarry, I slam on the brakes and throw the car into park. I toss the keys onto the passenger seat and push open the driver’s-side door. I rip my shirt over my head, take the shoes and socks off my feet and toss them and my wallet onto the seat.
I slam the car door shut and my pulse pounds in my ears as I stalk to the edge of the quarry. And that’s where I find my zone. My toes hanging off the rock, pebbles that had shifted under my weight falling and plummeting to the water below.
The water below …
It’s a safe jump, it’s why I picked it. Forty feet. Not as many rocks in the water as other jumps. Forty feet. Safe. “Damn.”
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