Leslie screams and wrenches her mind away. She can conceptualize it no other way, that she has physically yanked her mind back from something or someone. She feels cold, realizes that she’s drenched with sweat, stands up, grabs the edge of the desk to steady herself. They are not going to let her alone, whoever this they may be, just as they wouldn’t leave Laurel alone, once they had her. Again she considers burning the notebooks, then realizes that she needs the information inside them, if she’s going to resist. You got yourself into this, Les, you get yourself out. This particular voice in her head is only a memory of her father’s.
She realizes, then, beyond the possibility of explaining it away, that she believes. Her mother wasn’t crazy at all. Her mother was contacted by telepathic aliens. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—she’s never been so sure of anything in her life. She straightens up, glances out the window to find the light changed, glances at the clock and realizes that it’s nearly seven o’clock.
“How long have they had me?”
She thinks, tries to remember when she got up, must have been no later than 8:30. She’s always been a morning person, never liked to sleep late. And then she ate the yogurt, read for a while, but they must have taken her round nine at the latest, a whole day ago, unless maybe a night passed and then another day and here she never noticed. Her mouth is dry. She has to go to the bathroom. No, it could only have been one day or she would have needed to go before this.
After the bathroom, she walks into the kitchen, opens the green refrigerator and looks in: nothing but a little bit of milk. Tonight, she feels, she can eat, deserves to eat, even, since she’s barely touched food in the last five days. She can drive into town and have dinner at the diner—and then she realizes that she’s lost track of time. If it’s Sunday, and she rather thinks it might be Sunday, the diner will be closed. So will the Safeway. There will be nothing to eat, not for her, though other people will be eating. She feels herself shaking, feels ready to cry, slams the fridge door and walks back into the living room.
Seven o’clock and still light out. Under the clock sits the telephone. Perhaps she could call the diner and see if it’s open, see if Maureen will tell her what day it is? She remembers Maggie telling her to call anytime, to come over anytime, to drop by for a meal, even. She hesitates only briefly, then picks up the phone.
o~O~o
Richie has spent several hours over at Maggie’s house. He brought her groceries from town, put them away, chopped firewood, cleaned out the lean-to and checked the emergency generator, played with the cats a while, and had some coffee. He is considering going home, when the phone rings. He watches his grandmother pick it up, sees her smile and wink his way as she listens to whoever it is on the other end of the line.
“Why, sure, Les,” Maggie says, emphasizing the name. “I haven’t had supper yet. Why don’t you come right over?”
Richie feels himself blushing. Maggie hangs up the phone and smiles at him.
“Want to stay for supper?”
“Well, sure, Gram, if it’s no trouble.”
“Never any trouble, honey. You know that. But we won’t have meat, since it’s Leslie coming over. I was thinking about macaroni and cheese.”
“Sounds good to me. Say, Gram? Why is Les always sure she’s fat or something?”
“Beats me.” Maggie hesitates, thinking. In the strong light through the window she looks pale, her skin close to translucent with age, the veins like threads in rice paper. “Well, she’s got a lot of problems, Les. Her father was a nasty kind of dude, her mother told me, always criticizing, always tearing the poor kid down, still does, I guess.”
“Bastard.”
“Laurel called him that, too, yeah. You gonna grate the cheese for me?”
“Sure.” Richie stands up. “I’ll just get me a bowl and the grater.”
The cheese sauce is made by the time Leslie arrives, stepping into the kitchen, hovering in the doorway while she glances this way and that as if she expected someone to jump out at her. She looks freshly showered, freshly made-up, and dressed as always to perfection, but no makeup can hide the dark circles under her eyes, all puffy and swollen. Maggie gives her one of what Richie calls her “sharp looks.”
“Are you okay, Les?” Maggie says.
“Well, I’ve been better.” Her voice trembles and swoops. “I think I had a flu, the last couple of days. It seems like I’ve lost track of time or something. Today’s Sunday?”
“That’s right, yeah. You feverish?”
“Not anymore. I went through this thing this morning where I sweated really bad.”
“Sit down.” Maggie turns firm. “Sit down and I’ll make you some tea.”
Maggie’s teas are always medicinal and always strong. After one sip Leslie allows hers to be laced with honey, calories or no calories. She drinks it slowly, cradling the warm mug in both hands, and in silence watches Maggie cook. Richie finds himself running through possible ideas for conversation starters and rejecting them all. Cats wander into the kitchen, sit near the stove, and watch Maggie with tails curled round paws.
“Rich?” Maggie says. “You want to feed them?”
“Sure, Gram.”
Richie picks up the plates and goes into the laundry room to fill them from the big bags of dry cat food. The cats follow in full chorus. As he scoops out the two different kinds and distributes them onto the plates, the cats lean against his ankles or walk round and round like sharks circling a life raft.
“Almost done, guys, almost done.”
Over the cat noise Richie can hear Maggie and Leslie talking in low voices, just a few words here and there, but when he comes back, they fall silent. He sets the plates down for the cats, then glances at the wood box.
“I’d better fill that if you’re gonna bake that macaroni.”
“I am, yeah,” Maggie says. “Thanks.”
When Richie returns with the full box, he rests it on top of the washing machine in the laundry room and listens. Through the open door he can just see Leslie, leaning forward a little, listening to something Maggie’s saying. It seems that she’s about to answer, but even though he hesitates, unseen, to let them finish, she never does speak. He brings the box in and puts it down beside the stove.
“Should be enough there for your breakfast tomorrow, too, Gram.”
“Thanks, hon.”
Richie sits back down at the table. At last the obvious conversation starter occurs to him.
“How’s your work going, Les? Up at the house, I mean.”
Leslie’s hands spasm and let the mug fall, bouncing unbroken on the linoleum.
“Oh God,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn clumsy.”
“No damage, honey.” Maggie bends down and fetches the mug. “It’s not even chipped. Tough stuff, this stoneware.”
“Well, still, I just feel so stupid.”
“No problem, Les, really.” Maggie sets the mug on the counter. “You want more tea?”
“Oh, no thanks, I feel lots better now, really.” Leslie turns to Richie with an arranged smile. “The work’s going fine. It’s just kind of dull, all those stats, you know?”
Richie doesn’t know, but he smiles anyway.
“How’s the eth holding out?” Leslie goes on. “Are you gonna get another delivery next week?”
“Sure looks like it. They called my dad to tell him it’s on the way.”
Under her prompting Richie finds himself talking, telling her this and that about the horses and the town and the local gossip. Once Maggie’s got the firebox going and the casserole in the oven, she sits down at the table and joins them, leans on one elbow onto the table and merely listens, but Richie notices her studying Leslie, notices too that whether she says anything or not, his grandmother is worried about something. He assumes that she thinks Leslie isn’t quite over her flu.
o~O~o
Although Maggie owns an old red pickup truck that still runs, thanks to Richie’s work
on it, she rarely drives it anymore, rarely goes anywhere off her property, for that matter, except when Big Rick drives her down to the Safeway. A couple of days after Leslie’s visit, though, Maggie decides that she really has to take a hand in whatever’s bothering young Leslie. She puts on a flowered cotton skirt and a blue pullover, finds the keys to the truck, shuts the back door to keep the cats out until she returns, and goes out to the garage. As she’s backing the truck out, watching carefully for ambling cats, she wonders if she should call Leslie first. What if Les makes some excuse, tells her not to come? Maggie decides that it’s better to risk her not being home.
When she pulls into Leslie’s driveway the Honda’s there, and so is Leslie’s bike, leaning against the side of the house. Reflexively Maggie walks round back to go in the kitchen door, as she always did when Laurel was alive. Gravel and dead leaves crunch under her heavy shoes, and she’s jingling the car keys, too, swinging them from one hand as she walks, but still Leslie doesn’t hear her.
The girl lies in a chaise longue out on the deck, flopped dead-still with the chair back tipped way back, staring up at something. When Maggie glances up she sees only trees, framing blue sky. Leslie is so pale that Maggie feels cold fear clench her heart—has her intuition dragged her over here to find the child dead? She hurries up the steps, and the sound of her footsteps brings Les round. She sits up and stares at Maggie, her mouth half open, sweat beading on her face.
“Oh Leslie,” Maggie says. “You are still sick, aren’t you, honey?”
“No.” Her voice is very high and soft. “I mean, I don’t think so.” She rubs her face with both hands, pushes damp strands of hair away from her cheeks. “Oh yuck!”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Yeah. Well. Yeah.”
Leslie allows herself to be helped up and led into the house. Maggie sits her down on the sofa in the living room and goes back to the kitchen to make some coffee or tea, only to find that there’s barely a stick or scrap or swallow of food or drink in the entire place. One half-eaten container of yogurt, one herbal tea bag, a couple of carrots—that’s it. Maggie marches back out again.
“Les, look, you’re not one of my kids, and I know I don’t have much right to say this, but honey, I’m worried about you. You’ve got to start eating better.”
Leslie merely looks at her, her eyes so glazed that Maggie wonders if she’s heard.
“Les? I think you need to go to the doctor.”
Leslie shakes her head no, but it’s a half-hearted gesture. Maggie sits down on the edge of a nearby chair and waits.
“You’re right about the eating,” Leslie says at last. “I’ve been meaning to go to the store. I keep putting it off. I mean, I know better.” She tries to smile, fails. “I should have fruit and stuff in the house.”
“Well, yeah, and some good cereal. Whole grains are real important for vegetarians.”
Leslie smiles, nods, looks away so vacantly that Maggie wonders if her problems all come from starvation. It seems likely.
“By now you’re probably too tired to get to the store,” Maggie says. “I can call Richie, give him a shopping list, and have him bring the things up here.”
“That would be real nice of you.” Leslie’s voice has turned into a whisper. “I’m real tired, yeah.”
Maggie organizes a list on a scrap of paper, calls Richie, and makes him repeat back each item as she says it. He’s more than glad to help; she can hear the worry in his voice. Once he’s been sent on his way, Maggie goes back to the kitchen, boils water in a saucepan, and makes the cup of tea. When she carries it back into the living room, she finds Leslie sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her eyes a little brighter, her smile a little more genuine as she takes the cup.
“It’ll be a start,” Maggie says. “Let’s see how your system handles that. Some times it can’t take a lot of food right away.”
“Well, I did eat yesterday. Honest.” Leslie tries a sip of the tea. “This tastes pretty good.”
“Good. Have you been running a fever every day?”
“No. I only get so sweaty when—” A long pause. “When I exercise too much.”
Maggie’s raised too many kids not to recognize a lie when she hears one, but she decides to let it go. Gaining Leslie’s confidence is not going to be easy.
“Well,” Maggie puts some cheer into her voice. “I’m glad to hear you’re getting some exercise. Instead of just working at the computer, I mean.”
“I’ve been running a lot, yeah.”
Maggie smiles, Leslie smiles, neither speaks. Maggie glances round the room and sees the notebooks lying beside the computer. Laurel would, on occasion, read to her from those notebooks.
“It can’t be easy work,” Maggie goes on, “going over those. I used to really worry, when your mom would read me her notes.”
“Worry about Mom, you mean, or the planet?”
Maggie laughs at the joke.
“Well, yeah,” Leslie says. “But didn’t you ever wonder, well, what if this stuff was true? What would happen, I mean?”
“Your mom used to say that we were marked for invasion, if it was true.”
“I found the place where she said that the first time, in Cats Three, toward the end.”
It takes Maggie a moment to understand this statement.
“Oh, the notebooks with cats on it.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” Leslie smiles briefly. “I keep them straight that way, by what’s on the covers. So it was Cats Three where she said we were marked for invasion, and that’s why the slave was sorry. His people got taken over, you see, by this other race, and so he doesn’t want to help take us over, but they make him do it, you know. He really doesn’t have any choice. Sometimes he gets a chance at contacting us when they don’t know, the masters, and then he can be more honest, but he can’t risk sending for very long.”
Maggie’s stomach turns cold and knots itself. Innocently Leslie talks on.
“Mom kept such careful records, even toward the end when she was drinking. She began labelling the different voices—well, I shouldn’t call them voices—the different minds. And she could always tell which one was accompanying her. I don’t think you can lie, talking mind to mind.”
“Probably not.” Maggie finds her voice at last. “Les, uh, you’ve started doing it, too, haven’t you? I mean, talking to these people.”
Leslie freezes into a porcelain figure, one hand raised, a smile caught on her mouth.
“I’m not surprised you’d try it,” Maggie goes on, gentling her voice. “After all, you’ve lost your mother, and this was her work, what you’ve got left of her. You kind of have to believe in it, don’t you?”
The statue shatters. Leslie curls into a ball, twisting sideways on the sofa, and begins to sob. Maggie hurries over, sits next to her, catches her shoulders and unwinds her from herself. She puts her arms round the girl and pulls her closer, lets her sob against her, a heartbroken child, now, sobbing and rocking, while Maggie strokes her hair and makes meaningless soothing noises, “There there, there there.” At last Leslie falls silent, sits up, pulls away to wipe her face.
“I’ll get you those Kleenex from the kitchen table.”
Maggie does so, hands her a couple, lets her blow her nose, hands her a couple more to wipe her face.
“Les, honey, you’ve got to get some help. You’ve been up here alone, brooding over all of this, missing your mama, too, I’m sure, and well . . . ”
“You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”
“No. I think you’ve got too much on your mind and no one to share it with.”
Leslie wads the Kleenex into a ball and stares at it.
“Putting all this stuff in order’s a big job,” Maggie goes on. “I think you need a break, hon. A vacation, some time off. It wouldn’t hurt to hire someone to do the typing for you.”
“Typing? Oh, yeah, keyboarding. But I couldn’t let anyone see the notebooks.”
“I don’t suppose anyone
really needs to.”
Leslie’s eyes narrow, and she squeezes the Kleenex ball hard.
“Anyone but you, I mean,” Maggie says.
“Oh. Oh, well, yeah. I should probably ship the other stuff down to Berkeley. My mom’s friends need to go over it, anyway. I don’t understand all the math.”
“I’ll bet. There’s not a lot of people at your mom’s level.”
This brings a grin, open and grateful.
“A vacation never hurts anyone,” Maggie goes on. “And maybe someone else to talk to, a little counselling, I mean. They have those grief counsellors, don’t they, down in the city? It’s a real hard thing to lose your mother as young as you have.”
“I never thought of it that way. But yeah, you’re right, aren’t you? Maybe I should think about that.”
“I wish you would, honey. I really think it’d help.”
Just then they hear a truck coming, slowing down, turning into the driveway.
“That’ll be Richie with the groceries,” Maggie says, getting up. “We’ll talk about this again, honey, real soon, any time you want to. I’m usually home, or if I’m gone, it’s not for long, not anymore.”
With a long sigh Leslie leans back against the couch, rests her face against a pillow, pale skin against pale upholstery. Her eyes drift out of focus, seem focused elsewhere, very very far away. Maggie wonders if she should call Leslie’s father, decides against it. Judging from Laurel’s anecdotes about him, he considers any kind of mental illness a moral failing and would tell Leslie so in no uncertain terms.
“I think I’ll make some supper, while I’m here,” Maggie says. “That all right with you?”
Leslie never answers. When she hears the screen door bang, Maggie goes into the kitchen just as Richie steps in, his arms full of brown paper bags.
“I’ll put those away,” Maggie says. “Why don’t you go keep Les company in the other room? But she’s running a fever, so don’t sit too close.”
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