“This guy—the one from the website—doesn’t he have a name?”
Evan shakes his head slowly, his lips pinched into an upside-down crescent. “The Insider.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I think I’ve got a name for you.”
Evan lifts his chin a little higher.
“Adam Newfeld.” Now I place my hands squarely on the table and lean toward him, making sure I have his full attention. “Otherwise known as the orderly my sister ran away with.”
Evan’s mouth drops open as he connects the dots. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, holy shit.” I rub my temples against an oncoming headache. “And believe me when I tell you, he might be this ‘Insider’ guy, but there’s no way he’s in Jerome anymore. Not with all those unanswered questions about my sister.”
Evan and I consider the flood of information that’s just passed between us. I try to slow my thoughts by focusing on the landscape. The spindly paloverde tree in the corner. The cluster of stones at the base of its neon-green trunk. The faded green and yellow awning shading the back window of the tiny restaurant. Evan looks like he’s processing something too, though what that might be I couldn’t even begin to guess.
“So,” he says, standing slowly and looking wearily at his cooler full of untouched food. “Want some pie?”
• • •
Exhausted in the way that only a mind full of fresh questions and a stomach full of banana cream pie can make you, Evan and I drive home from Black Canyon City in near silence, careful to say only things that have to do with the music selection and the temperature of his car. This has quite possibly been the worst date in history, and yet, for some reason, I don’t want it to end.
After Evan pulls up in front of my house, we sit in his idling car for a moment. Pretty soon, it occurs to me he might be waiting for me to leave, so I reach for my bag at my feet.
“Hey,” he says, going for my hand, hesitating, then closing his long fingers around mine. “Your hands are cold,” he says, pressing my palm between both of his.
“Must be that awesome AC of yours.” I smile a little, then find his eyes, which are already on mine.
“Look, I know this was . . . well, I don’t know what it was.”
I shrug a little, doing my best it’s-cool-this-kind-of-stuff-happens-to-me-all-the-time impression, which in a way is honest.
“So, since we know this much about each other already, what would you say to maybe finding out a little bit more?”
My heart pounds behind my sternum.
“I mean, not like that—not that I wouldn’t want to, but what I meant was—” He starts stammering. “What I’m trying to say is, would you want to come over sometime so I can show you what I’ve been reading about all this stuff?”
On the one hand, I would do just about anything to spend more time with Evan. I’d search sewers for rats if he called it a date. But this is something else altogether. If Evan had any idea that he was dating a girl who sees things from the corner of her eye, just like his cousin did . . . well, he’d probably have me committed to Oakside. Unless he was crazy too. Which he isn’t.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why me?”
I hope he doesn’t think I’m saying no. I’m glad he picked me to be his companion in all this. But nobody ever picks me. Not for anything. He’s the only guy to show me more than a minute’s worth of attention, well, pretty much ever.
Evan looks at the dashboard as if the answer might be there, then answers with startling purposefulness. “I figured you’d understand. There’s something quiet about you, like you’ve lived an entire lifetime already.”
I let his words settle into my mind like seeds in soil. I don’t quite know what to make of it.
“Plus you’ve got a rockin’ body,” he says with an enormous smile. I try to jerk my hand away, but he only holds it tighter.
Serious again, he says, “Please, Sophie.” Suddenly I can’t remember any of my reasons for saying no. So I say, “Yeah, okay. Maybe.”
I ease out of the car, already missing the way his hands felt around mine, and watch his white Probe disappear around the corner, leaving me to wonder what it was I’d just agreed to.
Inside the house, there’s no sign of Mom, but her remnants are everywhere—the smell of Jergens body lotion, a TV flickering with its sound turned off in the living room, a sweating liquor glass in the breakfast nook. I guess she’s not going out with Aunt Becca after all. I know I’ll find her passed out in her bed, but I don’t want to go back there yet. I just want to linger in the feeling of being wanted by Evan a little bit longer.
I sit in front of the TV for a while and watch the characters of some syndicated sitcom silently play out their conflicts. I empty Mom’s glass of its melted ice cubes and swipe away the ring of condensation from the tabletop with a clean dish towel. I pace the floor of the kitchen, retracing my steps over the bubble in the linoleum that’s been beside the refrigerator for as long as I can remember. Nell used to try to scare me by telling me there was a tiny troll who lived under the house, and that was where he’d built his little underground chimney.
With nothing else to do, I’m about to head to my room when I decide I should check the voice mail. I’m sure Aunt Becca’s left a message for Mom scolding her for staying home to drink instead of getting out of the house, and it’ll end with a request to have me please call her so she can quiz me about what Mom’s doing.
I lift the receiver and find the skipping dial tone, telling me there’s a message waiting. I punch the code and wait for Aunt Becca’s voice. Instead, I find a different voice, one I wasn’t expecting but that’s becoming almost as familiar.
Good afternoon, Ms. David. This is Dr. Jeremy Keller from the Oakside Behavioral Institute. I’m calling—again—to discuss a matter of great importance with you. It’s regarding your daughter, Sophie, whom I had the pleasure of meeting the other day here at our facility. It’s very important that I speak with you about some observations I made while she was here. I apologize for being so cryptic, but I’m sure you understand the, er, sensitivity with which this must be approached, especially given the, well, the family history. Ms. David, please give me a call at my personal extension as soon as you receive this message. The number is—
I hang up so fast I nearly knock the phone off the wall. What does Dr. Keller mean “observations”? What the hell is he doing calling my mom about me? I pick up the receiver and select the option for deleting the message. I stare at the phone for another few minutes as though it’s betrayed me. Whatever he wants to tell Mom can’t be good. And where does he get off calling like that anyway? Like he knows our family?
Yet, the fact is, he does. Dr. Keller knows all about us, all about Nell. And if he knows all of Nell’s secrets, what if he somehow knows mine, too? Snippets of my conversation with Evan stream through my brain. I think about institutions and experiments, doctors with malicious intentions. I busy myself with chores—dusting, straightening, sweeping. I check on my mom, who is buried under her comforter with her back to the bedroom doorway. I lock all the windows and doors, partly out of habit, though now I feel compelled to double-check them once I’m done. I try to erase the voice of Dr. Keller from my mind like I erased his message. I do this for the rest of the day and into the night—tossing and turning instead of sleeping.
7
* * *
I’VE SPENT ALL DAY ON edge, and not just because of everything that happened yesterday with Evan, or even the message Dr. Keller left for my mom. Aunt Becca’s coming over for dinner tonight. This could mean one of two things: either Mom will be in great spirits because she’s forced to get out of bed and interact with family, or Mom will completely fall apart because she’s forced to get out of bed and interact with family. Falling apart will set her back a good month (and set me back God knows how much longer).
“Hand me the pepper grinder,” Mom says more to the steaming pot on the stove than to me. I have absolutely no idea what she�
�s making, but so far I’ve seen noodles, butter, onions, peppers, and about ten different spices disappear into the scratched-up blue saucepot that hardly has any more Teflon on its bottom.
I hand the pepper to her over her shoulder, and our fingers brush as she takes it.
“Thanks, hon,” she says offhandedly.
She’s trying. At least, I think she is. So far, so good. Of course, Aunt Becca hasn’t shown up yet.
“Should we have a salad?” she asks, still talking to the pot.
The steam is starting to make her sweat, and the heavy brown waves around her face are curling with the humidity. Still, all I smell is whatever she’s putting into her concoction and the faintest whiff of her conditioner. No booze. She’s standing at the stove—two steps from the liquor cabinet—but she hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since she’s been in the kitchen.
“Definitely salad,” she answers herself almost too decisively, peering into the fridge and rummaging through the crisper.
She puts me to work chopping random vegetables and throwing them into a wooden bowl. I’ve almost forgotten my anxiety over this evening when I hear a knock at the door.
“I’ve got it,” I say, dropping the knife and hustling to the front door.
Aunt Becca plants a rushed kiss on my temple before handing me one of the two paper grocery bags she’s balancing on her hips.
“How’s she doing?”
I bite my tongue before blurting that I have no idea, that I shouldn’t have to keep tabs on my mother, that I’m not exactly fine myself. My face hurts from forcing a smile for everyone else’s sake. All so Mom can recover from her loss.
“Who knows?” I say instead, mustering my best I’m coping tone.
“Guess we’ll know soon enough,” she says before whisking past me into the kitchen.
We eat in the breakfast nook, the three of us quietly marveling at the creation Mom’s managed to slap together. I have to admit, I had my doubts. And I still can’t exactly name whatever it is that she’s made. But it’s warm and savory, and I’m so happy to be eating it. Aunt Becca brought a crusty sourdough baguette and some cheese, and I’m wolfing it down so fast I’m about to slip into a bread-and-cheese coma.
“What kind of cheese is this anyway?” Mom asks before slathering a slice of baguette with the soft white stuff.
It makes me irrationally giddy to see her eating.
“Camembert, I think,” Aunt Becca replies. “Who knows? I grabbed the first thing I found next to the bread.”
“I can’t remember the last time I’ve had really good cheese,” Mom says with nostalgia, and I wonder if she’s working up to more important things to remember fondly. “I don’t think I’ve had really good cheese since Mom died. Do you remember how she used to be such a food snob?”
“Yes!” Aunt Becca climbs onboard. “She was always bringing the girls those fancy French cheeses made from goats’ this or that. The girls loved it, didn’t you?” She turns to me.
I shrug. Nell had taken to Nana’s eccentricities more than I had. I suppose I didn’t have the right sophistication—the same quality that made Nell so good at poetry. She and Nana had always had more in common.
“Do you remember that trip we all took to Oregon?” Aunt Becca continues the happy memory game. I’m still just glad to be eating a home-cooked meal.
“Oh God, the cheese factory! I’d almost forgotten all about that!” Mom starts to laugh, and it sounds out of practice in her throat. Still, shaking off the cobwebs is a good start. The Oregon trip was one of the only out-of-state vacations I remember. Mom and Aunt Becca got some sort of discount for going to a hair show.
I watch Mom’s face closely from the corner of my eye, and though she looks a little nervous, her smile doesn’t disappear as she forks the next bite into her mouth.
“Do you remember that, Sophie?” Aunt Becca tries to draw me in, no doubt hopeful that a shared memory will start the healing process right here in the breakfast nook over a plate of mystery noodles.
“Sort of.” I’m hoping if I don’t join in, this conversation will pass. This sort of reminiscing can’t end well.
“She might have been too young,” Mom says.
“I guess she was pretty young. But don’t you remember, Sophie? You have to remember. You were the one who almost got us kicked out for stealing crackers from the gift shop!” Aunt Becca hoots, looking at me with a rapt attention that only comes with remembering something that was fun once upon a time.
But her face is tight, desperate, like she’s trying to re-create that feeling all over again.
She’s talking so fast, I can’t stop her before she says, “And then you told the security guard that you weren’t stealing it. You needed it for your low blood sugar. Ha! How could a girl your age even know what that was? And then to pull that out of thin air, I just couldn’t believe—”
“That was Nell,” I correct her quietly.
For a second, we all sit in silence, forks resting on our plates.
“That’s right. I’d forgotten that. She was always coming up with . . . ” Aunt Becca trails off as I shift my gaze between the two of them.
Mom’s face stiffens. She hasn’t looked up since I invoked the unmentionable name of Nell.
“Yep, I remember,” Mom finally says, reaching slowly for another hunk of cheese and spreading it on some bread with a zombielike movement.
“Only she didn’t make up everything, did she?” I aim the question at my mother, but I’m hoping Aunt Becca catches some of my tone too. I’m suddenly overwhelmingly suspicious, like they’ve conspired to keep me in the dark all these years. I have absolutely no idea where it’s coming from—maybe it’s everything Evan told me yesterday, all the stuff his aunt and uncle kept from him about his cousin—but the feeling pours over me like oil on a blazing fire.
“It’s not that simple,” Mom’s answer is infuriatingly quick, and she reaches for another chunk of cheese and slathers a second piece of bread before she’s touched the one that’s already on her plate.
“Yeah, but it kind of is. I mean, either she made everything up, or she believed what was happening to her was real,” I push on.
“Sophie,” Aunt Becca cautions. I’ve been warned away from this topic too many times. I’m through walking on eggshells. I’m through being responsible for the sake of everyone else while I suffocate under my own questions. Questions like why nobody at Oakside ever told Nell that she was crazy. And why Mom and Aunt Becca went along with whatever treatment Dr. Keller proposed, like the drugs she talked about in her journal. And what happened in the mirrored room.
“No, seriously. Which was it? Because either way, I can’t see why Nell would have run away unless there was something else. Something, I don’t know, that they were doing to her at Oakside. Or making her do.”
I can see my mom’s and Aunt Becca’s shoulders rise in unison, like a barricade against my questions. Still, not a word leaves either of their lips. We all chew on silence like it’s a sourdough baguette smeared with Camembert.
“Is somebody going to answer me?” I demand, slapping my hands on my thighs like a two-year-old.
“Goddamnit, Sophie, drop it!” Mom says, setting her water glass down hard and gripping the edge of the table. “You have no idea what you’re even asking about.”
“You’re right. I don’t, which is exactly why I’m asking—”
“I said drop it,” she repeats through gritted teeth, her jawbones jutting out below her earlobes.
Mom’s eyes spark in my direction as if I’ve betrayed her, as if somehow she knew I would all along. I want to scream at her, to stand up from the table, to slam the door and never come back.
“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” Mom says, finally unlocking me from her gaze and starting to clear the table.
“Miri, let’s go for a walk or something,” Aunt Becca tries, pretending I’m no longer at the table.
“It’s too hot.”
When Mom reaches
for a glass in the cupboard near the stove, that seals the deal. She’s done with both of us for the night.
Aunt Becca finally ventures a glance at me with anger or pity, I can’t tell. Anyway, I think she’s aiming it at the wrong person, and I shoot her a look that I hope tells her so.
“Miri, we need to talk,” she tries again, attempting her firmest older-sister tone, which never worked on Mom, even when she wasn’t like this.
“I’m done talking,” Mom mumbles.
“Well, I’m not,” Aunt Becca persists.
I have to say I’m impressed. Well, I think I’m impressed. Nobody’s listening to what I say anymore tonight.
“I’ve got a number for you,” she continues, and I know she’s dangerously close to pushing Mom past her breaking point.
“Of a guy? Not in the mood,” Mom makes a bad attempt at a joke. These days, her jokes are like mine: full of acid.
Aunt Becca fixes a stern gaze at the bottle in Mom’s hand. “Of an AA chapter. It’s three blocks away on Pima. They meet Tuesdays and Thurs—”
“God, Becca. Seriously, not this again.” Mom sounds more like a teenager than I do.
I’m instantly pissed at Mom, and I want to throw my plate of food right at her head. Not that I’m any huge fan of Aunt Becca at the moment for stonewalling me about Nell, but at least she’s trying to get us all to move on. Anything’s better than staying in this limbo. But it’s like Mom’s completely given up. And right now, that’s all I feel like doing too. My head is pounding like a snare drum, and if it weren’t still more than a hundred degrees outside, I’d probably run until I hit Mexico.
Instead, I slide from my chair without saying good night to Mom or good-bye to Aunt Becca and drag myself down the hall toward my bedroom. In my wake, I can hear them arguing, their sisterly voices sounding nearly identical the more walls I put between them and me. My bedroom looks somehow foreign in the orange dusk that slips in through the window. Being in there isn’t any more comforting than being in the kitchen with Mom and Aunt Becca.
The Murmurings Page 6