The Murmurings

by West, Carly Anne

  Adam never breaks his focus, never once flinches as the Taker leans in and whispers in his ear. As his eyes close, Adam rises up onto a single toe, and I watch in utter horror as that toe leads him up the wall and onto the ceiling, the rest of his body hanging like a caterpillar from its cocoon.

  “No!” I cry out, but it’s too late.

  Adam has already let the Taker in.

  It whispers once more into his ear, but by then, Adam is already gone. His black eyes wander to mine just as the last of his life begins to leave him, and the Taker leans in to find that part of itself it can never have.

  But this time is different. Adam doesn’t turn to me and utter a parting message like Kenny did. Instead, he points to my fist, which I’d forgotten I was clenching. I open my palm and dangle a long braid of gold—tiny charms in the shape of a shamrock, a shoe, a treasure chest, a puppy. Twinkling with the sweat from my hand is the bracelet that had at one time meant something to a young Dr. Keller and his young Susan.

  Holding this symbol of Dr. Keller’s love, I imagine the pain that he felt upon losing Susan, the pain Susan felt when her life was taken from her, her soul ripped in two through no fault of her own. I allow myself to feel the pain of their separate but connected losses, each equally irretrievable. I envision it so vividly, I’m practically there with them, on some anonymous street corner, a knife between them, a gift ungiven.

  The Taker drops its eyeless gape from Adam and focuses on the bracelet dangling from my fingertips. And in that second, Adam squeezes his eyes shut, and with what looks to be his last ounce of strength, he screams.

  “O-FOUR-THIRTEEN-THIRTEEN!”

  The room falls utterly silent. I can only hear the pounding of my own heart in my ears. Then comes beeping followed by a ping.

  The door whooshes open. Dr. Keller is in the doorway, his skin white and filmy with sweat, his lab coat and clothes looking somehow bigger on him. His lip trembles, searching for something to say. His head sways on his neck. His hands shake.

  Dr. Keller is transfixed by the Taker, its rotting body twitching in place, its hungry mouth clearly at a loss for whom to attack first.

  “Susan,” Dr. Keller whispers, his face twists in horror at what he sees, and the Taker cocks its head so far to the side that it’s nearly sideways.

  “That’s not Susan, and you know it,” Adam says, his voice cracking under the strain of staying conscious and alive.

  “Susan, I know you’re in there somewhere,” Dr. Keller croaks through tears. His face is folded into a million creases. His fingers spread and flex, curling into little balls, glistening with the same perspiration that slicks his pasty face.

  “She’s not,” Adam says.

  The Taker turns to Dr. Keller and tilts its head, taking one jerking step toward him, then two more.

  Suddenly, Dr. Keller’s face shifts, and his pleading turns to horror.

  The Taker leans toward him, and I remember the bracelet.

  Without thinking, I place myself between Dr. Keller and the Taker, fighting the urge to listen to what the rapidly moving mouth has to say. I reach out for its waving fingers. Taking each end of the bracelet, I encircle the rotting blackness of what might have once been a wrist.

  The Taker stops jerking its arms and legs. It spreads its cracked lips, teeth clicking, and looks down at the bracelet, letting its mouth fall open like a lever releasing itself.

  The sound splits the room in half. It’s like a roar, so horrendous that I scream along with it. The Taker crumbles to pieces like ash falling from a flaming piece of tinder. The remnants fill the room with the putrid smell of decay, then disintegrate into a pile of fine black dust.

  Then the dust disappears into the gray linoleum like it was never there. In its place, all that remains is a green Lego. And resting atop that green Lego, wrapped around one of the nubs like a horseshoe around a stick, is a gleaming silver ring that matches the one on my own finger. The only trace of the charm bracelet is the tarnished leaf of a tiny gold shamrock.

  • • •

  The rest of the night is one I know I’ll barely remember even as it’s happening. A cloud has already started to gather over it, obscuring the events and blurring the details. Only the loudest voices, the boldest colors, the strangest actions are left in my memory.

  Adam falls from the ceiling and collapses into a heap. He’s revived by none other than Dr. Keller, who cries for him the way I can only imagine a father might cry for a child.

  The Pigeon attempts to pull Dr. Keller from Adam’s side and is rewarded with a slap to the face, one that leaves her cheek spotted bright pink.

  Adam recovers in time to see the police arrive, nearly a dozen tan uniforms with holstered guns in black cradles at their hips. Handcuffs are produced, and people in white—not the trespassers of the night—are taken to cars with flashing lights that crowd the normally empty parking lot.

  Dr. Keller’s perfect hands are bound behind him in silver bracelets. So are the Pigeon’s, in her tightly wound topknot; and Pucker-Mouth’s, with her phlegmy cough; and Robbie’s, with his face pinched in worry about what will become of him.

  Tired-looking people of all ages, all levels of disorientation—all in mint-green scrubs—are led away with blankets wrapped around their shoulders like confused superheroes.

  Evan’s arms, strong and stable, encircle me.

  Deb’s eyes, amber and wide and alive with fire, watch all of it.

  Mom and Aunt Becca, their matching curls and red-rimmed green eyes, search me out in the waiting room.

  The smell of conditioner.

  Adam stands beside me in the lobby, answering question after question from the sheriff, the health department, social services.

  Adam tells them all he can without telling them what he knows they won’t understand.

  His coal-black eyes meet mine, and I understand. He’s sorry he scared me. He’s sorry I thought he would betray me.

  When no one else is listening, when everyone’s preoccupied with their notes and comforting those who’ve been scarred and scared, Adam says, “I loved her more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I thought I could save her.”

  I shake my head at his confession and tell him, “You gave her more than any of us could. You did save her. You saved her from loneliness.”

  We made promises—to call the next morning, to talk more, to see one another’s faces the first thing the following day.

  Those of us who were left were given rides home in cars that weren’t our own. Red and blue lights flashed spastically against the asphalt until we arrived at our respective homes.

  And then there was sleep. In the same bed with Mom and Aunt Becca. The smell of conditioner on either side of my head lulling me into a fitful, but otherwise lovely sleep. Because every time I woke up, one of them was there staring at me, making sure I was okay, making sure I wasn’t going anywhere. Making sure I didn’t feel alone.

  25

  * * *

  THE WEATHER IS STILL RELATIVELY cool. It’s ninety degrees, not bad for April in Phoenix. But the air feels stiff as a linen shirt dried in the sun. I can tell our mild days are numbered as we creep into the long summer.

  “So, how does it feel to be the smartest girl to ever pick up a book?” Evan teases me as we walk around the block. We got home from school twenty minutes ago, and we’ve been circling the neighborhood in a bid to squeeze out a little more time together.

  It’s been three months since classes started up again for the semester. This is his way of congratulating me on my position as Mrs. Dodd’s teaching assistant for next year, which means I’ll be spending my first period helping other students analyze Kafka instead of taking some lame elective. I can still hardly believe she asked me of all people. One of these days, she’s going to figure out I don’t actually have any idea what I’m talking about. Of course, that’s precisely the quality she says makes me the best person for the job. As she puts it, so long as I don’t think I have all the answers, I’ll c
ontinue to ask the right questions. I’m positive that my face turned a hideous shade of crimson when she said that, but it still felt pretty good to hear it.

  “I hope you’ll make time for the little people,” Evan says, teasing me. But I detect a note of insecurity.

  “Please, like you’re going to have a spare minute for me with all the time you’ll be spending on the field.”

  I’m not the only one who received exciting news this week. Evan made varsity, and he’ll be practicing two times a day in preparation for fall. Apparently, Coach Tarza likes to get an early start.

  “Tell you what,” I continue, “if I start spending every free minute buried in a pile of books, you officially have permission to yank me away and make me watch a horror movie marathon.” We both grow quiet with a shared memory of the first time I mentioned my love for horror movies—right before he tried to take me to Jerome for our first date.

  “So,” Evan says cautiously. “No more follow-up visits I take it?” Evan means the police. This is new territory for both of us, talking about my last night in Oakside, and everything that happened afterward.

  “Nope, not for a couple of weeks. I guess it’s finally over,” I say, knowing I don’t sound the least bit convincing.

  After that night, Oakside hit the news in a big way. National news, as it turns out. Corrupt and neglectful mental institutions make for great headlines. And this, for better or worse, made the police investigation of what happened there the night we killed Susan’s Taker even more invasive. The police brought every one of us in for questioning. Evan, Deb, Adam, and I were all hoping to spend more time together, but that wasn’t exactly the way we’d planned it. We all played dumb, of course. Deb and I told the police that we were drugged at Oakside, and that we were subjected to vague and confusing tests with no clear purpose. We followed Adam’s lead in sharing just enough to answer their questions, but not sharing so much that it would lead to more questions.

  The police made subsequent visits so they could complete their reports. Just when I would think the nightmare was over, more police would show up, or call. Cops. Detectives. Medical professionals. They all wanted to know about the tests, the drugs. They asked me about the basement. I told them it was all a blur. I couldn’t tell them the truth—that some nights I don’t sleep, so sure that I’m going to close my eyes and feel my ears pop before I hear that horrible whisper.

  Then, two weeks ago, the calls and visits from the police stopped. Not coincidentally, I’m sure, this cessation of interest coincided with Oakside’s disappearance from the media. After the national news mania died down, the local news buried the story under a more sensational money laundering scandal connected to some city administrator. And when the cops finally stopped asking questions, my head finally stopped hurting.

  My heart still has a ways to go.

  “Hey, where’d you go?” Evan asks me, his face pinched in now-familiar concern.

  “Sorry. Just remembering,” I say.

  That happens a lot these days.

  “How’s your mom doing?” Evan asks after a long period of silence.

  “Good. She’s good.” And for the first time in a really long time, I actually believe it. Mom’s been going to an AA meeting at least once a week, sometimes more if she feels like she needs it. Evan knows this. We pretty much see each other every day, and when our paths don’t cross at school, we spend hours on the phone in the evenings. It’s strange; our relationship started with many unexpected intimacies, but we’ve had to fill in a lot of the gaps and start from scratch.

  Well, maybe not from scratch. That would be impossible. But we rewound a bit, went on actual dates instead of excursions to mental institutions and far-away cities. Instead, we go to the movies now. Or the mall.

  Not all parts of our relationship have slowed down, though. All those connections we had in the beginning, all the making out—there are some things you just can’t slow once they’ve started. Feeling the warmth of Evan’s lips on mine, his calloused hands on my skin, his breath—I couldn’t have stopped that if I’d wanted to. I feel an actual tug inside of me when I haven’t seen him in a day. It’s almost painful, but in the best way. And all of that pales in comparison to knowing I can talk to him about anything and he won’t think I’m a freak. He’s already seen all of my secrets.

  “I’ve got a session tonight,” I say, glad I don’t have to say more.

  We’ve started going to therapy—Mom, Aunt Becca, and me.

  “That’s good,” he says, and we leave it at that. He’s right, it is good.

  I think it might actually be helping, too. The therapy. I’m less angry these days with Mom and Aunt Becca. And I don’t hunch my shoulders in fear as much as I used to. Sometimes my ears pop because my sinuses get stuffed up. But then there are other times that they pop, and the murmuring returns. I still see things that others don’t know are there. I am still leery of mirrors. I don’t like to look into them for too long. I know that this will never go away. Cursed or not, this is who I am. I will always be a Seer. Only now, I know that I’m not alone. And now I know how to control it.

  “Deb and I go tonight too,” Evan says, and I nod.

  He goes with Deb, mostly for moral support. In a lot of ways, she’s been through more than any of us have. A lot more. Evan never knew about his uncle’s abuse. He thinks his aunt must have known but was too afraid to say anything. I can only guess that’s where the therapy is starting. They’ll get to the Oakside stuff later. When she’s ready. After all, a regular psychiatrist probably isn’t going to be well-versed in the world of Takers and Seers.

  Deb lives with Evan and his parents now. The courts miraculously allowed it, although I’m sure the fact that her parents turned her over to Oakside, an institution that the media successfully (and accurately) demonized, probably didn’t hurt Evan’s parents’ petition for custody. That and Deb’s plea to the court to be allowed to live with the only people she had ever really considered family.

  Deb’s put on a little weight since she moved in with them, and the space around her enormous amber eyes has plumped out, so she resembles Evan more than ever.

  I watch Evan now as we round the corner toward my house.

  “What?” He looks embarrassed.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Gatorade,” he says wistfully.

  “Be serious,” I give him a little shove. “You looked far away.”

  He scoops me close and presses me to him. “There. Can’t get much closer than that.”

  He’s right.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” Evan says as my house comes into view.

  A tall figure leans against Evan’s car where he left it parked at the curb. A much smaller figure leans in a similar fashion beside the tall one.

  As we approach, Adam pushes himself away from Evan’s white Probe and walks over, nodding formally like he’s some sort of guard in charge of my safety.

  Which I suppose isn’t too far off the mark.

  “Hi, Sophie,” Adam says, his voice warm and rich, like freshly steeped coffee. He rests a giant hand on my shoulder, then pries his gaze from me and extends his other hand to Evan. Evan told me that as soon as he figured out what I was trying to tell him in Oakside, he’d sped to Jerome in search of Adam and nearly missed him. Adam was making good on his threat to find a new hiding place. A few more minutes, and he would have been gone. I still get panicky when I think about what that could have meant.

  Evan and Adam look at each other now, exchanging sad but meaningful smiles. They look like war buddies.

  Again, not too far off the mark. This is how they typically greet each other. Guys are strange.

  “I was taking the bus home from class and found a familiar face,” Adam says, peering down at Deb. “She said she was coming to meet you, Evan. I just wanted to be sure Deb got here safely.”

  “Thanks, man,” he says to Adam, then turns to Deb. “Hey, Squirt,” Evan smiles easily and puts his arm aro
und her in a brotherly squeeze. She protests against it, but I know she loves it.

  We all stand awkwardly together beside Evan’s car for a minute, a circle of battle survivors. We’re all still a little bruised. Some scars are more visible than others. Adam is still impossibly thin, though he has stopped living like a hermit. In fact, he might be more well-adjusted than the rest of us. He’s renting an apartment downtown—one with actual running water and free coffee in the lobby every morning—and he has been accepted into the psychology program of his top-pick local university. He told me about it a few weeks ago, and I proceeded to brag about it to everyone: Evan, Deb, Mom, Aunt Becca. What I didn’t tell them was that one of Nell’s poems was why he applied: In the poem, she credited Adam for making her believe there was a purpose in her life. He helped her recognize that her life was worth living. It was that poem, he told me, that made him realize that he could inspire others. He intends to do more of that.

  Once he’s earned his doctorate, Adam wants to open his own practice. And then he’ll do what Dr. Keller had promised him they’d do many years ago, only this time, Adam will do it for real. He will find Seers (he knows they’re out there from his blog, which he started up again a few months ago. He even started letting them post comments), and he will help them understand what they’re going through. He’ll make sure they’re not alone and help them realize there are ways to cope. Being a Seer isn’t always a curse, and it doesn’t always have to end hanging upside down by a toe.

  I wear Nell’s ring above mine these days. Hers seems to keep mine more securely in place on my finger.

  “Evan,” Deb tugs lightly on his sleeve. “I’ve got to get to my appointment.”

  She gives me and Adam a quick hug, then turns to me.

  “Movie marathon Friday night?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.

  She smiles, gives me one more hug, then playfully punches her cousin in the shoulder before disappearing into the backseat.