Rattled

by Lisa Harrington

  I glanced down. My arm was covered in dried blood. It was between my fingers and soaked into my watch strap. There was a spray of tiny droplets all over the front of my shirt. My stomach lurched and I thought I might be sick. The bathroom seemed a million miles away. When I got up I felt dizzy.

  Jilly must have noticed. She stood up next to me. “Here, lean on me.” She held me by the elbow and helped me to my room. “Sit.” She pulled out my desk chair. “I’ll go turn on the hot water. What do you want to pack for the hotel? I’ll throw some stuff in a bag.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I could barely think straight.

  “Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll find something.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I should have made you come with me.”

  I saw her eyes were watery. “Jilly, there’s no way we could have predicted this. That she was this…insane.”

  “We should have predicted it, though. We knew she had a gun.”

  I shook my head. “No, Jilly. Not us, not anyone, could have seen this coming.”

  She ran her fingers under her eyes. “You should go have your shower,” she said in a hoarse voice.

  There was a knock. It was the officer. She passed me a large clear bag. “I’ll be out here in the hall,” she said.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Jilly was still in my room, sitting quietly on the end of my bed.

  “Here. I got out some comfy clothes for you.” She was holding my new T-shirt, the one she’d made me buy, and…her yoga pants? Her prized Lulu Lemons, with the yellow waistband.

  “Wow, Jilly, the pants. Thanks.”

  “No worries,” she shrugged. “Listen. I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep much tonight. You?”

  I shook my head.

  “A movie-athon?”

  “Ummm…”

  “Don’t worry, no horror. I have Vivian’s Season One of The O.C. We could take it to the hotel.”

  She was trying so hard. “That’d be great, Jilly.”

  “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” On the way to the door she stopped and hugged me.

  “Jilly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know I said you couldn’t borrow my new shirt. But you can, anytime.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip and looked down at the floor. “Um, thanks.”

  After she left, I stood in front of the dresser and stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was wet, my face pale, but other than that, I looked normal. Like nothing had ever happened.

  I knew it hadn’t sunk in yet, that stuff would hit me later. The fact that things could have ended very differently, that it would be a long time before I’d want to close my eyes again. But for now I just wanted to get through tonight.

  I slipped on Jilly’s yoga pants and picked up my T-shirt. It wasn’t as hideous as I’d remembered. I hadn’t even had a chance to wear it yet. It was halfway over my head when I noticed something, or more accurately, smelled something. Strawberries. Jilly’s shampoo. I pulled the shirt off and held it up in front of me. There was a lipstick smudge on the neckline and a hole under the arm.

  Epilogue

  (two months later)

  It’s true what they say about time…that it heals all wounds. Of course some wounds need more than others—like Sam and Megan’s. But for me, little by little, things were slowly returning to normal.

  It had taken a long time to convince my parents that I was okay. I knew they meant well, but I found it kind of exhausting, the need to constantly reassure them. They couldn’t seem to understand that just the fact that Mrs. Swicker was going away for a long time, whether it was prison or some mental institution, was really all I needed to know at that point.

  “Don’t you want to talk to someone, someone professional?” Mom had asked.

  “Like a wrestler?”

  Mom hadn’t found that funny.

  Now that I was back at school, I felt a bit more like myself—must have been the routineness of it all. It was almost a relief, walking out the door in the mornings, knowing I would be just one in a sea of fifteen hundred for the next seven hours.

  This morning I lay in bed, face smooshed into my pillow, putting off getting up. My whole Sunday was going to be spent working on a Canadian history assignment. I felt tired just thinking about it.

  My stomach grumbled so I headed down to the kitchen.

  Jilly was sitting at the table, trying to do the crossword from the newspaper. Mom was going through the cupboards jotting down a grocery list.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Morning,” Mom replied.

  I opened the fridge and hung off the door, waiting to be inspired by its contents. Anything? Anything? Nothing.

  “Lydia. Close the fridge,” Mom sighed.

  “Sorry.” I swung the door closed and leaned my back against the counter. My eyes were immediately drawn to the spot on the floor. I blinked a few times until the image of Mrs. Swicker lying there evaporated. It may have just been my imagination but I could swear I could still see the stains, even after a million cleanings. Everyone had said how good it was that I didn’t kill her. I don’t think that’s how I really feel, but I’ll just keep that to myself. Mom would think feelings like that had therapy written all over them.

  Dragging my eyes from the floor, I turned to the window. Sometimes I worried about these visions that kept flashing through my head, how real they seemed. My entire body would tense up, like I was living the whole thing over again. I told myself it was totally normal. I think I bought it.

  I stared at the house across the street, now empty, and thought back to that night, the look on Sam and Megan’s faces as they were taken away, the things they said to me.

  After some time had passed and things settled down, we eventually got to see them, Sam and Megan. It was just a few weeks ago. The Kennedys invited us to New York for a proper thank you. The entire trip was a whirlwind. Every touristy thing imaginable was scheduled. Sam and Megan the whole time with forced smiles plastered on their faces—there’s no way the visit had been their idea. We never got a moment alone to talk about what happened. I think it had been planned that way.

  Now we were home and no one talked about it here, either. But that was probably because of me. I certainly wasn’t about to strike up any conversations about it.

  “Mom, can I use your computer to check my email?” I asked.

  “Sure. Just that, though, nothing else.”

  I ducked into her office and, not bothering to sit down, typed in my password. Impatiently I waited for my inbox to pop up. I had sent three emails to Megan over the last week. She hadn’t replied, not once.

  “One new message,” I whispered. It was from Megan. Slowly I sat down, sort of afraid to click on her name.

  Hi Lydia. Sorry I took so long. Wasn’t really sure what I wanted to say. It was weird when you came to visit. Did you think that too? Maybe we should have waited longer. When I saw you again, it made me remember everything. I don’t think the Kennedys thought about that when they invited you. And I know this is totally chickening out, telling you this in an email instead of to your face, but I was so ashamed of myself. I’m really sorry for all those things I said that night. I know Sam is too. I wanted you to know that, in case you didn’t hear from me for a while. Another thing I didn’t say to you was ‘“thank you.” Guess I should start a list. :) That’s all I got for now. Megan. p.s. I attached the photo Jilly wanted.

  I sat quietly for a minute, rereading Megan’s words, wondering if I’d ever actually hear from her again. I opened the attached file. It was a picture of Jilly holding a giant cardboard cheque. Reward money from the Kennedys, presented to us when we did an interview on The Today Show.

  The Today Show…now and forever referred to as “The Today Show Fiasco.” Even though part of me wanted to forget that whole morning, the other part wished Megan had sent more pictures. I barely remember a thi
ng except for being so nervous I could barely talk. I had to keep clearing my throat over and over again—it must have sounded like I was trying to hack up a hairball. Dad kept checking his armpits for perspiration stains. We actually lost Mom at one point when she found out Sting was the musical guest. And during the interview, Jilly mentioned Vivian’s name but practically shouted it into her microphone (Vivian made her promise), which caused wicked feedback and everyone in the studio cringed in pain.

  I still feel weird about taking the Kennedys’ money. I never expected it, never wanted it, but they insisted. Mom put the money in an account, most of it pegged for university except for an extravagant family vacation we get to plan together, and five hundred dollars to each Jilly and myself to spend on anything we wanted. But not until we’d been subjected to a condensed version of Mom’s punishment pyramid. Jilly was down to twenty-four dollars. My money was in an envelope on my desk, under a pile of school binders, still untouched.

  Taking another look at Jilly’s picture, I had to smile. She seemed to be more fascinated by the giant cheque than the actual money, jumping up and down like she was on a game show or something. I forwarded the photo to her email.

  When I went back into the kitchen Jilly was standing by the stove spreading butter on bread. “I’m making grilled cheese. Want one?”

  “For breakfast? No thanks.”

  She shrugged. “Pass me a cheese slice, would ya?”

  I took one from the fridge door and tossed it on the counter.

  She held it up to the light, turning up her nose. “These are lights, I need two.”

  I rolled my eyes and dug another one out of the package.

  “That kind of defeats the purpose, Jilly,” Mom said, squirting soap into the sink.

  “But Mom, they’re gross. I don’t know why you buy them!”

  Mom didn’t bother to comment.

  “Tommy Cameron’s having a party this Saturday, Lid,” Jilly said.

  Jilly’s boyfriend this week. “So?”

  “Well, do you want to come?”

  I looked at her like she was speaking Japanese. “What do you mean do I want to come?”

  She sighed. “What do you mean, what do I mean? Do you want to come or not?”

  I opened my mouth but didn’t know how to answer. I’d never been in this situation before.

  Jilly shot me a sly look. “Mitchell Murphy’s going to be there and he told me he thinks you’re kinda cute.”

  Mitchell Murphy? He was in grade twelve and…hot. “Can I, Mom?”

  I waited for her to answer, but she didn’t. Something had caught her attention outside.

  “Looks like someone’s rented the Henleys’ again,” Mom said, leaning slightly towards the window. Jilly and I stopped what we were doing and locked eyes. After a second we tore over to join Mom.

  “Please let them have boys,” Jilly whispered.

  “Please let them not be psycho,” I whispered.

  We stared at the black sedan with a small U-Haul in tow, and held our breath as the car doors swung open.

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, I would like to thank my family, Ross, Lexi, and William. You never had a doubt. You always believed.

  To all my dear friends, old and new, thank you for listening, even when you didn’t feel like it. Look close. You’ll see glimpses of yourselves in these pages.

  And lastly, my writing group. Daph, Jo, Jenn, Cyndy, Joanna, and Graham, saying thank you a million times would never be enough, so one will have to do. “Thank you.”