Deadly Little Lessons (Touch)

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Can you come now?”

  “Negative. I have a group assignment I need to work on.”

  “How about if I promise to text you the second I arrive and then the moment I leave?”

  “Fine.” He sighs. “My keys are on top of my minifridge, beneath the bag of fried pork rinds.”

  “Nice choice. No one would ever think to look there.”

  “Be careful, Camelia. I want a full report.”

  “Thanks,” I say before hanging up. I grab his keys, along with a mozzarella stick from the fridge, and sit back on his bed. Heeding his advice, I spend some time going over what I plan to say and how I want things to play out, and trying to predict the toughest questions. Then I walk out the door.

  THE BECKERMAN HOUSE is even more inviting in the daylight, with pink and blue hydrangea bushes bordering the house and a wooden porch swing with a pergola-type roof.

  I park in front, text Wes that I’ve arrived safely, and then get out of the car. Standing at the end of the Beckermans’ walkway, I spot a book sitting on the swing. It’s splayed open and facedown on the seat, as if someone had recently left it. There’s also a minivan parked in the driveway.

  I move up to the door and ring the doorbell. Mrs. Beckerman appears a couple of seconds later, standing behind the screen door.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, smoothing her palms over her chocolate brown hair, as if I were anyone to impress.

  In a lavender sundress, she’s much tinier than I expected, much more petite than she appears on TV. The sundress hangs off her pale, freckled skin. She looks older than she did on TV. These past couple of months must’ve really aged her.

  “I actually think that I’d like to try and help you,” I say.

  She squints and edges the screen door open. Her eyes are the color of the blue hydrangea bushes. “How can you help me?” she asks, giving me the once-over—from my clay-spattered T-shirt to my sweatpants.

  “Is your husband home? Do you think I could come in and speak to you both?”

  “You’re the girl who called me,” she says, “on the phone the other day.”

  I nod, feeling my mouth turn dry. “Please, can I come in?” I ask again.

  Her face is full of questions, but she opens the door wider to let me in. “Do you know where my daughter is?”

  Standing now in the entryway of her house, I notice that the interior smells like burned popcorn. “My name’s Camelia Hammond.” I fish inside my bag for my student ID and hand it to her as proof.

  She takes her time reading it over, perhaps memorizing every word and digit.

  “I’m participating in the summer arts program at Sumner,” I continue. “You must know the campu—”

  “Do you know where my daughter is?” she asks again. Her hand trembles in front of her mouth.

  “I don’t. But I can explain why I’m here.”

  She hands me back my student ID and I follow her into the living room. It’s decorated in rich tones of violet and gold—too pretty for my T-shirt and sweatpants. I sit down on the edge of a sofa, eyeing a large black-and-white photo positioned over the fireplace: the Beckerman family on the beach.

  “It was taken last summer,” Mrs. Beckerman says, following my gaze. “Just before Sasha found out the truth. I assume you’re familiar with the case…the reason she ran away to begin with?”

  “Except I don’t think that Sasha ran away.”

  She turns to face me again, her eyes glazed over with fear. “What do you know about my daughter?”

  “Mostly what I’ve read online or heard about from TV. I have no real proof that she didn’t run away. I just don’t think that she did.”

  Her eyebrow rises in suspicion. “And you called me on the phone and came all the way here to tell me what you think…?”

  “It’s actually more complicated than that.”

  Mrs. Beckerman sits down across from me and places her hands in her lap. Her fingernails are chewed down to the cuticles.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of research on your daughter’s case,” I explain.

  “Why?” Her eyes narrow. “Did you know her from someplace? Did you meet her at a party?”

  I start to ramble about the unsolved-mysteries show and about my search for summer programs, and how the latter led me to a link concerning Sasha’s case. “I clicked on it because of the show. It was sort of like what happens when you become interested in something; you start to notice it everywhere.…”

  “And you were noticing Sasha everywhere?”

  “Sort of,” I say, trying to remain focused despite Mrs. Beckerman’s intensity.

  “And what about the daisy?”

  “The daisy?” I ask, trying to catch up.

  “You knew about it. You mentioned it on the phone.”

  “Right,” I say, picturing the sculpture I did in my basement studio. “Did Sasha like daisies? Did she have a special daisy charm?”

  “You also mentioned something about the letter.…”

  I nod. “I didn’t know if either of those things might be clues to her disappearance.”

  “What makes you think that they are?” she asks.

  “I sense things,” I tell her. “About the future, I mean. It’s kind of confusing. I don’t even fully understand it myself, but I have this power, and it’s helping me to get clues about your daughter.”

  “A power?” she asks, her face scrunching up in confusion.

  I pause to look back at the black-and-white photo. Sasha’s smile is contagious. It almost appears as if she was caught in a laugh—as if she couldn’t have been happier with her life. “It’s really hard to explain,” I continue, “but there were other clues, too.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in superpowers.” She stands up from the sofa.

  But I remain where I am. “Was there a special box that Sasha kept?”

  “I think you need to leave,” she says.

  “First, please hear me out.”

  “Leave now, or I’m calling the police.” She pulls a cell phone from her pocket.

  “I know it doesn’t make sense,” I blurt out, finally getting up. “I mean, I don’t even know Sasha. I’ve never met her before. And up until a few weeks ago, I barely knew her name. But I’ve been hearing her crying inside my head—for weeks now; it hasn’t stopped. It’s how I know that she’s still alive.”

  “I’m calling the police,” she repeats, and starts to dial.

  “Does your daughter have a frog?” I ask. “Does she keep that frog in a box with a lid? Was there some sort of music that played when the box was opened?” I rack my brain trying to remember the tune inside my head. I hum a couple of notes, frustrated that the crying voice kept me from hearing more.

  Mrs. Beckerman’s face goes white. “Who told you?” she asks. “How could you possibly know?”

  “Like I said, I sense things,” I tell her.

  Visibly trembling, she reaches out to take my hand and leads me up the stairs. I follow her into the master bedroom. It has a four-poster bed and antique-looking furniture.

  Mrs. Beckerman moves to her closet. From the top shelf, she pulls down a medium-size gift bag and hands it to me.

  “What is it?” I ask, unable to help noticing how pretty the packaging is: a bright pink bag with shimmering purple tissue paper sticking out at the top. A matching purple ribbon ties the bag handles closed.

  “It’s a gift for Sasha,” Mrs. Beckerman explains. “Go ahead and open it.”

  “Are you sure? Don’t you want to save this for her?”

  “I can easily rewrap it if I need to.”

  I look down at the bag and also take note of its ample weight. And then I reach in, through the tunnel of tissue paper, and feel a smooth, hard edge. I wrap my hand around it, pulling out a wooden box of some sort. I set the bag down and remove the lid from the box. A sterling-silver frog pendant sits inside the jewelry box’s velvet-lined cavity.

  My heart starts to pound as I realize my prediction was
right and that I’ve finally convinced Mrs. Beckerman to listen to me.

  “No one aside from Sasha’s father and the jeweler I bought this from would’ve known about this gift,” she says.

  “But I was able to see it,” I tell her. “Inside my head. The image came to me.” I try to explain my power of psychometry and how this wasn’t the first time I experienced it.

  Mrs. Beckerman takes a seat on her bed, gripping the sides for stability. “And this supposed power that you’re talking about…” she begins. “Is that also how you knew about Daisy?”

  “Daisy?” I ask, completely confused. “I sculpted a daisy…in my basement. It had the center part, with petals all around—”

  “It was Sasha’s name,” she says, interrupting. “Before we adopted her and changed it, that is.”

  I bite my lip, feeling my blood churn. Chills run over my skin. “And what about the t shape?” I ask. “Two lines that intersect, like a plus sign?”

  “I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I guess I’d have to think about that one.”

  “But do you believe me?” I ask. “About my power, I mean? About how I know these things?”

  Mrs. Beckerman doesn’t answer, nor does she ask me to elaborate. Instead, she tells me about Sasha’s love of frogs and how she’s been collecting them since she was six years old. “Key chains, water bottles, fuzzy slippers… Come,” she says, leading me out of the room and down the hall.

  We stand in the doorway of Sasha’s bedroom. It’s painted a sunny yellow and the bed linens are all navy blue with tiny pink roses. It smells like roses, too.

  “Look,” she says, nodding toward the bed. It’s loaded with stuffed animals—all of them frogs. There’s also a frog-shaped pillow. A Kermit alarm clock sits on the bedside table.

  I really want to go in, but Mrs. Beckerman pulls me back into the hall, closing the door. Sasha’s room must be off limits.

  “Shall we go back downstairs?” she asks. Without waiting for my answer, she starts down.

  I reluctantly follow her, and we take seats back in the living room. To my surprise, I’m still holding the jewelry box. I run my palms over the sides, noticing a windup dial at the back. “May I?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says.

  I crank the dial all the way. Music begins to play. “From the Nutcracker Suite?” I ask, recognizing the tune as the same one that played in my head.

  “It is. Sasha’s father and I would take her every year.”

  I close my eyes and concentrate hard. Sasha’s cry is a faraway whimper now. “I know this may sound weird,” I venture, “but by any chance, when Sasha cries, does she sometimes get the hiccups?”

  Mrs. Beckerman nods, and her eyes fill with tears. But I’m pretty sure they’re happy tears, because I’ve managed to give her hope. She wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you,” she says.

  “But I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “You have indeed,” she says, breaking the embrace. “You’ve given me hope that my daughter is still alive.”

  AS I LEAVE MRS. BECKERMAN’S HOUSE, I notice a car parked down the street: a dark green, beat-up Buick with a bashed-in taillight. It starts up just as soon I get inside Wes’s car. At first, I don’t think anything of it, but then it pulls away from the curb moments after I do, and follows me for four blocks, continuing behind me even when I take a turn.

  I keep driving for another half mile, slowing down slightly to close the gap between our cars. I peek in the rearview mirror. The driver appears to be a girl; I catch a glimpse of her straight, dark hair whipping in the wind.

  I slow down even more, searching for someplace to pull over. There’s a farm stand in the near distance with a parking lot out front. I flick on my directional and turn in, eager to see if the Buick does the same. But it ends up swerving around me. The car speeds up—so fast that it jolts forward, the tires making a screeching sound—and I’m not able to catch the license-plate number.

  A second later, my phone rings. It’s Kimmie. I consider calling her back later—after I finally catch my breath—but instead I pick it up.

  “Hey, there, miss,” she says. “How’s college life treating you?” Her chipper voice reminds me of how far apart we really are, both emotionally and physically.

  “It’s certainly been an adventure.”

  “With Wes as your sidekick, I can only imagine.”

  “I miss you,” I say, almost wanting to tell her what I’m up to. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “You bet we do,” she agrees. “Guess who’s about to pull clothes for a photo shoot?”

  “Hmm…you? So, I take it that things are going good?”

  “Better than good, my dear. But I’ll have to fill you in later, okay? My supervisor just walked in…fifteen minutes early, mind you,” she says, lowering her voice. “Anyway, I can’t wait to hear all about your room and classes and stuff.”

  We hang up and I drive back to campus, happy that Kimmie’s enjoying this time. It kills me not to tell her what’s going on with me, but I feel like that would distance us even more. And I’m not so sure I could handle that on top of everything else.

  Back on campus, I park Wes’s car exactly where he had it, and then I give him a call.

  “I want details,” he says, in lieu of a hello.

  I arrange to meet him on Sumner’s back lawn. When I arrive, I find him sitting on one of the benches that overlook the ocean.

  “Thanks,” I say, handing him back his keys.

  He moves his blue-tinted sunglasses to the top of his head. He looks better than I’ve ever seen him before. His dark brown hair is slightly sun-kissed, his face is Malibu tan, and his whole demeanor seems more relaxed, less tortured. “Can you stand it?” he asks. “I mean, could this day be any more perfect?”

  I hadn’t really noticed, but he’s right. The sky is absolutely cloudless. There’s a group playing volleyball in the distance, and the incoming tide crashes against the rocks below, creating a soothing sound. “I take it you had a good day?”

  “Great new friends, stellar classes, and a resortlike campus… I’d say it’s going pretty well. And you? Since you’re still here, I’m assuming that all went swimmingly at the Beckerman residence?”

  “Since I’m still here?”

  “And not in jail for harassment and/or stalking, I mean.”

  “Ha-ha.” I fake a laugh.

  “Details, please. What happened? And don’t leave anything out.”

  I take a deep breath, inhaling the cool, salty air. And then I begin by telling him about what happened today in the pottery studio, including how the frog-in-a-box sculpture turned out to be a premonition. I also tell him about the daisy clue and the fact that, according to Mrs. Beckerman, Sasha often hiccups when she cries.

  “And so, wait. Did the Beckermans actually believe you about everything?”

  “It was just Mrs. Beckerman,” I explain. “I’m pretty sure her husband was at work. But I think she believed me. I mean, it took some convincing, but the clues definitely helped.”

  “You do realize, however, that she’s going to tell the police about your visit, and that they’re going to want to know all about you, especially about how you discovered those clues.”

  “I already told Mrs. Beckerman about my touch power.”

  “And you really think the police are going to buy that? You may have Mrs. Beckerman convinced, but unless you’re dealing with crystal-ball-loving coppers, they’re going to be a lot more skeptical. They’ll assume that either (a) you have an inside angle, one that they’ll be eager to hear more about, or (b) you’re actually involved in the disappearance or know the person who is.”

  “No one will think that,” I say. “I didn’t know the girl, and I’m not even from this area. Plus, how else could I have found out about the clues?”

  “Well, for starters, anyone could’ve known about the frog-in-the-box gift. In the cops’ eyes, someone probably told you.”


  “Except, no one else knew. Mrs. Beckerman said so herself.”

  “Someone knew. Even if it was just the salesperson. Or, how about the person who gift wrapped it? Then there are all the people hovering over the jewelry counter at the time of purchase.…”

  “Okay, but what about the daisy clue—the fact that Sasha’s name was originally Daisy? How else would I have known that?”

  “Same way anybody else would.” He yawns like this is all elementary. “The Beckermans could’ve shared the info with someone. Or, on second thought, maybe it was even the birth parents. Do you know who they are?”

  “I do.… And there’s not much of a story there. The mom’s a church administrator. She lives in Seattle and has her own family. The father is an electrician, I think. They no longer keep in touch with each other, despite the fact that when the mom got pregnant, they were actually considering getting married and trying to make things work.”

  “Color me impressed,” he says, referring to my investigative skills.

  “It’s actually not that impressive. Their lives became an open book as soon as Sasha went missing. Their info’s been all over the Net.”

  “You’re right.” He yawns again. “That isn’t so impressive. Where’s the scandal?”

  “No scandal: they were both completely cooperative with the police.”

  “So, if they’ve both been questioned, it wouldn’t be unheard-of for old emotions to resurface,” he says. “Ample reason for each of them to talk about the birth, the child they couldn’t keep—a child who they named Daisy just before they decided to give her away.”

  “Okay, but then what about Sasha’s crying?” I ask, hoping to stump him. “How else would I have known that she sometimes hiccups between sobs?”

  “You don’t seriously think you’re the first person to ever hear Sasha’s ugly cry, do you?” He raises his eyebrow at me.

  I let out a sigh, more confused than ever.

  “I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here, Camelia, because you can bet the police are going to be questioning this stuff, looking for some sort of logic. Not that your claim to have psychic powers won’t be logical to them.” He smirks. “No insight on the t-shaped clue yet, I take it.”