Unearthly Things

by Michelle Gagnon

  “Stop the car.” Richard’s voice was steadier. That scared me more than anything else.

  “Richard, please,” I pleaded. “You were my father’s best friend. Are you really going to kill his daughter?”

  “Your father,” he spat venomously, “stole everything I had. Your mother was mine. Mine! And he took her away from me.”

  “That was years ago! Besides, my mother is dead.” Thinking of her, I almost started crying again. It would break her heart to know that this was the life they’d abandoned me to. How could they ever have thought that sending me here was a good idea?

  “Halina wouldn’t be dead,” Richard growled, “if she’d just done the smart thing and chosen me. That’s what started all this.” He stared out the windshield toward the waves, white smudges against the horizon. Pointing with the gun, he continued, “You know, I proposed to her right down there. She always loved the beach.”

  My mother had never mentioned anyone else proposing to her; yet another thing she’d declined to share with me. “I’m sorry,” I said, just to keep him calm.

  “I am too.” Richard shook his head. “Marion never really loved me, she just wanted to be a Rochester. Your mother, though; she was something. I think that if I could have gotten her to understand how I felt, then maybe . . .” His voice trailed off.

  I sat there barely breathing, gripping the steering wheel with sweaty palms.

  Finally, he said, “Well, it’s too late. John took her away from me, and I never got her back. I was supposed to get her back.” Leaning in so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath, he said, “You know how close I came to killing your father, the night he showed up for the funeral?”

  I couldn’t respond. The blood in my veins had turned to ice. I pictured my sweet, oblivious father asleep on a couch, and Richard standing over him with a gun.

  “I was too weak to go through with it.” He smiled ruefully. “This time, I don’t have a choice.”

  “You do!” I said desperately. “I’ll tell the cops whatever you want!”

  “It’s too late,” he muttered. “You’ve ruined everything. Now get out of the car.”

  I hesitated. Impatiently, he nudged me with the barrel of the gun. My hands were almost shaking too hard to open the door. When it swung wide, my legs were so wobbly I nearly fell to my knees.

  He motioned me around to his side, directing with the barrel of the gun. Then he opened the door with his free hand and clumsily climbed out. A strong offshore wind blew my hair back from my face. Frantically, I scanned our surroundings: there were no lights on the beach, and all the houses across the highway were dark. How could a city this size be so deserted, even at this hour?

  “Go on,” Richard said, nodding toward the water.

  Biting my lip, I walked on unsteady legs toward the surf. It was high tide, and the waves were silent giants rearing out of the water. They were nearly twice the size of the ones John and I had ridden just a few days earlier.

  Breakers washed over my feet, making me shiver. “What now?” I demanded.

  “Now, I disappear.” Richard straightened his arm and spread his legs in the sand, centering himself. The moon lit his face with an eerie blue glow.

  “What?”

  “I’ll clear out as much of the cash as I can tonight,” he said. “Drive to Mexico. It’ll be enough for a fresh start.”

  “But then you don’t have to kill me!” I said frantically. “You can just drive away, I won’t tell anyone!”

  Richard shook his head. “Sorry, Janie. I truly am. But it has to be like this. They’ll think you shot John and ran away with the money.”

  I gaped at him. “But Alma will tell them it was you!”

  “Maybe.” He cocked his head to the side and added, “But by the time they find you and figure it out, I’ll be across the border.”

  I reeled. Richard had actually come up with a plan while we were driving. And crazy as it sounded, it might actually work. Or at the very least, it would end with me dead.

  “Please!” I begged. “Just let me—”

  As if in slow motion, I watched his finger tighten on the trigger. Behind me I heard a rumble, like a freight train approaching. The sound of a wave about to crash against the shore . . .

  I dove straight backwards.

  It was like plunging into a bucket of ice. The shock of the cold water almost made me release my held breath. I struggled against the weight of my sodden clothes, my sneakers suddenly dragging me down. With an awkward backstroke, I swam away from shore. I held my breath as long as I could, my lungs searing, until I was forced to come up for air.

  I blinked the salt water from my eyes, treading feverishly. The wave ahead of me broke, and I saw a livid Richard standing onshore. I was still only twenty feet away from him.

  His head jerked toward me. I heard the gun go off as I dove back down, determined to get farther this time. My fingers and ears were already numb, and I had to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. How long before hypothermia set in? Fighting toward the horizon, I battled the current that was trying to force me back toward shore.

  The next time I broke the surface of the waves, I couldn’t see Richard anywhere. I twisted my head from side to side, scanning the shoreline: he was gone.

  Had he given up? Maybe he thought I’d already drowned. I had to get out of the water soon, or the cold would kill me.

  I started paddling in, aiming for a spot a half-mile down the beach. I kept checking anxiously over my shoulder, looking for Richard.

  I was ten feet from shore, about to ride a wave in, when I felt an iron grip on my shoulder.

  Richard rose from the waves like a leviathan, his face a grotesque mask of rage. I tried to kick away from him, but he grabbed my other shoulder and bore down with his full weight, driving me underwater.

  I’d been too startled to draw a full breath. I kicked and punched at him, trying to get free. But he was too strong, and I was too tired. My lungs strained for air, it felt like they were going to burst through my chest.

  Just let go, I thought. What do you have to live for anyway?

  At least I’d die in the water. It would be quick, and relatively painless. Maybe there was an afterlife, and I’d see my parents again. An image of them filled my eyes, from the photo I’d kept on my nightstand. It was taken at their secret place, the anniversary spot they’d been returning from the day they’d died. The camera must have been propped on a log, because the image was slightly off-kilter, but that only made it more charming. My father had his arms wrapped around my mother in a bear hug, and she was laughing, chin tilted slightly upward to catch the blades of sunlight sifting through the tree cover.

  Opening my eyes, I stared into the darkness. Small swirls danced before me: my air bubbles, gradually diminishing. All I had to do was inhale a mouthful of water. The rest would be easy.

  I went limp and stopped fighting, letting my hands drift upward. Richard was still pressing down on me. My head started to pound, and the roar in my ears grew louder. Still, I waited.

  His hands released.

  With a final burst of strength, I tucked in my knees and drove my heels into his stomach as hard as I could. The motion propelled me backward. I surfaced, gasping for breath. I inhaled deeply and then dove back down, swimming away. This time, I wasn’t stopping until I was sure he was gone.

  A hand grasped my ankle; I kicked it away and kept swimming. I broke for air three more times, then finally checked back over my shoulder. To my surprise, I discovered that we were a few hundred feet offshore. We must have gotten caught in one of Ocean Beach’s infamous riptides. This far out, the waves were just starting to gather strength, the swell creating dark bumps against the horizon. Richard was fifteen feet away. Seeing me, he started to swim closer.

  “Stay there!” I screamed. “Get away from me!”

&nbs
p; “Janie!” he gasped. “I’m drowning!”

  He was paddling clumsily toward shore, probably having as much trouble with his heavy clothing as I was.

  I treaded water, watching him. My arms and legs were so tired; I tried to minimize my movements, not using any extra energy.

  “Help me!” he cried, reaching an arm toward me imploringly.

  The trick to beating a riptide was to let it suck you out to sea, then swim parallel to shore until it eased. Then, and only then, could you make your way back in. Fighting it only fatigued you, and the current would always win.

  My father had taught me that.

  I kept moving away from Richard. He tried to follow, but his strokes were progressively slower and feebler. I heard him choking on seawater, sputtering.

  As he sank below the waves, the current released.

  My whole body felt like it was encased in ice, and my teeth were chattering hard enough to make my head shake. I was four hundred feet offshore. Slowly, I turned toward the beach. I pretended I had my board beneath me, and that it was a beautiful, warm day. The water wasn’t cold, that was just my imagination; it was actually nearly the same temperature as the air.

  I could see the small stand of palm trees in front of our house. My mother was on the back porch reading a novel, her bare feet propped on the rail. My father was waxing his board on the patch of grass right below her.

  I paddled toward them. My board carried me over the waves, slicing through the water like a shark. I wondered what we would be having for dinner. Maybe we’d all play a board game afterward. That would be nice.

  My feet brushed against something: sand. I could practically feel the particles separate beneath my toes, the gentle ripples carved along the bottom. I dragged my board out with me and left it there.

  I was close to home, but suddenly felt very, very tired. I should probably rest before going up to the house. Catch my breath. I’d just lay here for a minute. It was such a nice day. I closed my eyes and tilted my chin up, soaking in the sun.

  “Janie! It’s time for dinner!”

  My mother was calling me. But it was so lovely and quiet here, so still. I just needed a little nap, then I’d go to them.

  “Hang on!” I called back. “I’m coming!”

  Chapter XVIII

  . . . and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired.

  I’m told that the truck driver who encountered me on the Great Highway at two in the morning nearly had a heart attack, convinced I was a ghost that had crawled from the sea. Once he’d determined that I was a living, breathing person—though very nearly not, by that point—he rushed me to a hospital where I enjoyed a solid week of terrible food and way too many pokes and proddings.

  A ghost. I honestly had to laugh at that.

  The police had arrived at the house shortly after Richard dragged me away; once they’d discovered John bleeding to death in the kitchen, they sprang into action. Apparently a dragnet descended on the city; half the cops in San Francisco had been looking for us.

  They found Marion Rochester locked in a tiny room in the attic. She’d pulled out most of her hair, and was ranting and babbling incoherently. Last I heard, she was confined to the psychiatric ward at SF General. Sometimes I wonder how she and Dr. Lloyd are getting along.

  Weeks later, what was left of Richard Rochester’s body was recovered by a crab fishing boat a few miles up the coast. Which was a relief—up until then, I’d awakened every night with terrible nightmares of him standing over my bed dripping wet, clamping giant hands around my throat and slowly suffocating me.

  The nightmares haven’t stopped, not completely. But I’m not afraid of ghosts anymore.

  The Rochester house was foreclosed upon a month later. It sold in a short sale, but inexplicably burned to the ground before the new owners moved in.

  There were rumors that neighbors had seen a small girl standing at a window in the attic, hands pressed against the glass as flames rose up around her.

  I hoped that the fire had released Eliza, that she wasn’t still trapped there among the ashes. Nicholas claimed that she didn’t talk to him anymore; he’d lost that haunted look, and with every passing day was becoming more of a normal, happy little boy. He’d made a lot of friends at summer camp, and would be starting at the island school in the fall. If he missed his parents, he never said so. In fact, he never mentioned them at all.

  “Ready to catch a set?”

  I held a hand up to shield my eyes.

  John was grinning down at me, a longboard tucked under his arm. He was wearing board shorts and a rash guard shirt that showed off his deep tan. It also concealed the angry-looking scar on his side. I was still amazed at how fully he’d recovered. Granted, he’d been in the hospital for weeks; it was touch-and-go at first. But he turned out to be stronger than his father gave him credit for.

  “I thought you were working today,” I said.

  “Nope. The beach shack messed up and overstaffed, so I graciously offered to let someone else take my shift.”

  “Big of you,” I smirked. John was working full-time at a resort a few miles from my new place; he and Nicholas were renting the house next door.

  I still didn’t trust him completely. But he’d been amazing with Nicholas in the aftermath of everything that had happened. In light of that, despite his betrayal, I’d decided to give him a second chance.

  I just wished he’d stop flirting with Kaila. She was spending almost as much time at their house as she was at ours.

  “Have you heard from Georgina?”

  “She’s in Dubai with some sketchy guy.” John shrugged, but there was concern in his eyes.

  “Maybe he’ll turn out to be okay,” I offered.

  “Doubtful. But it’s her life, right?” John gave me a thin smile. “I can’t exactly picture her taking a job as a maid.”

  I had to laugh at the thought. “No, I guess not.”

  “Georgie will be fine, she’s a survivor.”

  “Aren’t we all,” I muttered. By the time I checked out of the hospital, my constant nausea had vanished. Had the Rochesters been poisoning me, in addition to everything else? I’d never know for sure.

  “So what do you say?” he asked, gesturing behind him. “There are some great sets rolling in.”

  I lifted my head off the hammock and peered past him toward the surf: he was right, the conditions were perfect. I’d already spent the morning catching waves, though, and my arms were burning. “Maybe later. I promised Nicholas I’d take him out for a lesson after camp.”

  “Suit yourself.” He winked at me, then trotted toward the break.

  I lay back and sighed.

  Our new house was only a mile away from where I’d grown up. It was nicer, actually, with an extra bedroom for guests. Not that Alma and me had many of those. Although just last night I’d gotten an email from Daniel, asking if he could come visit.

  I hadn’t responded yet. I was still sorting out how I felt about everything that had happened between us. He’d apologized for the way he’d treated me, and said that his recovery was going well.

  I just wasn’t sure I was ready for anything.

  San Francisco seemed very far away, even though we’d only been gone a few months. It felt like I’d finally gotten firm ground beneath my feet again. I had a family, albeit an ad hoc one. I had a home. Alma and I were slowly getting to know each other; she was even teaching me Filipino. The one thing I’d learned from all of this was forgiveness: For her, for John, for my parents. And for Daniel.

  But I had a lifetime to see if there was anything there. For the moment, it was enough to enjoy everything I had. When I thought of my parents now, I tried to focus on the happy memories, leaving
the anger and bitterness behind me. None of us is perfect, after all.

  We struggle mightily against the challenges life throws at us: the unexpected tragedies, the cruelties we inflict on each other, the pain and suffering. Some of us rise above it; others are swept away by the tide. And the only way to learn how strong we are is by facing those hardships.

  I closed my eyes, feeling the sun on my face, the whisper of a breeze teasing my hair. Sometimes, when I listened carefully, I swore I could hear a faint voice riding the wind, humming a nursery rhyme . . .

  Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home

  Your house is on fire and your children are gone . . .

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