The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  Now that’s more interesting. “What else?”

  “Um, the way the lights never work? Bennie changes those bulbs all the time and they never last. And one time …” Nate grunts like he’s changing position. I hear a TV turn on in the background. “Okay, this one’s for real. This girl brought a kitten to school once, to see if anyone wanted it. She had it in this box, and she walked through the tunnel with it. When she came out the other end, the cat was dead.”

  “You are totally making that up,” I say around the heart in my throat.

  “Hey, you asked me, I told you. Don’t blame me if you can’t sleep tonight.”

  I decide to call his bluff. “Who’d it happen to?”

  “Lindsay McCormick.”

  So much for bluffs. “It was probably diseased.”

  “Probably,” he agrees. “A fluke, like I said.”

  I hesitate, happy that he’s talking to me even though he just scared the pants off me. “So you’re not mad at me anymore, because of Saturday night?”

  “I’m talking to you in bed at one in the morning. How mad can I be?”

  I picture him there, in what, flannel pajamas? Underwear? Nothing at all? The sudden rush of heat leaves me weak. “Okay, good. And, uh, good night.”

  I quickly hang up.

  A crash wakes me from a dream I forget as soon as I open my eyes. In the small slant of light from the streetlamp outside I can see the beams of the ceiling. What the hell was that?

  I tiptoe restlessly from window to window. I check out the school—no visible lights—then peer at Nate’s house across the street, dark except for a TV flickering upstairs. Is that his room? Is he still awake? Should I call him back and say: Hi, I can’t sleep, thanks to your nasty dead-kitten story. Wanna come over for popcorn?

  Lightning flashes, followed by thunder. I heave the heavy window up and press my nose to the wet screen, breathing in the night. The storm draws me in. I quiver in its magnetic pull.

  My alarm clock says 2:44.

  What time did Mrs. Gibbons hang herself?

  What was she thinking about before she did it? Was she thinking of Annaliese?

  Was she remembering how, every Halloween, kids throw stuff at her house and yell for her dead granddaughter?

  Did she miss Annaliese? Does Annaliese, even now, miss her, too?

  If Annaliese were alive, she’d be Mom’s age now. Maybe she’d still be living here, sleeping in that canopy bed.

  Maybe she and her grandmother would plant flowers together. Play checkers. Laugh at TV shows. Count fireflies on a summer night. All the things Nana and I used to do.

  I hear them now: Annaliese, saying, “Grandma, I love you the best.”

  MRS. GIBBONS: No, you don’t. You love your mother the best.

  ANNALIESE: If my mother loved me, she wouldn’t have sent me away.

  MRS. GIBBONS: She only wanted to keep you safe.

  ANNALIESE: I don’t care. I love you best, more than anyone else.

  MRS. GIBBONS: I think she might be sad if she knew you felt that way.

  ANNALIESE, slyly: Then we’d better not tell her, right?

  But maybe Annaliese’s love for her grandmother won’t be enough. She’ll come home one day, call for her grandmother, and no one will answer. She’ll wander from room to room, searching, confused. She’ll reach the attic stairs and walk up them, one by one, still calling for the person she loves more than her own mother—

  —only to discover a tipped chair.

  A discarded slipper.

  And her grandmother, black and bloated, swinging by her neck from a beam.

  “Rinn! Wake up!”

  I choke off in the middle of my bloodcurdling scream, tearing at my throat with my nails till Mom pries my hands away.

  The sun is up. Somehow I’m back in bed.

  She rocks me gently. “It’s okay, Rinn. It’s just another bad dream.”

  4 MONTHS EXACTLY

  Wednesday, November 5

  Mom doesn’t mention the anniversary, but I know it’s on her mind. She keeps staring at the phone this morning, like she’s dying to call Frank but doesn’t want to do it with me around. She knows I’ll ask to speak to him.

  Like me, she’s afraid he’ll say no.

  I’m not sure why I don’t call him myself. What’s the worst he can do, hang up on me? Hanging up would be a blessing compared to a lot of things he could do.

  Like ask me why.

  Why did you sneak out your window that night?

  Why did you leave that lamp burning when you knew it was dangerous?

  Why did you lock your door so she’d think you were inside?

  Why didn’t you call 9-1-1 when you first saw the flames?

  Why didn’t you save her, Rinn?

  Why didn’t you save my mother?

  One thing I learned is that, even if you’re certifiably crazy, you can’t always use it to excuse the things you do. Prisons overflow with mentally ill convicts. Proving you’re nuts won’t give you a free pass.

  For four whole months I’ve tried to answer these same questions, and I keep coming up with the same pathetic excuse: because I was crazy.

  I snuck out of the house because the Voices told me to RUN!

  I left the kerosene lamp burning because I didn’t think ahead.

  My door was locked to keep out imaginary intruders, not to trick Nana into thinking I was inside.

  I didn’t call 9-1-1 because I didn’t, at first, realize the flames were real.

  And I didn’t save her because only a crazy person could watch a house burn down without trying to save anyone inside.

  Nobody understands. Not me, not Mom. Least of all Frank.

  I know I’m the main reason for Mom and Frank’s separation. After Nana died, Frank didn’t want me anywhere near him. They’d argue when they thought I couldn’t hear.

  But I did hear. I heard Frank admit to Mom that he couldn’t trust me to stay on my meds, and that the next time I went off, who else would I kill? How he couldn’t look at me without remembering how his mom died. How he thought I’d be better off in boarding school—undoubtedly on another continent, if Frank had his way.

  I heard Mom plead with him to meet me halfway. To not make her choose between the two of us. To give me one more chance to prove myself worthy of his trust.

  Some days, like today, I wonder if she made a mistake. Mom could be back in La Jolla with Frank now, with their parties and Jet Skis, vacationing in Aspen with elderly rock stars.

  Me, I’d be—well, who knows where I’d be?

  I stumble through class after class, answering when called on, smiling when spoken to. The dark sky outside the windows, the pattering of rain, only enhance my depression. I wander to lunch, where I listen to Meg, Tasha, and Lacy angst about the same old, same old. I wonder how they’d react if I put my two cents in: “Yeah, I’m angsty, too. Four months ago I set fire to a house and killed my grandmother. Then, two days later, I tried to commit suicide.”

  Would any of them bat an eye?

  Nate’s not waiting for me after school; he left early today to help his dad with an emergency furnace repair at one of Luke’s rental properties.

  At my locker, though, is Dino, reeking of pot. He’d been kicked out of English by Ms. Rasmussen, so I can imagine how he’d spent that time. “Hey, Rinn.”

  I shrug, not knowing what’s safe or unsafe to say. The last thing I want to do is encourage this guy.

  “You keep an eye out for Bennie, I’ll get that thing back for you now.”

  I slam my locker door and zip my jacket up to my chin. “Dino. It’s not that important.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he argues, leaning in close enough to breathe on me. “C’mon, I checked—there’s nothing going on here tonight. It’ll take me five minutes. Ten, tops.”

  Secretly, I’m kind of flattered that he’s so determined to make amends. “I already told you, it’s probably broken. Besides, how will you get over that fence?”

>   “I can hop it, easy.”

  I hesitate.

  Dino adds earnestly, “All you gotta do is watch for Bennie. I’ll be in and out. C’mon, Rinn. Lemme do this.”

  I must be stupid. But if my candleholder isn’t completely shattered—it is rock hard, and I didn’t hear it break when he threw it—maybe it’ll be worth it. Maybe it’s only chipped. “Aren’t you afraid to go in there?” I navigated the tunnel today, with company as always, but no way am I ever stepping another foot into that pool room.

  Dino laughs, a little too hard and a little too long. I translate this as Hell yeah, I’m scared, but I ain’t telling YOU that.

  “Meet me in the auditorium in ten minutes,” he instructs, and dashes off.

  I unzip my jacket and pretend to rearrange the stuff in my locker. Behind me, the noisy, after-school crowd thins out till only a trickle of kids is left behind. Lockers slam. Mr. Lipford waves as he passes by, heading out with a couple of teachers I don’t know. Doors bang shut, echoing in the distance.

  When the last of the kids disappear, I slip on my book bag and walk off, nonchalantly, through the deserted halls. Dino’s waiting in the auditorium, crouched on the steps to the tunnel. “Come in with me and just keep an eye out. You see Bennie or anyone else, let me know.”

  “Let you know how?” I demand. “Because I am not going all the way in.”

  “Just yell hi to them or something. Loud, so I’ll hear ya. Then you get outta here.”

  Nobody’s fixed the pool room door yet. Dino produces a flashlight from his own book bag and slips inside. I hover at the threshold, eyeing the tall metal fence in the bouncing ray of light. The gate—with a sign that reads KEEP OUT! VIOLATERS WILL BE SUSPENDED!—is sealed shut with the same padlocked chain. I view the links at the top of the fence, all of them twisted and exposed, forming a wall-to-wall row of jagged spikes.

  Well, this just proves it: Dino’s dumber than I am. “Dino, forget it. You’ll kill yourself.”

  “Bull,” he says cheerfully.

  He tucks the flashlight into the waistband of his jeans, and he reaches up to curl his fingers around the links. Rust rains down as he heaves himself up with a grunt. His shoe snags a link, then another, then another, and—as easily as he predicted—he scales the swaying fence. I watch him lift a slow, a cautious leg over the jutting metal links. One false move and good-bye family jewels.

  Arms quivering under his weight, he struggles for a foothold, finds it, then eases the other leg over. Then he drops to the ground on the other side. “YES!”

  When his jubilant shout dies away, everything is silent. And dark.

  And very, very cold.

  I step back from the doorway. “I’m going to wait out here.” Already busy swinging the flashlight in search of my candle holder, Dino doesn’t bother to reply.

  A hint of lavender—my imagination?—lingers in the tunnel. I remember the séance, and what happened, and how everyone, even Dino, is lying about it, and I start to get angry all over again. Anger, though, is a useless waste of energy. So I breathe deeply in and out to calm myself down, thinking that, one way or another, I’ll find out the truth.

  I hug myself against the chill, feeling exposed and abandoned in the dim yellow light, the murky tunnel stretching before me. What am I doing here, alone—Dino doesn’t count; he’s too busy showing off, hunting for his prize—after what happened on Saturday? If something happened to me, right now, what good would Dino be?

  Squeak … clank … squeak … clank, clank …

  My heart practically explodes from my chest till it dawns on me what I’m hearing: Bennie’s janitor cart, rolling through the auditorium. Hastily, I shut the pool room door and then screech, “Hi, Bennie!” as I leap out of the tunnel and down the four steps. Get outta here, Dino ordered. Well, I’m doing exactly that.

  Bennie glowers suspiciously from beneath his orange knit cap. “What’re you doing in there? Why ain’t you gone home?”

  “I forgot my book bag.” A spur-of-the-moment fib. “I’m, um, on my way out now.”

  He doesn’t ask why I’m here, miles away from my locker and the door I normally use. Then again, why would he? He can’t possibly track everyone.

  Bennie shuffles down the aisle, past the stage, and pushes open the rear emergency exit. No fire alarm sounds in spite of the warning sign. “Might’s well go out here. You just live over yonder.”

  No, no! Now what? Hopefully Dino heard me yell. Hopefully he’s lying low. Better yet, he got out of there, too.

  “Okay, thanks.” Casually I stroll out the door and into the backyard of school. My feet sink in crispy mud. Through the bare, swaying trees I spot the roof of my house. I could be home in thirty seconds … but what about Dino? As much trouble as he’s always in, he’ll probably get suspended if Bennie catches him in the pool room. And what if Dino blabs that I helped him out? Or started to, anyway.

  No, I decide. If he’s as obsessed with me as Meg says, I doubt he’ll drag me into it. He wants to be my hero, not get me in trouble. At least I hope so …

  Impulsively, I turn and tug at the door, already inventing another excuse to show my face to Bennie again.

  I’m locked out.

  4 MONTHS + 1 DAY

  Thursday, November 6

  “Dino’s not in homeroom today, or in any other of the classes we share. I guess this means Bennie busted him, after all, and ratted him out to Mr. Solomon.

  Selfishly, I hope he found my candleholder first.

  The temperature drops drastically during the day and the streets are coated with white by the final bell. Nate and I slush home together, and he promises to return with a shovel to clear out the driveway.

  “Want some help?” I ask, not that I’ve ever shoveled snow. Or seen it, till now.

  “No, it’s my job.” Snowflakes melt on his face. “Dad pays me.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, carry on.”

  I hop inside, kick off my shoes, and sling my jacket over the brass hook in the foyer. When I hit our voice mail, I hear Frank say, “Monica, call me back when you get a chance.”

  My heart hurts at the sound of his voice. Hardly thinking it through, I pick up the phone and dial. I guess Frank notices the caller ID because he says without a hello, “Hey, I didn’t expect to hear back from you till tonight.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Rinn?” Silence. “Well, how’re you doing? Where’s your mom?” he asks without awaiting my first reply.

  “She’s not home yet. I heard your message so, um, I thought I’d call you back.”

  “Oh.”

  More silence. I try again. “I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

  “I know.” I picture him running his hand across his balding head, fingering his long gray ponytail. “How’s the new school?”

  “It’s cool. I made some friends. I’m in the chorus, too.” More silence.

  Frank doesn’t care if I made friends or that I’m in the school choir. Why am I babbling? I feel those well, I gotta go vibes zinging through the receiver. “Frank?”

  “Yeah, Rinn?”

  I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for it to happen.

  But how many times can I say I’m sorry without hearing “I forgive you”? He’s never said that to me. I doubt he ever will.

  “I miss you,” I say instead. I shut my eyes, expecting him to slam down the receiver.

  He doesn’t. “Yeah, uh, me too. Have your mom call me when she gets home.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye, Rinn.”

  “Bye, Frank.”

  I throw myself facedown on the sofa. Part of me knows it’s time to move on. Does the rest of my life depend on Frank’s forgiveness? Do I honestly want to be fifty years old, still saying I’m sorry, hoping he’ll love me again?

  But if he never forgives me, why bother making it to fifty?

  A few minutes later Nate bangs on the front door, crusted with snow, wearing that same grotesque hunting cap. He h
olds out a soggy plastic bag. “Your newspaper. It was buried.”