The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  I don’t know what to say. So I just sit there quietly and listen to my clock tick.

  It’s almost dark by the time Millie hollers up: “TASHA! GET DOWN HERE! TIME TO GO!”

  Tasha—who fell asleep—flies up, all disheveled and confused. I’ve already showered and changed into a T-shirt and flannel pants. “Oh no,” she whispers. “Please tell me it’s a dream.” Pushing past me, she swipes her coat from the floor and staggers toward the steps.

  I follow her down. Millie, now composed, levels steely eyes on her daughter. “I hope you enjoyed the visit. It’s the last one you’re gonna get for a while.”

  “Millie,” Mom begins, stepping forward.

  Millie continues, prodding Tasha toward the door, “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care what it costs. Soon as we get home I’m callin’ Nancy, you’re getting back on that diving board, and—”

  “No!” Tasha stops. Maybe I only imagine her look of sheer terror; it’s gone in a flash.

  Millie then turns those cold eyes to me. “Did she tell you what happened? Huh? Did you tell her, Tasha?” Losing it again, she ignores Mom’s protests. “She got halfway up that damn ladder and stopped. Stopped! For no reason! Her coach had to climb up and peel her off.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Tasha whimpers.

  “Oh no? Whose was it?”

  Tasha whirls on me, her face taut, beseeching. “I froze. I was fine at first, and—and then I froze. I don’t know what happened but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t look down …” She faces Millie, fists clenched. “I was scared, Ma! I thought I was gonna die.”

  “Die?” Millie splutters. “I’ll give you die. You think I’ve been draggin’ you around all these years for my health? All those lessons? All that money? Do you think this a game?”

  “Please stop yelling at me,” Tasha begs. “I tried. I swear!”

  “You humiliated me. And you humiliated your daddy,” she adds cruelly. “He lost two days of pay to make that extra trip, and for what? To see you hangin’ on a ladder, making a fool of yourself?” She shakes her head in disgust. “This whole town was behind you. Oh, sweet Jesus, how’ll I face anyone tomorrow?”

  Stricken, Tasha stares at her mom. So do I, in utter disbelief. Mom, on the other hand, plows between them at last. “Millie! Stop it! Leave this poor girl alone, or I swear—”

  But Tasha, unexpectedly, erupts back to life to add her own bitter two cents. “That’s right, Ma. That’s all you care about. ‘Oh, my wonderful daughter, the high-diving champ,’ ” she mimics. “You want me to be perfect, right? So people’ll talk about me instead of talking about you. Because you’re a fat, ignorant whore and everyone knows it!”

  With that, Tasha slams out of the house. Millie, after a single stunned moment, marches after her. No good-bye, nothing. She slams the door twice as hard.

  I’ve never seen Tasha that worked up. I’ve never even heard her talk back to Millie.

  And I’ve never heard a mother talk that way to her daughter. Mom never did, no matter how nasty I was.

  Mom, her face troubled, stares at the front door. Then, “Are you all right?”

  I guess so, though I feel shaky and weird, and very sorry I was part of all this. “I won’t say it,” I promise. She hates when I call Millie names. “But you know what I’m thinking.”

  Mom nods. “In this case, I think you’re right.”

  4 MONTHS + 19 DAYS

  Monday, November 24

  All people talk about in school today is Meg. Nobody can believe what happened. Worse, the more people who blab the story, the more twisted it becomes; by third period they’ve got Mrs. Carmody disemboweled with her throat slashed from ear to ear, and Meg chained to the wall in some unspeakable dungeon.

  Idiots.

  At lunch, I flag down Tasha. She joins me silently and drops her tray on the table.

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “I’ll live.” When we hear someone say “Meg” at the next table, Tasha curls her mouth into half a smile. “Nobody’s said a word about me getting kicked out of regionals. They’re all too busy making Meg out to be some kind of homicidal maniac.”

  “Nobody said anything to me, either.”

  “Well, it’s just a matter of time.” She rolls her hot dog around with the tines of her plastic fork. “Maybe my mom’ll smother me in my sleep and save me from all the shame.”

  Firmly I say, “She was awful to you yesterday. Even my mom said so.” Not in so many words. But it was perfectly obvious she wanted to throttle Millie.

  “Whatever. I’m just sick of listening to her. She keeps saying I screwed up on purpose, and I didn’t, Rinn. Why would I?”

  “I believe you. And your mom’ll get over it.”

  “Doubt that. Anyway, I’m to the point now where I don’t care if I ever see a pool again.” I watch her cut the hot dog into pieces, arrange them in a row, and then, one by one, flick them off her plate. “Oh God, oh God, I miss Meg so much.”

  “Me, too.” Believe it or not, I even miss Lacy right now.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking …” She glances stealthily around. “What you said after Dino’s funeral. At the diner, remember?”

  Wisely, I wait.

  “You said something might happen to me on account of that séance.”

  “I didn’t say it to scare you,” I say quickly.

  “You didn’t. I just didn’t believe you at first. But since I blew regionals so bad …” She pushes her mangled lunch away. “You wanna know a secret? I don’t even care that I blew it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t care?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “Tasha—”

  “I don’t! I’m, like, totally over it.” She giggles, but it’s a strained, unnatural sound. “So you know what I’m thinking now? I’m thinking maybe, just maybe … Annaliese’s getting to me, too.”

  I consider my untouched lunch, a wilted boxed salad. “Don’t joke about it.”

  “I’m not joking, Rinn. I mean, Meg attacked her mom. Really? Meg, of all people? How crazy is that?”

  Thrilled that she’s not teasing me, that maybe she finally gets it, I exclaim, “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. Things happen to people. You guys did zone out on me. Jared saw it, too. He admitted it. That’s why he broke up with Meg, I think. He’s scared of her now.”

  Tasha blinks. “You talked to Jared about this?”

  “Yes, but don’t bother asking him yourself. He already said he’d deny it.” I pretend not to notice her flicker of skepticism. “And now, ever since the séance, things are happening to us.”

  “Well, some of us,” she agrees. “I mean, after all … nothing’s happened to you.”

  “Millie invited us over for Thanksgiving,” Mom says as we’re throwing dinner together.

  I roll greasy meat loaf mix between my hands. “That’s nice.”

  “Actually, I got the impression she invites the whole town. I guess it’s something of a tradition around here.” She cocks her head, staring at the loaf pan in her hands. “I’m worried it might be, uh, a difficult holiday for us …”

  I finish her thought: “Because Frank won’t be here. Yeah, I get it.”

  “We’ll call him,” Mom decides.

  “He won’t talk to me.”

  “I think he will.”

  I grab the pan, drop the meat loaf in, and punch it into shape. “Whatever.”

  While the meat loaf is baking, I hang out in my room and play my guitar. Mr. Chenoweth asked me to play “My Sweet Lord” for the Christmas concert, and I picked up the music today after school. Mom shows up after a while and watches me strum. “Very nice.”

  “Thanks.” I wonder what’s next.

  “I called that new psychiatrist today. He said he’ll let us know if there’s a cancellation before January. And in case of an emergency, there’s a crisis center we can contact.”

  I stop strumming. “What e-mer-gency, Mom?”

 
“Honey, you just seem so down lately. I understand, after what happened to Dino, and now Meg, but—well, I’m worried about you.”

  Oh, crap. Here we go.

  “Mom, I’m not having a crisis. Yes, I’m upset. Isn’t that normal? Can’t I be normally bummed out without you dragging me to a shrink?”

  Taken aback by my snappishness, Mom hesitates. Then: “Rinn, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if something else was bothering you? Or if you feel, well …”

  “Suicidal?” I scoff. “Please. Once was enough.”

  I know she’s just being my typical worrywart mother. But a psychiatrist, especially now, is out of the question. I’d have to watch every word I say, be careful not to slip up. Even then, knowing shrinks as well as I do, he might find a way to drag it out of me that I, Rinn Jacobs, believe in ghosts.

  Ghosts that can hurt you. Ghosts that can make you sick. Ghosts that force you to do things against your will or stop you from doing the things you love best.

  Not just any ghost.

  Annaliese.

  4 MONTHS + 20 DAYS

  Tuesday, November 25

  The phone rings as I head down for breakfast. Mom grabs it. “Hello?” I can hear Millie’s shrill babble as Mom holds the receiver safely away from her ear. Noticing me, she bunches her forehead. “Nooo, I didn’t know. Yes, I’ll ask her.” More frantic chatter. “Mil, don’t worry. I’ll ask her.”

  “Ask me what?” I demand after she hangs up.

  “Tasha gave you some yearbooks? And one of Millie’s scrapbooks?”

  My stomach sinks. “Uh, yeah.” And Tasha promised me she’d never miss them.

  “Well, Millie wants them back.”

  “Okay,” I say casually, rooting around for cereal. Mom forgot to buy Cocoa Puffs. In fact, there’s no cereal left at all. “What am I supposed to eat?” Not another soft-boiled egg, I hope.

  Mom ignores that. “What were you doing with them?”

  “Just looking. I never saw your yearbook,” I add defensively. “I was curious, that’s all.”

  “Is that why you took that scrapbook, too?”

  “I didn’t take it. Tasha let me borrow it.” I feel like a traitor.

  “She had no business doing that. Those books belong to her mother.”

  “Fine! Okay! I’ll give ’em back.” Wow, you’d think I committed a federal offense.

  “Bring them to me,” Mom says sternly.

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Ticked off, I march upstairs and dig the yearbooks and Annaliese’s scrapbook out from under a pile of clothes. Then I march back down and thrust the stack at my mother.

  She thumbs first through the yearbooks, then through the scrapbook. Then she repeats the whole process, examining every page. “Is this all?”

  “Yes!” I viciously pop bread into the toaster. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “You didn’t find any pictures? Anything in an envelope? Because Millie swears she’s missing some pictures.” I shake my head. “Are you sure they didn’t fall out?”

  “There were no pictures! Why would I lie?”

  “I’m not saying you are,” Mom says patiently. “But Millie’s beside herself.”

  “What are they? Nude pics of the cheerleading squad? One of those Girls Gone Wild things?”

  She presses her lips shut. Then: “She didn’t say. But they’re very important to her.”

  My toast pops, barely browned. I slam the lever again. “Well, I don’t have them and I don’t know anything about them.”

  Mom stacks the books on the table, Annaliese on top. She fingers the cover like she’s reading Braille.

  When she says nothing else, I paste on a cheery smile. “Mom, I’m not traumatized. I just wanted to find out about Annaliese. You didn’t tell me much.”

  “It was so long ago,” Mom murmurs. “I try not to think about her. It’s over and done with. I’d like it to stay that way.” Before I can question this, my toast pops again, this time black and crispy. Mom scowls. “We need a new toaster.” Then she grabs her coat from the hook in the back hall and gathers up Millie’s books. “I’ll drop these off to her now. See you at school, honey.”

  “It was the weirdest thing,” I tell Nate on the way to school. “She completely freaked out. And she wouldn’t even tell me what kind of pictures they were.” I grab his arm when I slip on a sneaky patch of ice. “I mean, I know she was kind of wild, but—Nate, what if they’re porno pics? And they’re floating around town?”

  Nate laughs as he steadies me. “Your mom? Nah. She’d never be that stupid.”

  She got knocked up with me. That was pretty stupid.

  “Want to go riding after school? Dad and I are off for our annual hunting trip Thursday, and, well, I won’t see you till next week.”

  “Thursday’s Thanksgiving. What about Millie’s pig fest?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. She already sent over a truckload of goodies.”

  “I can’t believe you hunt,” I complain. “How can you watch those poor little bunnies bleeding to death?”

  “They don’t bleed to death, Surf. I’m a pretty good shot.”

  “And I’m so not impressed.”

  No PE today because the teacher’s out sick. Apparently there’s no such thing around here as a last minute substitute. So Tasha and I sit in the back row during our impromptu study hall, avoiding the eagle eye of Mrs. Schimmler. Tasha calls her Frau Schimmler; she has her for German.

  “Did your mom find the pics?” I whispers.

  “Nope, and she was up all night tearing the place apart.” Tasha props her German book up on end so Schimmler will think she’s studying. “Man, she went ballistic on me. You’d think we ripped off a Picasso or something.”

  “You said she wouldn’t miss that stuff.”

  “Well, now she’s planning some dumb reunion. That’s the only reason.” She lowers her voice when Schimmler clears her throat. “Anyway, who cares? She’s gonna be even madder at me tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I made up my mind. I’m not competing anymore.” She recites this monumental decision so casually, my jaw drops. “I’m tired of it, period. And I’m telling her that tonight.”

  “But what about the Olympics? You told me a thousand times—”

  Tasha sticks out her tongue. “Kid stuff. I’ll never make the Olympics. Just like Meg’s never gonna cheer for Dallas.”

  “You can’t just quit because one bad thing happened.”

  “Oh yes I can,” she snaps.

  It’s happening to her, too. I can feel it.

  “Tash,” I whisper. She buries her face behind her book as Mrs. Schimmler sniffs the air, searching for the source of the whispering. “You said yourself you think Annaliese might be getting to you. But now that we know what’s happening, maybe we can stop it.”

  Tasha snorts without trying to be discreet. Schimmler cracks her palms together. “Silence back there!”

  Tasha won’t look at me. I sigh, open Lindsay McCormick’s Twilight—I’m halfway through it—and pretend to read, but my churning stomach makes it hard to concentrate. Tasha blew one crummy competition, so now she’s giving up diving forever?

  Is it because she’s upset about Meg? Could that be clouding her thinking?

  I hope that’s it. And not something else.

  After horseback riding, I laze on the couch in the stable lounge while Nate nukes water for cocoa. “Who’s taking care of the horses if you’re gonna be gone for four days?”

  “Got a couple buddies from school lined up.” He hands me my cocoa and sits down. “How’s Tasha doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.” I don’t mention Tasha’s decision. “She’s upset about regionals. And about Meg, of course. She doesn’t really talk about her, though.”

  “Neither do you,” he says gently.

  I sip from my steaming mug. No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember the blood on her, or how she stared at me with th
at strange, dead expression. “You don’t want to hear what I have to say, anyway.”

  “Which is?”

  “That what happened to her makes one more bad thing that’s happened around here.”