The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  God, God, God, I waited so long to hear this. As I gaze up into his weathered face, something clutches my heart with hands bigger and warmer than his. He means it. He does! I fall back into his chest, marveling at this odd, delightful sensation growing inside me. Hope, maybe. Or something like it.

  But before I can decide, the smell of Frank disappears. In its place, something more familiar, more sinister: chlorine.

  I sit up and meet Mom’s accusing stare. Her features blur; am I seeing double again? The taste of pool water sears my tongue. I cover my mouth and focus hard on one of the two shimmering faces of my mom.

  The one that chills me the most.

  The one that stares back with smug recognition.

  “You can’t fool me,” I scream through my fingers. “You are not my mother!”

  5 MONTHS + 13 DAYS

  Thursday, December 18

  Frank’s staying at a motel in Westfield so he can hang around for tomorrow’s concert. Mom didn’t ask him to stay with us. I doubt Frank would appreciate her all-night piano pounding. Yes, last night she did it again.

  Now, creeping exhaustedly downstairs, I hear Mom on the phone, voice husky from cigarettes and her own lack of sleep: “—told you, she’s been like this for days … Of course she’s depressed about her friends … Yes, she’s taking them—I watch her every morning.”

  Liar. You never watch me anymore.

  Mom says sarcastically, “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve had a chance to think about it, now that our daughter’s so convinced you hate her guts! … Oh, please. Don’t go there.”

  Go where? What does he want? I remember Frank’s surprise when Mom said I won’t be visiting him. Her idea? I doubt she consulted him.

  “How would I know? I told you what she said, all that stuff about ghosts stealing souls and killing off her friends. You heard what she said to me yesterday. She’s delusional, Frank.”

  “No, I’m not,” I whisper.

  Mom’s voice rises. “What do you mean I’m not trying? I’ve been trying for weeks to get her in! … You did what?” Silence. “When? Okay, well … thank you, then.”

  Spotting me, she jumps, hangs up on him, and delivers a phony smile.

  One face. One smile.

  “What did Frank do?” I ask.

  “He took it upon himself to find you a new doctor. Your appointment’s on Saturday. He agrees,” she adds before I can argue, “you need therapy. Something more than a handful of pills every day.”

  “The pills work,” I protest.

  “When you take them.”

  “I take them! I take them!”

  “Then maybe they’re not the right ones. If they worked that well, you wouldn’t be so tempted to go off them.”

  Crap, crap, crap. I can’t see a psychiatrist now! If I slip up and say one careless word about Annaliese, I’ll never again see the light of day.

  “I swore I’d take them. On Nana’s soul you made me swear, and I did, remember?”

  Mom swings around from the sink. I duck, expecting, I don’t know—another monster posing as my mom? “I know you did. But it might not be enough.”

  “I’m not delusional,” I say calmly. “You think I am, but I’m not.”

  Mom stares at me for a long time.

  Then she turns and walks away.

  “She touched you, too, Mom,” I whisper. “You just can’t see it.”

  One thing I learned from being in psych wards is this: when people say you’re delusional, the best thing to do is to shut up about your delusions. Otherwise they lock you up twice as long.

  I shouldn’t have said “I’m not delusional” to Mom because—what if I am?

  What if everything I’ve seen, heard, and believe is just part of my illness? Even the double vision could be a side effect of the drugs. Except “double vision” doesn’t normally include another whole human being.

  No! I know exactly what happened that day in the kitchen.

  I felt my mother holding my hand. Yet I also saw her at the toaster, yammering away.

  I saw them both on the sofa yesterday, one watching resentfully as Frank comforted me.

  Doubt stabs me. What if Mom’s right and the pills aren’t enough? Or what if I need a higher dose? Obsessing over this, I sneak back to the kitchen after Mom leaves for school and shake out a extra tablet of everything.

  Then two of everything. Do I dare do this myself?

  I finger each tablet.

  Tempting … so tempting.

  Then: “I’m not that stupid,” I say to Annaliese. “You don’t know me one bit.”

  She wants me to overdose. She thinks no one’ll be surprised. Maybe she’s right. People will say: Yeah, Rinn Jacobs. She’s always had problems. We all knew it was a matter of time before she tried it again.

  Is that how Annaliese hopes to get rid of me?

  Livid, triumphant, I cram the pills back into the bottle. “Sorry, bitch. Today you lose.”

  The phone rings. It’s Frank again.

  “Mom’s already gone,” I say.

  “It’s you I want to talk to.”

  I grip the phone, fingers cramping.

  Gruffly he says, “I want to say two things. One, that I’m a sorry excuse for an old man. You know I love you, right?”

  I nod, though he can’t see me.

  “Second, I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re gonna get through it, okay? You just do what your mom tells you, and you’ll be fine, I promise. It’s never too late. We’re not giving up without a fight. You got that?”

  “Got it.” I smile though sudden tears.

  “See you tomorrow. Love you, darlin’.”

  “I love you too, Frank.”

  We have our last rehearsal after school today. The concert’s tomorrow.

  Nate’s not here, I haven’t seen him since this morning, and Mr. Chenoweth has a few choice words for the people who didn’t show up. I shift restlessly, wishing the rehearsal were over so I could just go home. Now that my high from Frank’s saying he loves me wore off, all I can think of is Nana. I keep trying to conjure up her face in my mind, but it’s hard, so hard. Like even her memory is now being stolen from me, piece by piece. Soon there’ll be nothing left.

  Would she forgive me, too, if she knew how sorry I am?

  Rehearsal ends at last. As I hoist my guitar case, Cecilia wanders up. “Hey. Are you nervous about tomorrow? I am.”

  I’m glad Cecilia’s talking to me again, though I’m sure it’s because she feels sorry for poor friendless me. Maybe she hopes we can be friends, now that I no longer hang out with the girls who harassed her. Well, Lacy did, not that Meg and Tasha discouraged it.

  “A bit,” I admit.

  Behind us, the auditorium doors clank open. It’s Bennie Unger, lugging a cardboard box.

  “Bennie!” I say happily as he reaches us, somewhat out of breath. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Hey, Rinn. Hey, Cecilia. I just come back for my things. Mr. Solomon, he was nice enough to give me some vacation. But then they had this meeting, and now I can’t come back here no more.”

  “He fired you?” I howl as Cecilia demands, “Why?”

  “He said I wasn’t keepin’ a good enough eye out on things. Because of Dino, you know. And what happened to your friend.” He observes me sadly. “He says Miss Millie’s right. So now it’s time for me to go.” And with a matter-of-fact “Bye now,” Bennie galumphs past us and vanishes through the rear exit of the auditorium.

  Cecilia folds her arms severely. “Well. That sucks.”

  Yeah, it does. Now what’ll he do with his life?

  Snow flutters down like talcum powder as I bypass my house and skid across the street to Nate’s. Both his jeep and his dad’s Buick sit in the driveway. Hoping I’m not ratting him out, I say to Luke when he opens the door, “Is Nate okay? I didn’t see him all day.”

  “Yeah, he felt sick, so he came home.” Luke steps aside to let me in. “Actually, I’m glad you stopped by, Rinn. I�
�m kind of worried about your mom.”

  I stall by pretending to struggle with a boot. Has Luke been seeing two Monicas, too?

  He holds my elbow to steady me. “Is something going on? She’s not herself lately.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

  He gestures vaguely. “She’s touchy. Preoccupied. I don’t want to pry, but …”

  “She’s got a lot on her mind. You know, with Millie and all.” Though Mom’s definitely steering clear of Millie these days. Either they had a fight, or else she’s just Millied out. I decide not to mention Frank at all, because … is Luke the reason Mom’s dumping Frank so fast?

  Luke shoos me off, oblivious to my suspicions. “Nate’s upstairs, but don’t get too close. You might catch something.” Right. I’m so sure he’s concerned with germs.

  Nate’s asleep on his stomach, one cheek buried in a pillow. He snores. How cute! I sit down on his bed and rest a palm on his back. “Nate?” I duck my head to kiss him, and—

  With a roar, Nate leaps up and dumps me flat on the floor. He lands on me hard, knocking the wind from my lungs, straddling me, grinding me into the rug. When I shriek, he releases one of my shoulders—but only to silence me by clutching my throat.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t fight. I clutch his steel wrist, trying to pry away his fingers. Fetid air tinged with bleach scalds me with each ferocious pant from his mouth. He rams a knee between my legs and mashes my neck harder, completely unaffected by my digging nails.

  Golden specks flash. My vision dims as I desperately search the contorted face hovering inches above my own—oh my God, his eyes! Where are his eyes?

  All I see are two black murderous holes reaching deeply into his skull.

  Someone drags me into a sitting position. A glass presses my teeth. I swallow water, and moan at the burning in my ravaged throat.

  When my vision clears, I focus on Luke, who keeps repeating my name. When I finally croak an incoherent reply, his expression dissolves to one of relief. “Can you breathe?”

  Breathing just fine—well, gasping, really—I push him away in search of Nate; he’s sitting, head down, on the edge of the bed, his hands dangling between his knees. Someone’s feet thump closer and closer, and the next thing I know Mom flies in. Did someone call her? How much time has gone by?

  “What happened?” she shouts, falling down next to me.

  Nate answers in an eerily impersonal tone. “I—I had a dream someone snuck in here and tried to kill me.”

  Mom screeches, “So you decided to kill my daughter instead?”

  The sheer volume of this is enough to jerk Nate back to life. “No! I swear I don’t know what happened. But Dad woke me up, I had Rinn on the floor, and … and …” He stares at me in horror, unable to go on.

  “Monica.” Luke stands; the fear on his face electrifies my spine. Seriously, adults should never act this scared in front of their kids. “Look at him. He had no idea what he was doing.”

  “The hell he didn’t. Look at her!”

  I can’t see for myself, but I’ll take her word for it. My stomach hurts where Nate sat on me. My neck throbs like it was stung by a hoard of African bees.

  Nate pleads, keeping his eyes on me, “I’d never hurt Rinn, not on purpose. You’ve got to believe me.”

  I stare back into those eyes—yes, real eyes, not holes, just his own hazel eyes—and mouth back: I believe you!

  Mom prods me to my feet. Robotically I obey, with no energy to resist. “I ought to call the police!” She directs this at Luke, who makes a protective move toward Nate. “Your son assaulted my daughter. God knows what else he might’ve done. Oh!” she cries out. “How did I ever think we’d be happy here? How did I think we could be friends after what you did to me?”

  “Me?” Luke snarls. “What about you? You never fooled anyone, Monica. Why don’t you take a good look at yourself for a change?”

  I balk, but Mom hauls me to the door. “You keep away from my child. Both of you!” Ignoring my whimpers, she hustles me downstairs and across the street, minus my boots or jacket. Back home, she forces me into a dining room chair and yanks off my wet socks like I’m a toddler who tripped into a puddle. One lands on the floor, the other in the living room.

  “Mom!” My raspy voice startles me, but at least I can speak.

  “Stay away from him, Rinn. I mean it.”

  Stay away? How? He lives across the street.

  I force the words past my burning vocal cords. “He was sleeping! I—I guess I scared him or something.”

  “Really? And what were you doing in his bedroom?”

  We face off. I can’t explain to her how innocent it was. As far as Mom’s concerned, nothing that has to do with boys and me is ever innocent.

  She rages on. “I thought you’d stopped all this nonsense, all this sleeping around with boys who you don’t even know. Do you think I appreciate strangers telling me my own daughter’s a slut?”

  Speechless, I squint as her face shimmers, then blurs. When she speaks again, it’s from the kitchen this time: “Tea and honey might help. But maybe an Urgent Care …”

  As she moves about, rattling mugs and spoons twenty feet away from me, the first Mom grips my shoulder. “I should let Frank take you back to California.” I wriggle away as Mom # 2 runs water into the kettle, calling, “Honey, why don’t you lie down on the sofa? This’ll only take a minute.”

  Surrounded by chaos, I scream THE TRUTH at her—and promptly fall out of my chair.

  Why did I think people only faint in the movies? I just did it twice in less than an hour.

  I wake up on the sofa, draped in an afghan. Voices drift from the kitchen:

  “… he said it was an accident, that he was sleepwalking.”

  “It happens.” It’s Frank. “I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Did she hit her head?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why’d she pass out?”

  “I don’t know! She started screaming at me, saying I’m not her mother, that I’m driving her crazy, and trying to kill her, and that she’s on to me now and—oh, who knows what she said!”

  I swallow delicately. God, that hurts.

  “Frank, she thinks furniture moves in her room. She tore up that wall. She never sleeps. She sneaks around the house all night—one night she even left—and I hear her talking to herself. What else am I supposed to think?” Mom finishes hysterically.

  You’re supposed to think I’m crazy. That’s what Annaliese wants.

  I open my eyes when Frank towers over me. “How ya feeling, darlin’?”

  I touch my scar, surely bruised by now. “Please don’t let Mom call the police on Nate.”

  “She won’t.” Frank smooths the hair off my sweaty forehead.

  Nearby, Mom lets loose with a long, throaty chuckle.

  “Did you hear that?” I whisper, every muscle wired. “It’s not me, it’s her! There’s something wrong. Can’t you see it?”

  His puzzled face tells me he doesn’t know what I’m rambling about, that he didn’t even hear that terrible laugh. Only I can hear her. Annaliese planned it that way.

  “Your mom loves you, Rinn,” Frank says thickly.

  “Not anymore.”

  “You remember what I said on the phone? We’re going to help you. You’re gonna be fine. You believe me, right?”

  Why should I believe him when he refuses to believe me?

  Hopeless, helpless, I make myself nod because it’s the answer he expects.

  5 MONTHS + 14 DAYS

  Friday, December 19

  Nate totally, absolutely, avoids me in school. Maybe he’s afraid Mom’ll make good on her threat to have him arrested for assault.

  I hate her. I hate Frank, too, in a way, for not believing me.

  Most of all, I hate myself because I can’t convince them about Annaliese.

  Against my better judgment, I tried once again to explain it last night. Mom and Frank got all quiet an
d shifty eyed—cardinal signs that they believe I’ve lost my grip on reality.