by Alice Bell
I crushed the piece of paper in my palm and shoved my hands in my pockets.
Of course, she looked beautiful in a ‘stark raving’ kind of way, with her electrifying hair against her pale skin. I was irresistibly drawn to her, the way her feelings spilled out, so messy. I had the urge to get under the covers with her but I held back. I was eager to get out into the night.
Her gaze landed on the suitcase. She frowned. “Did I tell you I was in the sanitarium for a while?”
I wasn’t surprised. And I even thought so what? There were worse things in life. Here I was with my obituary in my pocket.
I sat on the edge of the bed. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Did you find it?” she whispered.
The ache in my head was back, pulsing behind my eyes.
“Devon. I didn’t make you up. It’s fate. You and I were destined to meet.”
“There’s no such thing as fate.”
Her fingers were still on my wrist. Her eyes searched mine. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t know, Ruby. I don’t know,” my voice was rising. “I’m dead. Christ, that’s what happened to me. I died…”
She stared. I had to force my voice down. “Let’s talk about it later.” How surreal. We wouldn’t talk about it later. For God sake.
I started to get up but Ruby grasped my shirt. “Devon, wait. Do you know her? Zadie?”
“Who?” I said.
“Zadie,” she whispered.
Her heart beat too loud, pounding in my head. Only it was my own heartbeat. “Zadie…” my voice came from far away.
The pounding got louder.
“I met her,” Ruby said. “In the sanitarium.”
“The what?”
“The psych ward, Devon.”
“Zadie? You—it’s not possible. When?”
“Nine years ago.”
“Not my Zadie…”
Ruby’s pulse quickened and licked at my veins. Her eyes were huge, watching me. “Zadie was tall and thin, like a model,” she said. “Platinum blonde. She wanted to find you.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I have to find him, she’d say. Not your name. She never said who. I thought it was a fantasy…a delusion.”
“So—so what happened to her?”
“Did you love her?” Ruby said.
I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Was Zadie still there when you left?”
“One day, she was just gone. I found your obituary in her room.”
I thought of Enid, her supernatural beauty, and the way she broke through my defenses, seducing me with what I couldn’t resist.
Enid.
Enid had done this to us.
Kill Enid. The words repeated in my mind, like a twisted mantra.
21. Ruby
“DON’T GO,” I said, but it was too late.
I lurched from the bed and ran to the window, dragging the sheet with me. I searched for him in the dim glow of the street lamp. Cold came through the thin pane of glass. I just needed to see his shape, the way he walked with his hands in his pockets, but he had already disappeared.
(I died. Christ, that’s what happened to me. I died.)
I flipped the light switch and found drops of blood on the sheets. Proof he was real. And I was no longer a virgin.
My grandmother and I had loved Gothic romances, where the heroines wore gloves and hats and were always ‘taking a smoke.’ If I was a Gothic heroine, I would be ‘a woman now,’ I thought. And my story would end with a kiss and the promise of undying love.
(Undying. Undead.)
I rubbed my temples and wished I smoked.
Anything supernatural in those stories—a haunted attic, a ghost floating around the woods—was explained in the end. Ghosts were escaped lunatics and haunted attics contained illegitimate children, or mad wives.
I went downstairs, wrapped in the sheet.
I put on a black satin gown and poured a shot of Seagram’s. The time was 1:07. I rolled eleven on my lucky dice. It was my favorite number, so I said a prayer…for myself, like the self-absorbed person described in my case file.
Patient is overly emotional and yet emotionally shallow. I prayed Devon would make love to me one more time. And once more after that. I tried to imagine him going home but he always seemed to disappear into thin air.
I pressed my fingers to my eyes. Sparks danced, like shooting stars. When the needle bumped the end of the record, the hum of the kitchen appliances got louder. I had another shot of whisky. The world spun too fast and I spun with it.
Patient lives in a romantic fantasy world and becomes hostile when confronted with reality. I wasn’t even sure if it was my file or my mother’s and I couldn’t remember how I’d come to read something so confidential.
You don’t want to end up like your mother.
I raced upstairs and jerked open the drawer where I’d hid the Lexapro. My hands shook. The childproof cap defied me. With a cry, I threw the plastic bottle across the room. It bounced off the wall and rolled on the floor.
I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes.
I remembered telling Dr. Ess dying might be a relief. I said stupid things all the time, especially to Dr. Ess. Maybe I wanted to see if I could fool him and prove he was a hack, so I wouldn’t have to see him anymore.
I thought of Devon’s eyes. The first time I saw his picture on that torn piece of paper, I thought he looked like a dark angel, the person who would introduce you to God.
22. Devon
I WENT to the twenty-four hour coffee shop near my building. It was obviously a scene for the adolescent crowd too young to get into the clubs. A couple of girls with dyed red hair occupied a booth. They looked like twins, dressed in matching Ramones T-shirts and plaid skirts, pink knee-high socks. They reminded me of Ruby.
I ignored their stares and strode past them to take one of the computers in the back.
Occasionally they giggled. Their energy was intense, aimed at me like laser beams. It raised the hair on the back of my neck. I realized I could get a charge without having to interact with them at all. It was an interesting discovery, though I was too preoccupied to consider just how interesting, at the moment.
My stolen pocket computer was long dead, (like yours truly). I liked having a keyboard beneath my fingers. I started my search with Enid Grosling. After several variations on her name, with no results, my suspicions were confirmed. She didn’t exist in the ordinary realm. If she did, she would be the queen of selfies, a slew of purposely leaked sexcapades in her wake.
A more detailed search, combined with Devon Slaughter, brought up the incident in Nicaragua. I read the article quickly, skimming over certain details I didn’t want carved into my immortal memory.
Enid had slipped off the grid but she hadn’t been reported missing and she didn’t have an obituary. Where was she?
After last night’s grueling trip down memory lane, I couldn’t bring myself to look up my parents. I wanted to stay in shape, at the height of my supernatural ability. I couldn’t risk getting sick again.
I typed in Zadie’s name and found she had a fan page on Facebook, connected to a hotline set up for information on her disappearance. Tips came in the first few months but the line had gone defunct. People still posted to her page, commemorating her memory on the anniversary of her disappearance. They sent virtual flowers.
I clicked on a link to an article posing a kidnapping theory. It was the end of the road. I couldn’t pull up any more information. There was nothing to be found concerning any visits to mental hospitals. And yet, the fact that Ruby had known Zadie was one of the few things that made sense. Ruby and I had a psychic connection through Zadie.
I entered Ruby’s full name, as it had appeared on her driver’s license. She taught at a private academy and held three degrees. I gazed at her picture on the school’s website. It was like a mugshot. She stood in front of a chalkboard holding a copy of Wuthering Heights and grimacing. I had to smi
le. She was so awkward. The photo did nothing to capture her ethereal beauty.
I looked for something linked to the sanitarium. No results, which didn’t surprise me. But there had to be something useful I could get to. I started typing, delving into Ruby’s college records, which led me to her birthplace. She’d been born in a small town in northern California.
The red-haired girls behind me tittered. I glanced over my shoulder and found them leaning across the table, whispering to each other. I turned back to the computer.
After a few more minutes, my search for Ruby Rain ended in a three year old weather report. Even the search engine seemed frustrated. It asked me, “Did you mean India Ruby Glaw?” I thought, yeah, exactly. But I clicked ‘yes’.
Page One, Article 1: On Wednesday, India Ruby Glaw was found not guilty of the murder of Javier Belmonte by reason of insanity. On the afternoon of July 11, deputies rushed to 104 Park Place, the residence of Javier Belmonte, after getting reports of yelling inside, and possible gun shots. When they arrived, they discovered Belmonte shot three times in the chest.
Belmonte, a local artist, was severely wounded and later died of his injuries.
India Glaw, (spotted entering the residence earlier in the day), was arrested twenty minutes later, on Delta Avenue, in the Café Armonde, where she was ordering an espresso. The 31-year old admitted to shooting Belmonte but has not said why. She has been in and out of mental institutions for much of her life, and after Wednesday's ruling will once again be institutionalized.
The decision outraged Belmonte's family.
“I don’t think she's mentally ill, I think she’s evil,” said Marie Logsdon, Belmonte's wife, who was separated from him at the time of the murder. Logsdon claimed Glaw was the reason for their separation.
Prosecutors say it was a tough decision, but the experts who examined Glaw determined she was insane. She will be committed for up to life and they do not anticipate she will be released.
I skimmed down the rest of the page but the other articles weren’t related.
On page two I found the headline: Victim’s Family Avenged—Murderess Dies of Pneumonia in Mental Hospital. I recognized the face in the black and white photo. India Ruby Glaw was the same woman in the paintings in Ruby’s hallway. Too young to be the grandmother, she had to be Ruby’s mother. So Ruby had changed her name. Who could blame her?
A ‘Behind the Name’ search told me Glaw meant ‘rain’ in Welsh.
“Excuse me,” one of the red-haired girls sidled up. When I met her gaze, she blushed. “Are you an actor?” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. Her blush went from cute to puce but she wasn’t deterred. “You look like McGregor James,” she said. I enjoyed her elevated heart rate, the feel of her young pulse racing in my veins. “He’s the sexiest man alive,” she said. “For real. Like in People magazine.”
And I’m the sexiest man not alive.
“He plays a serial killer on that show The Fever,” she seemed mystified when I showed no recognition. “Everyone watches it. He kills beautiful women who are dying of ravaging diseases and poses their dead bodies. Then he covers them in rose petals. It’s his signature. The detective who is supposed to catch him is falling in love with him…”
I gave her a slow smile, just to see her quiver. She would report our conversation to her friend (who was watching), and anybody else who would listen, without realizing I’d never said a word.
Outside on the street, I cast a glance through the window and caught the two of them hurrying to the door. I let them follow me for a few blocks. They were noisy—tripping and laughing. It was hard to believe they didn’t think I’d notice.
At the bridge, I sped up, moving faster than the human eye could see.
23. Ruby
ONE CURTAIN gaped open and I saw the pinkish blue light of dawn. Lying on my side, I watched the number four on my alarm clock turn into a five. 5:55. I’d only been asleep a few hours.
I thought of Devon.
I loved the way his hair fell into his eyes, his careless faded clothes, watching his muscles flex. He was unreal. And at the same time more real than anything else in my life.
I watched the clock. The five turned into a six and then a seven and the alarm blared. I groaned and got up.
I was surprised to find a mess in my closet. Dr. Ess said messiness indicated chaos happening in my mind and I should come in to see him about adjusting my meds.
Wouldn’t it be a lot simpler just to do laundry?
Everything I owned was supposed to be dry-cleaned but dry cleaning was bad for the environment and I was afraid of the man at the dry cleaners. He always got a mean glint in his eye when he saw me and once he’d given my clothes to someone else.
In the back of the closet, I found a clean pair of gray pants with a high vintage waist and wide legs. I preferred dresses but I didn’t have a choice. I pulled on a short sleeved baby blue sweater and managed to get on my pink Converse sneakers without having to undo the laces. By the time I was done, my chest hurt and my eyes watered, like I’d run a marathon.
In the kitchen, I went to make coffee and found only a few beans in the bottom of the bag. I stayed busy, doing laundry and hanging my dresses above the vent so they would dry. I made a grocery list.
I put off calling Dr. Ess. After all, it was Sunday. At eleven-oh-five, I set out to walk to the market. These kinds of activities were highly recommended by Dr. Ess.
When I stepped into the crosswalk, a car horn blared. I leaped back. On the sidewalk, my knees began to quake. The car must have picked up speed. It had been at least a block away when I started to cross. It felt mean, as if the driver hated pedestrians.
I turned and headed home. The sun was too hot. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I was glad to see my car, so sturdy and pink.
When I got to the market, the parking lot was jammed. I had to wedge the Cadillac into an economy space. I usually shopped late at night when there were fewer people.
I ended up getting a cart with defiant wheels. Since celery was at my elbow, I grabbed a bunch to put in a plastic bag. By the time I’d forced the celery and its unruly leaves into the bag, the whole front of my sweater was wet. Celery wasn’t even on my list.
I wrestled with the cart, and people veered away from me.
When I turned into the breakfast aisle, I saw a tall woman up ahead—velour track suit, familiar black pony tail swinging down her back. Wong. I hid behind a pyramid of five grain cereal.
“Excuse me! Miss?” a voice said, behind me. “Your cart is in the way.”
I turned to face a glaring woman. When I backed up my cart, I dislodged a box of cereal. It fell to the floor. Another followed. And another.
“Oh for Pete Sake,” the woman seemed furious, as if I’d endangered countless innocent lives. “Yoo-hoo! Do you work here?” she cried in a shrill voice, waving her hand in the air. “We need help down here. The cereal is falling.”
I squatted, picking up boxes two at a time. One last box hit the back of my head, before landing on the floor. As I reached for it, a pair of Adidas came into my line of vision. My gaze moved slowly upward. Wong peered down at me. “Hi, Ruby,” she said.
I straightened, managing to couch six cereal boxes in my arms.
Wong kicked the rest aside, sweeping them neatly out of the way with her foot. “There you go,” she said to the woman who scowled and moved down the aisle.
“You look incredible,” Wong said to me.
“I do?” I put the boxes in my cart. I could live off cereal for months and then I wouldn’t have to come back to the store for a long time.
Wong said, “You’re glowing. Did you do the Cayenne Pepper Fast, like Georgie?”
Whatever Georgie did, I would be sure to do the opposite. “No.”
“Did you get lucky with Mr. Tall Dark and Dangerous?” Wong said.
I gripped the handle of my shopping cart and wondered how to answer.
“Sorry,” Wong said. “It
’s none of my business,” she punched me lightly on the arm. “But way to go, tiger.”
A wave of dizziness swept over me.
“Are you okay? Ruby?”
I edged my cart down the aisle. My mind spun in circles. When I stopped to grab a pound of espresso beans, Wong did the same. “I love a dark oily bean,” she said.
“Well, it was nice seeing you,” I struggled to get my cart nosed in the right direction. Wong kept following me. I tried to give her the slip at the check stand but she got in line too. I plucked a magazine off the stand. “Look,” I held it up. “Vegan vampire attacks trees!”
“Ha ha,” she said, like it wasn’t funny at all. “Did you get my email?”
The clerk beeped the cereal boxes over the scanner.
“I don’t read email. I don’t believe in it,” I picked up my groceries that all fit into one paper bag.
“Well, aren’t you fascinating,” Wong said.
I hurried to the door and she was close behind. “Ruby, wait,” she caught me by the elbow and I almost dropped my groceries.
“I’ve never had a chance to tell you this,” she said. “The school library was a dead place before you came. Students used it only when the weather was bad, to text or play video games. Now I have your students asking for help tracking obscure books, which I see them reading. I also see them writing. On their laptops, even with pen and paper. And mostly, I hear them talking. About your classes. That’s what I said in the email. I think you’re fantastic. And I’ve put your name in for Teacher of the Year.”
I turned it over and over in my mind, as I drove home. Teacher of the Year.
I was flattered and excited but also nervous about Georgie. I could see now, how it had all gone wrong, why Georgie had cheated me out of my Literacy class, why she kept stealing my parking space, why she hated me. After all, I was new. And so much younger. It was my first teaching job. “Look at her,” I imagined people saying. “So young and gifted.”