I am not Bunny Foo Foo. I turn my music up loud. It hurts my ears, but I ignore it.
“Maybe you’re a piglet? Little Pig, Little Pig, let me in.”
It is not nice to call a person a pig.
Devon calls Mrs. Lamb a pig. He thinks he is funny. He says, “The lamb is a pig is a horse is a cow.” Ms. Colley sends him to the Quiet Corner, and he writes A lamb is not a pig on his list.
Mrs. Lamb is dead. Devon’s list says so.
The Ceiling Man’s friend laughs. He is in his box, but I can hear him. “A little girl,” he says.
I am not a little girl. I am not a little pig. I am not a little bunny. I am Abby.
“Let me in, Little Abby-Bunny-Piglet.”
My music sings, “You can’t come in.”
“You can’t come in.” I think it but I do not say it because I am quiet and I do not go downstairs and let the Ceiling Man in.
You can’t come in. I like this song. It is one of my mom’s favorites and sometimes we sing it together.
“I’ll get Mommy to let me in,” the Ceiling Man says.
“Stay away from my mom.” My words are in my head not my mouth. I stay shushed because my mom’s head hurts.
The Ceiling Man hears me. “Are you going to stop me? Like you did with Mrs.Lamb? We know how that turned out.”
Twyla does not talk, but sometimes she talks to me. She does not use her mouth, but I know what she says.
“I like red,” the Ceiling Man says. “Maybe I should be friends with Twyla.”
“You hurt Mrs. Lamb,” I say without my mouth.
“You hurt her. You’ll hurt Mommy too.”
My mom is making me seasick.
“Go away,” I say. The Ceiling Man does not listen.
“Little Pig, Little Pig, let me come in.”
I am not a little pig.
“Twyla needs a red ceiling,” he says.
Twyla does not need words. Her head is full of pictures. I need words, but sometimes I cannot find them.
“I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down,” the Ceiling Man says.
I do not listen to him. I listen to my music.
You can’t come in. The same song sings over and over. It is on Repeat, but I do not make it stop.
“I am coming in,” the Ceiling Man says. “You can’t stop me.”
“You can’t come in.” I close my eyes tight and sing in my head but my mom does not sing with me.
“I know better songs,” the Ceiling Man says.
Sami is growling and I am rocking. The Ceiling Man is laughing.
“You can’t come in,” I say with my mouth.
Sami is barking and I open my eyes. My mom is not in her chair. The Ceiling Man is quiet.
Sami barks her mean bark but I do not think she is barking at me.
“Tell that dog to shut up,” the Ceiling Man says.
I do not think he likes Sami and I want him to be afraid. I do not tell Sami to shut up.
“I hate fucking dogs,” the man in the box says.
Gramma says, “Don’t say hate.”
Fuck is worse than hate. Gramma would not like the Ceiling Man.
“Stay here,” Daddy says.
“Be careful,” my mom says.
“You can’t come in,” my music says.
My mom sits on my bed. “Abby,” she says.
“You can’t come in,” I say.
Sami’s barking is outside my room and outside my house. I think she is with my dad. I do not want her to be with the Ceiling Man.
I take off my ear-buds but do not turn off my music.
“You can’t come in,” my music says.
“Where’s your book?” my mom says.
My mom’s head hurts. She should not read.
“To Grandmother’s house we go,” the Ceiling Man sings.
“Don’t worry, Daddy will keep us safe.” I find my words and use my mouth.
“Did you hear something?” my mom says.
“Now, that’s a good song,” the Ceiling Man says.
“Idunno.” I do not know how to tell my mom about the Ceiling Man.
“Oh, Mommy, let me introduce myself,” the Ceiling Man says.
My mom closes her eyes and puts her hands on her head and rocks.
Policemen catch bad guys. Daddy should catch the Ceiling Man.
“A little girl and a fucking dog,” the man in the box says.
My mom should not rock.
I think the Ceiling Man should go to jail and never come back.
I hate the Ceiling Man.
[23]
Carole
KNOCKING. IN MY HEAD. Small explosions. Pain.
You can’t come in. You can’t come in.
“Carole. Carole. Are you all right?” Jim’s voice.
“He is gone now,” Abby said.
My head cleared, and I opened my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Jim said.
“Someone was outside, trying to get in,” I said.
“I didn’t find anyone.”
I remembered waking him up, telling him I heard someone outside, and making him go check. I remembered sitting down with Abby. “Don’t worry, Daddy will keep us safe,” she said, and the pain in my head exploded. After that, everything was blank.
“You can’t come in.” Abby’s ear-buds lay on the bed, the volume on the iPod turned up high enough they might as well have been speakers. I picked it up and shut it off.
“Carole?” Jim’s tone demanded an explanation.
“There was someone trying to get into the house,” I said.
“I couldn’t find anybody or anything. It was the orange cat. Or the teenagers next door. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” If I told him I heard someone climbing the side of the house, he’d think I was insane. Or find out—somehow—that I took his Vicodin. He wouldn’t approve. “But I did hear something.”
“Maybe you were dreaming.”
“She wasn’t,” Abby said.
“Did you hear something?” her father asked.
“Idunno.”
You can’t come in. The iPod was off, but the song lingered.
“You’re right,” I said. “Probably the kids next door.”
“Why don’t you come to bed.” Not a question. A command.
“I’m good here.” I got off the bed and went back to my chair.
“It’s okay,” Abby said. “We can all sleep now.”
• • •
ALTHOUGH ABBY GAVE me permission to sleep, I had no problem staying awake. Any drowsiness from the painkiller was gone. I didn’t know why I blacked out on Abby’s bed but blamed the migraine. The migraine was gone, so I didn’t worry about it. Instead, I sat alert and listened for the intruder to return. No matter what Jim said, I knew what I heard.
By morning, I felt great. Wide awake. Chipper. Better than I had since well before I rolled the Jeep. Before I started spending my nights in Abby’s room.
Until Abby handed me my toast. At the smell of peanut butter, my stomach heaved.
“Are you okay?” Abby asked.
“I’m fine.” Jim’s scowl dared me to prove it. I took a bite of toast—and I was fine. I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s toast, twenty-four hours ago. “Hungry is all. I need my breakfast. And more coffee.”
“And a good night’s sleep,” Jim said.
When I said I would drive Abby to school again, her only comment was “Sami should go with us.”
At the school, we waited in line for drop-off. I would never again mock over-protective parents.
“What will you do today?” Abby asked.
“I really don’t know yet.”
“When you go anywhere, take Sami.”
“I don’t know that we’ll go for a walk.” It was snowing again. Not much, but enough to make me wimp out on a walk.
“Take her even when you go in the car.”
In the backseat, Sami woofed.
“Well, if you both
insist.” I tried to make a joke out of it.
“We do.” Abby wasn’t joking.
• • •
I NEEDED SLEEP, but saw no point in completely wasting a good day. We hadn’t had a family night in too long. If I pulled one together, maybe Jim would stop giving me the evil eye.
The only thing Abby liked better than mac and cheese was pesto. On the way home from the school, I stopped at the Farmer’s Market. Fresh basil, three-cheese tortellini, pine nuts, sun-dried tomatoes. I planned to do it up right. I looked forward to it. I hadn’t looked forward to anything for weeks. Months. Cooking was an excellent place to start.
I stood in the checkout line and worked out a plan. A good dinner, then we would all curl up on the couch and watch a movie. Something feel-good and sappy. Something to make Abby smile. Something to get Jim off my back.
“Jeez. Somebody’s upset,” the cashier said.
“What?”
“Don’t you hear that?”
Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t. Barking. It sounded like Sami.
“Oh. Guess so.” I didn’t admit the noise was probably my dog.
As soon as I left the store, the barking ceased. Sami stood in the driver’s seat and snarled, her teeth bared, but as soon as she saw me, she wagged her butt and jumped into the backseat. A cat. She was reacting to a cat. No panic. I would hang on to my good day even if it killed me.
Sami didn’t get the good day memo. When we got home, I opened the Jeep door, and she shot out and took off. I stuck the groceries in the house, grabbed her leash, and went to find her. She was over her orneriness about leaving the house or the yard, but I didn’t think she’d go far.
I found her behind the house, nosing around in the flowerbed.
“Sami, come.”
Even a well-trained dog practices selective hearing at times.
Weeks of fighting to get her outside, and I would have to fight to get her in. Kids and dogs were supposed to be at the top of the list of Things That Make Life Better. I wanted to have a talk with whomever made that list.
She was in my lavender bed. Lavendula Grosso. Giant lavender. The huge plants looked dead in the winter, but retained their shape. Two were trampled flat.
Maybe Jim did it while searching for my prowler. Maybe it was an animal. A neighborhood dog on the loose.
Maybe it wasn’t.
My hands shook. I couldn’t manage to snap Sami’s leash to her collar, but I didn’t need it. She glued herself to my leg. I tripped over her twice before we made it to the back door.
I will put the groceries away. I will sleep. I will pick up Abby. I will make a nice night for my family. I will stick to my plan. I repeated my mantra while I put away the groceries. I’d just fallen into a rhythm when Sami barked and I dropped the bag of tortellini. What now?
The mailman. Sami always barked at the mailman.
Canine conditioning. Human approaches domain. Dog barks. Human leaves. Domain is safe. Success. Yay. Doggy happiness.
“Maybe I’ll try barking, but you should shut up,” I said. “My nerves can’t take much more.”
She wagged her rump.
Sifting through the mail killed any remnant of my good mood. Unpaid bills. Since I paid them all online, anything sent the old-fashioned way was automatically bad news. Final notices and cut-off threats. Cooking wasn’t the only thing I’d ignored.
Jim would be pissed. I was pissed at myself.
The phone bill was printed in red. Letters and words spun into a blur of crimson. My ears rang, and my chest constricted. I couldn’t breathe. The room went red. I couldn’t think beyond the pain in my chest and the tingling in my arms. The room spun and I sank to the floor.
The red faded and the iron band around my chest let go. I struggled for air, but I was sobbing, not suffocating. The sensible part of my brain told me I was over-reacting. A panic attack. Over stupid bills. The sensible was overruled by the emotional.
Still shaking, I went online. I made phone calls. The woman at the gas company asked if I was all right. I took care of each bill and fed it to the paper shredder. Jim didn’t need to know.
Buried in the bills was a postcard from the dentist. Abby and I had appointments for check-ups and cleanings. I shredded the card too. I couldn’t deal with Abby obsessing about the dentist for the next two weeks. The red confetti that was once the phone bill topped the shredder bin. I bagged it all and took out the trash. Not because I was afraid Jim would see it. Because I didn’t want to look at it.
It was noon. I’d spent more time on hold with all the customer service departments than I realized. I needed to pick Abby up at 2:40.
I slept two hours. In my dreams, Abby vanished again and again, but I woke up still pain free.
I left early and took Sami. I wanted to be first in the parental pick-up line. I wanted to get out of the car and meet her at the door, but when I showed up ten minutes before anyone else, the guy on traffic duty looked suspicious enough.
Abby and Twyla came out together. I recognized Twyla by her coat. She was a tiny thing, and her puffy red anorak appeared to wear her instead of the other way around. The hood was up, so even her face disappeared.
Abby was barely in the car before she said, “Did we get a postcard from the dentist?”
“What?”
“Twyla has a dentist appointment. Mine is always two weeks after hers.”
“Oh.” A logical explanation. The kind of information Abby recorded and filed away. “Not yet.” I lied. She’d never know.
“We should get it tomorrow.”
If I told her about the shredded card, she’d retrieve and reassemble the scraps.
“Twyla looks like Little Red Riding Hood.” Time for a subject change.
“I should call Gramma Evelyn.”
“Why?”
“She should not let the wolf in.”
When I was young, I saw a live-action movie version of Little Red Riding Hood and developed nightmares. No matter how hard my parents tried to convince me it was only a dream, every night I saw the wolf crouched on my bedroom floor, ready to leap into my bed and swallow me. I slept on the top of a set of bunk beds, but he could make the jump and I would be gone in an instant. Not letting the wolf in sounded like a good idea.
“Okay,” I said. The conversation made a certain amount of Abby-sense, but I didn’t want to talk about wolves, fairytale or otherwise. The movie, and the nightmares, left such a mark on me that as an adult I hunted it down. It was surreal and scary for a children’s film, but the wolf turned out to be a man in a wolf suit. A really bad wolf suit. His nose fell off in one scene.
Memories hold more power than reality.
My wolf lived on in my head. Real, he opened his huge mouth and showed his teeth, ready to devour Gramma, Red, a little girl huddled under her blankets on the top bunk, and anyone else who came his way.
“How do you feel about pesto for dinner?” I said.
“He can’t blow our house down.”
“With a salad, so we can pretend to be healthy.”
“Our house is strong.”
“And maybe garlic bread. With cheese. Who cares about healthy?”
“We have two chimneys.”
“Abby, do you know you’re a banana?”
“But we don’t build a fire in our fireplace.”
“It’s okay, Abby. I love bananas. A lot.”
“Gramma should not let the wolf in.”
“I like grapes.” I should have let her obsess over the dentist. Sometimes, I still dreamt about the wolf.
[24]
The Ceiling Man
HE WAVED AT CHUCKLES AS he passed the office. His new buddy worked the shit-shifts, midnights and Sundays. The name tag said Charlie, but he called the idiot Chuckles. Chuckles called him Mr. Blevins. His inner-Blevins got a kick out of that. He’d almost grown fond of Chuckles. If he had to dump Blevins before he blew town, Chuckles was a possibility.
“Hey!” Blevins said.
�
�Back to your cage.»
Chuckles would undoubtedly be more docile than Blevins but probably had a deeper paper trail. A job, no matter how menial, made him a semi-functional member of society, half-wit or not. He was cleaner than Blevins. He certainly kept the room clean. As an unofficial guest of the management, maid service was out of the question—if the Edge-O-Town even had maids—but Chuckles was obliging.
“Too bad the little girl’s not,” Blevins said.
«Chuckles is looking better and better.»
The brat had talent. She was him a lifetime ago—a dozen lifetimes ago—except she was too stupid to know what she had. Not one of his past watchers ever confronted him. She managed it across distance. When she showed up at the motel, he assumed she’d located him and was nearby, maybe in the parking lot. When he realized she was across town, still at school, he was shocked—and impressed. He needed proximity. Face to face was best, but he could work from outside a room or even a building, as long as he was close. A conversation across two miles was beyond him. A damaged human brat should not hold more talent than he had. Wisdom said get rid of her, but he had bigger plans. He would use her. He had the talent. He had the skills. He had the tools, including her mother. The first step was breaking her. It would be a pleasure.
“You know that’s a fucking Christmas song,” Blevins said. “You’re a little late.”
He was humming and hadn’t realized it.
«Everybody gets a present tonight.»
Not necessarily one they wanted, but it was no deposit, no return. He wanted the brat to watch him unwrap Grandma.
«Over the river and through the woods, now Grandmother’s cap I spy.»
The brat’s strength would be her downfall.
• • •
BLEVINS LED HIM to the house. He despised relying on his host for anything, but the quick images in the brat’s head at the mention of Grandmother’s house didn’t tell him where it was. Blevins and his stupid bicycle had been all over town.
“I’m a fucking guidebook,” Blevins said. “Bet Chuckles couldn’t help.”
The tidy exterior impressed him, well maintained, no broken branches or leftover fall leaves littering the grounds, and surrounded by perfectly trimmed and symmetrical evergreen shrubs. Grandma was a woman after his heart, if he’d had a heart of his own. The place was too large for one old woman, but the brat gave him the impression Grandma lived alone.
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