by Cote Smith
“Stop saying that,” Lia said. The rain picked up, soaking through the blanket. But Lia barely felt it. “Does Dad know? About any of this?”
“Lia,” her mother said.
“He doesn’t, does he? About you. Claire.”
Her mother didn’t answer, or if she did, Lia couldn’t hear her over the rain, which pounded the roof of the porch like a million tiny hammers. “This is insane!” Lia shouted. “You’re insane!”
Her mother shook her head. She frowned out the side of her mouth. It was the same face she made when Lia, then in fifth grade, confessed that a girl was bullying her at school, sitting behind her in class and kicking her feet beneath the desk, where the teacher couldn’t see. “You need to fight back,” her mother had said. “Does she wear sandals? Next time that girl puts her feet under your desk, jab her with your pencil. If she doesn’t stop, jab harder. Break skin.” Lia could still remember the look on her mother’s face once the frown disappeared, how excited she became giving her advice, and how proud she was that Lia had come to her and not her father. And though the advice frightened Lia at the time, as she grew older, when she thought of her mother in that moment, Lia also thought of her with awe.
“Apple,” her mother said. “Come out of the rain.”
Lia looked down the street, her heart still pounding. There was no one else outside. There was nowhere to go. The rain was coming down hard. The dark sky showed no sign of letting up, and Lia began to feel like she did the night before, after her swim in the ocean. Wet to the bone, unable to shiver away the cold. She sneezed. Her mother held out her hand in the rain, said a ghost was passing through.
* * *
“You’re a lot like him, you know,” her mother said, once they were back inside. Lia had gone upstairs to change into dry clothes. Her mother followed her to her room.
“Well, he is my dad.” She toweled her short hair dry in an instant, surveyed herself in the mirror.
Her mother stood behind her, head tilted. “Not him. Emile. He was quiet too, kept to himself. He didn’t always get along with others, but he wanted to see the best in people. I think you do too.”
Lia unraveled the yellow scarf from her neck. It was what she wanted to hear all along, she supposed. That she wasn’t alone. That there was someone out there like her, who understood her, who could explain the pull she always felt in her chest. But now, she didn’t feel relieved, as she thought she would. Now, when she thought of Emile, she pictured him with her mother, in the photo. Lia was nowhere in the frame.
“You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” Lia said. “He’s not my father or something.”
“Your father is your father,” her mother said.
“Then why?” Lia asked. It was the same question she’d asked when all of this started, when her mother returned from her first disappearance. Her mother hadn’t told her the truth then, and Lia wondered if she would now.
“Because it’s our fault,” her mother said. “The reason Emile is the way he is. We abandoned him when he needed us most. The only difference between me and your father is that I can admit it. I take responsibility for it.” Her mother sat on Lia’s bed, beckoned Lia to do the same. Lia refused, still feeling the need to keep a safe distance. “He wanted me to go with him, to Limetown. He wouldn’t tell me what they were doing there, not unless I went. But I couldn’t,” her mother said. “Whatever you think of me, I couldn’t do that to your father.” Her mother stood up, since Lia wouldn’t sit down. “But you could—” she said. “You can—”
“Can what? What am I supposed to do? Find Emile? You tried that and look where it got you.”
Her words were more hurtful than she intended them, but she also thought that her mother deserved them. Either way, her mother didn’t flinch.
“No,” she said. “I need you to find Max,” she said. “Tell him where I am. Give him my number. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Max? Finlayson?”
“If there’s one person who made it out, it would be Max.”
Her mother patted Lia’s shoulder, then left the room, leaving Lia standing there, with so many questions. A moment later she returned with a dry blanket, fresh out of the dryer. She wrapped it around Lia, and for the first time since she swam in the ocean, Lia felt warm.
“It’s up to you, Apple,” her mother said. She rearranged the tangle of Lia’s hair. “Whatever you decide. But everyone has a role to play. I finally figured out mine, and I’ve done my best to show you yours.” She rubbed Lia’s arms, kissed her on the cheek. “Now, maybe I have to let you find the rest out for yourself.”
* * *
Lia huddled in the hotel lobby with all the other tourists. She was the youngest one there and the only one who’d come alone, though it soon became clear they were all there for the same reason. They’d all heard the rumors about the ghosts, about the owner and his mysterious death, but at some point, the group agreed, you had to seek the truth for yourself.
She skipped the tour. Her mother didn’t tell her much about her time at the Eldridge or the facility nearby, only that this was where she met Emile, and that the two of them both worked there with Max Finlayson. A part of her still struggled to believe everything her mother had said, but she muted that part in favor of another. It wasn’t the burning she’d experienced before, the sharp thrill that came from seeking answers. It was a dull knot in her chest that came from actually having them. From knowing that her family was directly connected to Limetown, and that there was a reason she felt drawn to the story from the beginning.
At the end of the tour Lia booked a night in the most haunted room. The room was on the top floor and at night was supposedly visited by the hotel founder’s spurned lover. That night, as she sat in her hotel bed, waiting for a ghost that would never show, she tried not to think about what would happen next. She had no plan beyond this. Find Max, her mother had said. But how? There wasn’t anything special about Lia. She’d never had any dreams, not that she could remember anyway. She was smart, yes, but the world was full of smart people, and the majority of them never bombed on a radio station, flunked out of school, made friends only to use, then lose them. How could she find Max when no one else could, not even her mother, who’d nearly thrown away her entire life looking for Limetown survivors?
Still, in the morning, she made herself go down to the front desk, where she charmed the receptionist into showing her a list of past employees. This was the only idea she had. The records dated back just a few years, however, when the hotel came under new management, after the previous proprietor suddenly sold the property.
“Where did he go?” Lia asked.
“No one knows,” the receptionist said. The receptionist’s name was Lance, and his hotel uniform was two sizes too big for his thin frame. “It’s a mystery,” he said, and leaned in a little too closely to Lia’s face. “There are rumors, but nothing verified.”
“Rumors. Of course.”
“Yep. He nearly ran this place into the ground.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the feds shut the hotel down. The paper said it was because of health code violations, but a buddy of mine says he heard the dude was conducting secret experiments. Like, he snuck into guests’ rooms at night, pretending to be a ghost, and tried to brainwash them.” Lance waved at a passing patron, before returning his attention to Lia. “Bet they didn’t tell you any of this on your spooky little tour.” Lance stood up straight, beaming. “You know, there’s something else I probably shouldn’t tell you,” he said. “I think you’re pretty. There, I said it. You remind me of this girl I dated in high school.”
“Do you remember their name?”
“Sure,” Lance said. “Jennifer Wade.”
“Not the girl,” Lia said. “The owner.”
“Oh. Well, of course I remember. You don’t forget a name like that.” Lance leaned on the counter. His work jacket arched up around his neck like he was wearing football shoulder pads. “I’ll tell
you if you meet me for a drink later. Or maybe you like movies? There’s this cool theater downtown that—”
“Forget it,” Lia said, and she started to walk away.
“Wait!” Lance said. He ran around the counter. “It was Max. Max Finlayson.”
Lia’s mind snapped back to Eugene, to her mother. To Robyn and the post office. She couldn’t believe her luck. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Lance said. “You know, from Signals? Underrated book, actually. Have you read it? I’ve got a copy back in my room, if you’d— hey, where are you going?”
“I’ve gotta go,” Lia said, already walking away. “I’m sorry.”
She ran up the stairs as Lance called after her.
“What about the movie?”
* * *
She returned to her room and pulled out her notepad. If Max wasn’t at the hotel anymore, then where was he? She found the page with the list of Maxes she’d made that night at the post office with Robyn. Max of California, of Colorado, Tennessee. There were so many. The Eldridge Max, the Max her mother wanted her to find, could have been any one of them. Where would she start? She flipped through her notes looking for an answer, but found nothing. She took out her phone. She would call her mother. This was her idea. But her phone was dead. She had forgotten to charge it last night after she checked in. She dug in her bag for her charger. It was at the bottom, next to the dead letter envelope her mother had given her. Lia read the envelope again. Dorothy. What if she found Dorothy? What if Dorothy could point her in the right direction? Lia got online, went to the Limetown Commission Summary. She found Max Finlayson, a column away from Emile. She quickly scanned the list for Dorothy, but there was nothing. Only a Dave and a Drew, a Darian and a Deirdre.
Her phone buzzed to life, and Lia waited for it to load, to see all the missed calls and messages. Her father would be worried, her mother curious. She would text her mother back. I found something. But the only message she’d missed was a text from Robyn. I got fired. You’re buying. Lia deleted the text. Her mind was too busy; she didn’t have time to care. She tried calling her mother, but she didn’t answer. She texted her—Who is Dorothy?—but there was no reply. She threw her phone across the room, out of frustration, a feeling of futility. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her mind cycled through the past twenty-four hours, through everything she learned, all the answers she’d gleaned and been given, until she drifted off. She dreamed her mother’s dream, or a poor facsimile altered by the day’s events. Dave, Drew, Darian, and Deirdre, along with the others, stood in a line that began at the town square and ended at Sylvia’s house. At the front of the line, standing beneath the burning stake, was Lance, in his ill-fitting jacket, holding the census from the Limetown Commission Summary. He read the names of the citizens alphabetically, and watched as each man, woman, and child climbed atop the fire, eager to burn.
Lia stood at the end of the line. The man in front of her stepped forward, but just before he got to the fire he turned around. He smiled at Lia, a yellow scarf tied tightly around his neck. “I’m still here, Apple,” he said, though his mouth did not move.
Lia reached out her hand to pull him back, but the man was already ascending the post, submitting his bones to the flame.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Emile
What Emile came to hate was the smoke. For all its pluses, the remote location, the ocean view, there was no central ventilation at Menninger. So when Moyer smoked inside, during interviews, the smell lingered in the air for hours. It was a reflex, of course. Emile understood that. Moyer was stressed. If it weren’t written inside his mind, Emile would’ve read it on his face, which had turned yellow and gaunt, despite the facility’s proximity to the beach. It didn’t help that they only left the facility at night. Sometimes Moyer would suggest a walk with Tracey, holding her hand if she allowed. Emile would walk behind them, but keep his distance, as their thoughts stretched out of his range.
Tonight, Moyer was working late—punching up a report on Emile’s latest patient—and Emile and Tracey walked alone.
“Chris told me what happened,” Tracey said. They’d climbed a small hill, sprinkled with a receding line of trees. In the distance a campfire flickered with the wind. “Well, he told me a little. There was a woman. Correct? You loved her?”
The fire grew taller, and the shadow of a man appeared, a tiny ant alone at the bottom of an anthill.
“That’s none of your business,” Emile said. He turned to head back but found Tracey blocking his way. She was a formidable person. Small in stature, but brilliant and persistent. Emile liked to think that in another life the two of them could have been friends.
“You’ll have to decide sooner or later, you know,” Tracey said, refusing to let the subject go. The two started their descent, winding their way down the hill toward the ocean. When they were just outside the facility, she stood in front of Emile, blocking the way again. “What do you think? That you can hide here forever?”
Emile grinded his teeth. He wasn’t hiding. And he wasn’t going to stay forever, only long enough to finally meet Oskar Totem, who had caused him so much misery. Totem had yet to visit Menninger, but Moyer assured Emile that he would arrive any day. Emile had thought about that moment for a long time now. What he would say. What he would do. He imagined that no matter what happened, it would end with a promise that Emile would extract from Totem by any means necessary. Emile would make it clear: This was it. He didn’t want to hear any more offers. And wherever Emile chose to go after this, he better not be followed. The question was how would he get Totem to agree. What would it take? Would it take a physical threat, Emile standing tall in front of him, the way he stood up to the bullies back in high school? Perhaps Emile would have to get inside Totem’s mind, pull the clock apart and leave the pieces scattered in the sand. With Totem on his knees, Emile could say, This is for the Eldridge, and everything after. He had taken this job so he could deliver the blow in person.
Emile didn’t say any of this to Tracey. He hadn’t traveled across the world to explain himself. He changed the subject.
“Does he know?” Emile said.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“What’s there to know?” Her eyes narrowed, and Emile saw the parts of her mind move a little faster.
“That you’re leaving, with or without him.”
Tracey clenched her fists. “You promised you wouldn’t do that,” she said, but she didn’t deny anything. She had imagined it, going inland, leaving this life of secrets for a more boring one, working at an underfunded university somewhere.
“You’re worried he’ll stay,” Emile said. “That he won’t go with you.”
“I’m not, actually. He’ll go wherever I go. He’s very loyal, as I’m sure you can tell.” A light blinked on behind them, Moyer readying one of the observation rooms. “We better get back inside,” Tracey said. She turned to go inside, but stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “He feels very loyal to you too, you know. After all the persuading it took to get you here. He feels like he has to protect you.”
In the window behind Tracey, Moyer’s silhouette skittered about, working in a fever.
“Protect me from what?” Emile asked.
Tracey opened the door. “I guess whatever’s next.”
* * *
Emile tried not to think of the patients as percipients. Menninger was not the Eldridge. Late at night, when he couldn’t sleep, he listed the differences. The different continents, the different scenery. The different missions. His mission. He knew what he was doing here. He was helping people. The results were visible, empirical. Patients arrived in a troubled state and left healed, or, if not healed, at the very least, understood. Every day Emile visited them in their rooms. He listened to what they had to say, what they thought, and in doing so was able to hear them in a way no one else could. He learned that his patients existed on a different wavelength from the rest of world; light
moved at different frequencies, creating different images. With practice, Emile could make his wavelength match their own. More than once, while Moyer wrote his reports, he asked Emile how he was able to accomplish this. But Emile did not know how to explain it in anything more precise than a metaphor. He could only say that in matching wavelengths, he could see what they saw and then tell them what was real and what was not, if that was required. But he never forced anyone to do anything.
Though perhaps the biggest difference between the Eldridge and Menninger was Emile himself. He was in his thirties now, his face a little baggier, his body softer. But if he was being honest with himself, as honest as Tracey liked to be with him, neither time nor gravity was the impetus of his biggest change. It was what he’d done back in the States, four years ago now, in Lawrence. “Home,” he caught himself calling it, because what other name fit? Home was living in Claire’s house those first years after the baby was born. In the beginning, he stayed to punish them, didn’t he, wandering the rooms like one of the Eldridge ghosts, a constant reminder of how they had betrayed him. To leave, he convinced himself, would be letting them off the hook. He stayed because they deserved worse.
The problem was that the reminder worked both ways. Claire and Jacob did their best to hide their affection, but it was a small house, especially with the newborn. Every other day, it seemed, he stumbled upon some precious family moment, like when he came downstairs for a glass of water and saw Claire and Jacob cheering the baby on as she successfully rolled from her back to her stomach for the first time. Emile could spend an entire day outside, walking the river trail, as he did one afternoon, only to return to the house and find Jacob helping Claire with the dishes, their hands submerged in the sink, finding each other underwater.
He packed his bag the following morning. The sun hadn’t dragged itself out of bed. It wasn’t the first time he’d planned to leave. The problem was he didn’t know where he would go. He could phone Moyer, he supposed, though it had been months since they last spoke. But if he became desperate enough, he could make the call. There was a certain appeal in that, in knowing he had a place to go if he wanted, where people were waiting for him.