Black Flowers, White Lies

by Yvonne Ventresca

  “I would love to, but I have work.”

  “Until when?” His tone sounds more distraught than eager.

  “Two. What’s the matter?”

  “I really need to talk to you before then. Meet me on the bench?”

  “When?”

  “I’m already here.” He sounds miserable. Something is definitely wrong.

  19

  BREAKING

  I agree to meet Gavin even though I’ll be late to the bookstore and Henry will frown at me more than usual. I try to imagine a logical explanation for why Gavin seems unhappy. Maybe he needs to go back home sooner than expected. Or he just found out he has a contagious disease transmitted by kissing. I mean, he didn’t meet someone else overnight, right?

  I find Gavin standing by the bench. He pulls me close and holds me a moment, but the emotion is different this morning. The hug doesn’t feel passionate. It feels like good-bye.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Tell me.”

  He holds me away from him, both hands on my arms.

  “Don’t … don’t take it the wrong way. I really like you. But—”

  I pull away from him. “You have a girlfriend at home?”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “I thought last night was great. Did I misread everything?”

  “It was great. The best.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I can’t explain this better.”

  Suddenly Gavin is as mysterious as his ghost story. “Keep trying,” I say.

  “I … I can’t see you anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  He looks away. “I just can’t.”

  I want to demand an explanation, to understand what’s happened to turn the best night of my life into the worst morning. But I have my pride. I don’t say anything, not a single word. As I turn and leave, there is no longing glance backward like in the movies.

  A sob catches in my throat, but I take a deep breath and will myself not to cry. It was a few dates, nothing more. What was I thinking? That we were already soulmates? Ridiculous.

  I can’t show up to work crying. Needing some time to calm down, I detour through the park. This is a mistake. There are couples everywhere. Old couples holding hands, like they’ve been happily married for decades. A guy and girl I know from school, famous for their PDA. Young parents pushing a stroller. Finally, somewhere around Fourth Street, my sadness solidifies into anger.

  What is wrong with Gavin? None of this makes any sense.

  Forget him. He doesn’t deserve me.

  My phone rings and for a desperate moment I find myself hoping it’s Gavin, that he’s realized he made a terrible mistake. But it’s Henry calling from the bookstore, no doubt wanting to know why I’m late.

  “I’m on my way,” I say.

  “Good,” Henry says. “Because we have a problem. We’ve been robbed.”

  I freeze at the entrance to the bookstore, unable to move, unable to speak.

  The shop looks like someone let a rowdy group of toddlers run around unsupervised. Books litter the wooden floor and a display of stuffed animals has been toppled over.

  “It was like this when you arrived?” I ask.

  Henry nods. “The strange thing is, I checked the doors and windows, and there’s no sign of a break-in.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, Ella.”

  I wander around the store in shock. He’s right. There is no broken glass, no open windows. The store is a mess, but nothing is really damaged. It’s more mischief than destruction. How did the thief enter? Another locked-room mystery, like the handprints on my wall. Someone had to get in, and then lock up on the way out.

  Unless it was a ghost.

  “Are there any handprints?” I ask.

  “You mean fingerprints?”

  “Never mind.”

  The register drawer is open, revealing empty slots where the cash used to be.

  “It was like that when I got here,” Henry says.

  I try to estimate the amount of money that’s been stolen. It must be several hundred dollars.

  “We should call the police,” Henry says.

  He’s right. I need to get my bearings first, though, to try to figure out what’s going on. So many strange things have occurred over the past few days. The break-in must be connected.

  I consider calling Grace for help. But no. After the handprint incident, I don’t want to involve her. If she thought I was to blame for the painted prints, she would probably say something ridiculous, like I broke into the bookstore myself.

  I inspect the damage more closely. Many of the displays look disheveled, but only certain sections of books have been pulled to the floor. The cat and kitten nonfiction has been dumped, along with the vegetarian cookbooks, and several books about Tarot readings and ghost stories. There has to be a connection between them.

  Of course. It’s me. All the books are somehow related to me. Why isn’t the rest of the store messed up? I’m not sure what this means, but I don’t want Henry to draw the same conclusion.

  Away from the other books, I spot The Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe sticking out from under a chair. Gavin and I talked about the Marie Rogêt story. No one else knew about that. It was the two of us, alone, on the Stevens campus.

  It dawns on me. Ghosts don’t need cash from the bookstore register. But someone who worked two jobs to save for a car does. Someone like Gavin.

  20

  DAMAGE

  Henry hovers by the phone, wanting to report the bookstore break-in. But if Gavin might somehow be involved, I need more time to think it through. If we call the cops and he admits to them that he’s responsible … I’m not sure I can handle the idea of him being arrested.

  “Don’t call the police yet. They’ll insist on contacting Mom,” I say. “I don’t want to ruin her last days of vacation.”

  Henry frowns in obvious disagreement. “Whoever did this must have a key. That’s the only possible explanation.”

  Well, that rules out Gavin. Except …

  A key. An image of Gavin at the hardware store duplicating the house key for Blake flashes through my mind. I left him to talk to Blake about the cat key holder. Gavin could have made extra copies for himself.

  I need to call Gavin. I’ll give him one chance to explain before we notify the police.

  “Can you check the back area again and make sure nothing is missing?” I ask Henry. He shakes his head, as if to say he already did that, but he leaves me alone. I only need a few minutes to make the call.

  I dig for my phone inside my bag. My fingers brush a thick envelope. Benton Books is imprinted on the corner. The envelope is stuffed with cash.

  No.

  It has to be the money from the register. How did I possibly end up with it?

  I think about my abrupt meeting with Gavin. He could have slipped the envelope into my bag this morning. But that doesn’t make sense. There’s no point in stealing the money, then giving it back right away. Unless he felt guilty.

  We can’t exactly call the police if there’s no theft. Now that I’m unknowingly implicated … I can’t let Henry learn what’s going on. There has to be a way out of this mess. I stare at the money, deciding what my next move should be.

  While Henry’s in the back, I leave the envelope of cash on a shelf where he’ll find it before I head to the employee bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I’m still in there when he yells for me.

  “Ella! They didn’t take the money after all!”

  “Really?” I emerge with my best look of fake surprise.

  “It’s pure mischief!”

  “What a relief.” Before he can insist that we call the police anyway, I put the stuffed animals back in their carousel. “We should clean up,” I say.

  We finish straightening the books, working together but in different sections, before Henry finally retreats to the back room. Once he’s out of earshot, I dial Gavin, but the call goes straight to voicemail.
I hang up without leaving a message.

  I’d really like to sit quietly and think, but I don’t want to risk any questions from Henry. My head is pounding. I tackle the mail that’s accumulated, needing to focus on the mundane, the practical. I throw out the junk, make a stack of bills for when Mom returns, and create a separate pile of book order packages from UPS.

  The first package contains a flower gardening guide and a memoir written by a veterinarian. I enter the books into our inventory system and the name for the special order pops up: Henry. I finish processing them and put them aside for later. The next package is a bird-watching guide. I don’t recognize the customer, but I leave him a message that his book is in. Grace’s movie book has also arrived. I’ll tell her later.

  The last package is a heavy one, and I pull out two hardcovers: Warning Signs: A Parent’s Guide to Mental Illness and Heredity’s Role in Mental Health. The books are thick and look daunting. I enter them into the system. They are also a special order, and I blink a few times, as if that will change the name that appears on the screen.

  Andrea Benton.

  Mom had chosen them for herself. I close the screen quickly as if that will change the facts. I can’t stop goose bumps from prickling my arms as I stare at the books she ordered. I open the first one, flip through the pages. As the truth sinks in, I can’t focus on any actual words. I drop to my knees on the floor.

  Mom purchased the books because of me. Because of Dad’s secret illness and her fear that I’m unwell. Unwell enough to somehow leave handprints, as the red paint on my palm suggested. Unwell enough to hear a crying cat that isn’t there, and to even trash the family bookstore without remembering. As the pieces fall into place, I stay on the floor, too weak to stand.

  I’m in trouble.

  21

  BETRAYAL

  It had to be me. The handprints, the moved photo, the bookstore break-in. I did these things. There’s no other answer. Gavin isn’t responsible. Neither is a ghost.

  I can’t let Henry know. Both of the books Mom ordered barely fit inside my messenger bag, but I succeed in cramming them in. I sink into one of the reading chairs, rubbing my temples. Henry finds me a little while later.

  “You look ill.” His usual frown is replaced with a crinkled expression of concern.

  “I was taking care of the book orders, but my head started to ache.” I hope to distract him from asking me more questions. “Two books came in for you. Gardening and a veterinarian memoir.” It occurs to me that the memoir seems more like something Dad would read than Henry. I really don’t know much about Henry. Then it hits me. Maybe he has information about Dad’s illness that could help me figure all of this stuff out.

  “You knew my father, right? Were you close?”

  Henry is slow to answer. “We both loved animals,” he finally says.

  “Oh?” I wait, but he doesn’t seem inclined to share more. It’s too awkward to ask him directly about Dad’s illness, but whatever Dad suffered from must be hereditary. Depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia. I know the terms but not enough to diagnose myself. I would need to resist the urge to search online later for my symptoms. Whatever disease it was, it put him in the hospital and maybe led to his death.

  “If you’re not feeling well, I could drive you to the doctor,” Henry says.

  “I just need to rest here for a few minutes.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Henry walks away. I close my eyes until his footsteps fade.

  I have to hold on until Mom comes home. Less than forty-eight hours now. I missed her last call, but I can’t try to reach her and pretend that everything is fine. I’ll have Blake keep an eye on me so I don’t do anything else stupid or hurt myself, like the girl who walked on the train tracks in Gavin’s ghost story.

  The thought of Gavin makes me want to puke. He’d been using me to pass the time, to amuse himself or something. He dumped me like people abandon a cat that claws the furniture.

  Forget Gavin. I breathe deeply and pull out my phone. Blake answers right away and says to meet him at the café at Fifth and Washington in an hour. I don’t tell him anything about my state of mind—that I swept books off shelves without remembering it. I’ll wait until we are face to face.

  My head spins. I consider calling the psychologist I used to see in middle school. Mom always made the appointments for me, but I find her number online and dial it. My heart is beating loudly enough that I’m afraid she’ll hear it through the phone. But I only get the machine, saying she’ll be out of the office until September and to call 911 if it’s an emergency.

  It’s not that kind of emergency, so I call Grace instead, then Jana, but neither one answers. I don’t bother to leave a message for them. I say good-bye to Henry and pretend that I’m going home. He agrees to take care of closing the store.

  It’s a long walk on Washington Street to meet Blake. My bag bulges with Mom’s books, weighing me down. I wish he had picked someplace closer. Halfway there, I pass a burger place and glance inside like an onlooker at a car crash, inexplicably drawn to the fast-food beef horror.

  Sitting inside is Gavin.

  He’s at the counter facing the street with a redheaded girl next to him. An extremely pretty redheaded girl. He doesn’t notice me as he talks to her and eats his non-vegan meal. This particular burger place doesn’t offer vegan-friendly alternatives—even the French fries are made with animal products. I should know. I’ve asked before.

  I rush away before Gavin can see me, anger fueling my quickened stride. The last time I made spaghetti, the water boiled over, leaving a burnt smell in the kitchen and an ugly brown ring around the stove burner. That’s what I think of now: boiling water. Ugly brown rings. The sizzling stovetop.

  Somehow Gavin’s meat-eating feels like more of a betrayal than his lame breakup and even his redheaded friend. Why lie about who he is? I didn’t even tell him I was vegan. He brought it up—a happy surprise at the picnic lunch. He fooled me into liking him and then unceremoniously dumped me. It doesn’t make any sense. Part of me wants to call him, to demand an explanation, or at least express my rage. Unless … Gavin never actually told me he was vegan. Maybe I imagined it, like the crying cat. I don’t know what to believe anymore. What if my own memories can betray me? Is this how Dad felt before he was admitted?

  I’m late to the café, but there’s no sign of Blake.

  “Do you need a table, Miss?” a waitress asks.

  “Not yet, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.” I’m too self-conscious to sit alone. I lean on the railing outside instead, inhaling the humid summer air, exhaling, trying to stay calm.

  Many breaths later, Blake still hasn’t shown. He doesn’t answer my messages, either. I’m alternating between feeling awkward and angry when Grace calls.

  “Want to get together?” she asks.

  “Yes, that would be great.” I need someone rational to talk to. “I thought you were mad at me. You left in such a huff yesterday.”

  “What are you talking about?” She sounds surprised.

  “The handprints.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, El.”

  “You came and looked at the handprints on my wall. Remember? I thought they were made of blood, but you realized they were paint.”

  “I’m sorry … you’re not making sense.”

  I feel like I’m sinking under water and I can’t touch the bottom.

  “Grace, come on, you were there with me before you left all annoyed. I remember.”

  Her voice is gentle. “I don’t think so. I think you’re confused. Maybe …” She pauses. “Maybe you imagined it?”

  I reach my arms above the surface, but it’s no use. My head is submerged, my body’s too heavy.

  I try again. “Grace, I swear on the grave of my father that you were there. You were in my room with me yesterday morning.”

  “No. I’m sorry, Ella. Should I meet you? Wher
e are you now?”

  I’m drowning.

  Nothing makes sense. Gavin, the lying non-vegan, dumps me. Mom, concerned about my mental health, purchases books to analyze me. I don’t remember taking the bookstore money. I do remember Grace’s visit, which apparently didn’t happen.

  My hands shake as I hang up without saying good-bye. I leave the restaurant in a daze. As I cross the street, a car blares its horn. I jump back to the curb. There’s no warning from Dad this time to save me. Had there ever been a warning?

  It’s all too much. I can’t distinguish between what’s real and what’s imagined. I could be suffering from delusions. Hallucinations. I hurry back to the apartment building and once inside, I drop my heavy bag on the counter. Oscar saunters over, meowing insistently. I lean down to rub him.

  Oscar. But I left him at the vet’s office. I took him to the vet, didn’t I?

  His fur brushes against my leg. Uncertainty wells up inside me. I choke back a scream.

  22

  THE ACCIDENT

  Blake rushes into the kitchen. “What’s the matter?”

  I cover my mouth with one hand, point at Oscar with the other.

  “Oscar’s doing much better,” he says. “The vet left a message here that we could bring him home. I have some medicine for him, half a tablet twice a day. They said since they can’t diagnose the exact cause, for now they’ll just treat the symptoms.” He stops talking, really looks at me. “Are you all right?”

  I take my hand away from my mouth, but don’t trust myself to speak. I nod instead.

  “That’s why I didn’t meet you. Didn’t you get my text?”

  “No.”

  “Want to get something to eat now?”

  “I’m not hungry. I … I’m not feeling well.”

  “Maybe you should rest.”

  Yes, rest. I’m clearly on edge. Oscar is better, with a perfectly logical explanation for his reappearance. I have him and Blake to keep me company. I’ll ask him about his relationship with Grace later, when I’m feeling calmer. I don’t want to think anymore right now. About Grace, about anything.