The Book Code: A Gripping Psychological Thriller with a Brilliant Twist (The Girl in the Book Box Set 2)

by Dan Noble

  I uncurl my trembling fingers, take a deep breath and crane to see further through the screen door. All clear. I re-squat and tug with all my might. It’s free. It feels so right. And see, I couldn’t have predicted I’d do this because I didn’t even know the tree was there. That’s the great thing about discovery writing. I glance once more at the front door as I shake the roots free of large debris, and don’t see anything. It sounds like a news program is playing on the television.

  Suddenly, I hear rumbling. My father’s garage door begins to rise majestically. My chest ices over in panic. I drop the plant and run back to the car, as I hear the mechanical door rumbling higher behind me. I cannot believe I didn’t think through what I’d do if he saw me here. I fumble to get into the driver’s seat when I realize Rose is missing. My fingers are clumsy. I turn the ignition. I just need to start driving. The shakes must weaken my grip on the key; the engine doesn’t turn over. Relax. Just relax. More footsteps. The garage door goes silent, its ascent complete.

  Across the road I see a pair of shadows reaching to open doors, sliding in the car. I don’t know if they see me. I try the ignition again, twist the key exaggeratedly so it not only kicks over, but scrapes grotesquely. Surely, their attention must be drawn to that. I reverse to make my way out of the spot, and then I look down at the shifter because it doesn’t seem to be moving into drive.

  “Millie!” It’s my father. He’s right in front of my car. He’s holding Rose, who’s looking back and forth in shock. “You nearly hit her!”

  When I look up the tree hasn’t been removed. It’s there. How can that be?

  My father has coaxed me out of the car and into the garage.

  “Ice cream, Mommy?” Rose is asking.

  A child is peeking out from the door that leads to the garage. He’s adorable—great big dopey blue eyes and blotchy pink cheeks, like he’s been running around. “Ice cream?” he says, his look expectant. Artificial floral scent assaults me. Judging by the sofa cushion in the boy’s hand, I’d guess he was having a good old pillow fight.

  “Leo!” another boy’s voice yells, clueing me in. This is Leo, the younger of the two boys by three years. Davinci slides along the wood laminate floor holding not one, but two pillows. He’s darker than Leonardo, a little heavier—bigger boned, but he’s got those same pixilated blue eyes, the same long lashes. He’s also red faced. In that way kids can, they’ve gripped me, and dragging this deflated belly around, it doesn’t take much to win me over. I want to lavish them with stuffed toys and Dr. Seuss, no matter who their father is.

  “Who are you?” Davinci demands, realizing belatedly that Leo had opened the door because someone was there.

  “Yeah, who?” Leo says, inching closer to his brother and biting the inside of his cheek. Amazing how this pair of boys has made me ashamed of the Aspidistra’s sentiment.

  “I’m Millie,” I explain slowly, bending down to their level. This is the way children should be addressed.

  Their faces scrunch up identically. They’ve never heard of me.

  “Millie,” my father says slowly, eying me like a foreign map he doesn’t feel like deciphering. They must have inherited their complexions from Tennessee, my father was always the greyish, shadowy figure.

  “Is she selling those soury candies for the school?” Leo asks. “I really liked those.” He jumps up and down. “The snake ones!” and when his father doesn’t answer he looks concerned, stops jumping. “Right?” he turns to ask his brother, who nods with conviction.

  “Candy! Candy!” Davinci starts them both yelling, fists pumping.

  “Why don’t you go inside, and take um…”

  “Rose,” I say.

  “Rose, here, and finish the game and I’ll be back in a minute,” my father says.

  They freeze, their faces falling. “But Da-ad, she’s a girl!” Davinci wines—a master of that juvenile ability to stretch syllables into unrecognizable chants like natural-born Gregorian monks.

  “Go ahead, sweetie,” my dad says, patting the back of his eldest son’s head to coax him in the direction. The tender gesture sends a cold shiver up my spine. I swallow. I’m sure he can hear it.

  “Fine,” they chant, but Davinci does, in fact, take Rose gently by the hand, and lead her into the other room, pillows dragging on the floor behind. “We’ll find you a pillow,” he says.

  “Not mine,” I hear Leo say.

  My father and I share a smile, which fades quickly. I walk back to pick up my plant and hold it out to him.

  “Thank you.”

  I imagine he feels decades older looking at me. He inspects my eyes, probably noticing the beginnings of crow’s feet around his own daughter’s eyes, the slight downward slide of my skin, the couple of gray hairs around my part. I haven’t been dying my hair or wearing cosmetics much these days. Mostly my hair is as I have it now, back in a long, heavy ponytail.

  He looks ten years older as he frowns, rubs at the back of his head. How I remember that gesture! Angry as I am, I have to work to remind myself that’s part of my own repertoire, that This Is Happening no matter how I feel. Time to face things. Harden the fuck up, as they say in Australia, according to Kennedy. Remember why you’re here.

  My father’s hand pauses on the door jamb. He says my name again as if he hasn’t thought of it in a while. “Millie. I’m so sorry.” He grimaces and swings the door open behind him, extending an arm for me to walk through.

  “For which bit? Deserting me to a suicidal lunatic? Not coming to my aid after she disappeared? Meeting with my dying husband behind my back?”

  “All those years ago, Kennedy convinced me I’d done the right thing staying out of it.”

  “All those years ago? Staying out of what? What are you talking about? You met with him before the other day at the market?”

  He nods.

  I’m betraying everything Mother and I have stood for this twenty-odd years, but I follow him inside the house without much hesitation. Because clearly, it’s all been shit. I’m not sure how yet, but that’s where this must be going, isn’t it? Still, I turn suddenly and shove the Aspidastra at him. “It doesn’t require any looking after,” I say. As soon as it’s out, I realize how weak I sound, having shown my cards: the deserted daughter. Boo-hoo.

  He doesn’t look at me. “Thanks,” he says and frowns. “Come inside. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  My father leads me past a fussy grand foyer, garish with colonial furnishings in small scale that look not only uncomfortable, but obscenely overpriced. Everything matches—the check on the sofa with the cushions on the side chairs; the decoupage handle of the fireplace poker and the lace doily under the fake flower arrangement, and even the knob on the brass oil lamp replica all have the same combination of rose pink and Wedgewood blue. I scan for signs of our old life—a photo or a chair I might remember. There’s nothing.

  We walk a long hallway studded with black lacquer framed photos of the boys, of my father and Tennessee with the boys. They’re swimming and swinging baseball bats at home plate aware that their pictures are being taken, holding up karate belts in every color of the rainbow, toothless grins poked through with nervous tongues. I decipher the images like a code—the Writer’s book code.

  After a shot of the boys on a wintery day, replete with a carrot-nosed snowman and photo-shopped red snowflakes at the corner, we step into a kitchen with an equally vaulted ceiling, fitted out with maple cabinets in fancy woodwork—maple leaf cutouts and hand-turned moldings, all gleaming in the overhead track lighting.

  At the center island, lopping off disks of cookie dough, is Tennessee. I’d boycotted their wedding. Angie and I threw a Fuck You, Arthur party for Mother, and she allowed us to have a glass of sparkling wine apiece. This house, the domestic Tennessee, it all seems like a bigger, more elaborate Fuck You party to Mother and me. In fact, it seems our party was a bust compared to theirs.

  As Tennessee wipes her hands on the same New Jersey is for Lovers tea towel
Kennedy and I rescued from the basement, nobody speaks. Because I would probably do the same, I realize my father brought me in here for solidarity. They look to each other over the kitchen island and their bond is obvious. My parents never looked at each other like that. Tennessee steps out toward me and I can see her apron is embroidered with “Mrs. Burns.” Her frown is quick and, as rapidly, replaced with a giant smile. I’m so glad I changed my surname.

  My father searches and then seems to find something in her eyes to ground him and speaks. Their roles are nothing like I expected and this instantly flares my anger—at him, or myself, I couldn’t say for sure. They seem to be living proof that Mother lied about everything. Could this have been my life? Would I have wanted it? I say nothing.

  “My daughter, Millie,” he introduces me as if she’d never met me before, as if he could rewrite the narrative. “She brought this plant.” His hand shakes a little as he lowers it onto the island, next to a quilted placemat printed with the words “Lazy Summer Days.” With him, I’d never read anything into the tremors. A Writer knows these things. The material’s print is a silhouetted couple on a beach chair—their feet big and splayed every few inches. DAYTONA BEACH is silk-screened in the middle.

  It hits me like a brick: they’re terrified to find out why I’m here, now, after all this time. That old troublesome family hiding in the background, just waiting to pop up and cause trouble.

  “Oh, Millie!” Tennessee says, too emphatically. As if I don’t know what she thinks of the troubled girl who returned her wedding invitation with the words I DON’T FUCKING THINK SO, marked in purple over a skull and crossbones. I offer a tight grin—even I can feel how unconvincing it is.

  Remember your goal. Your dad must know about Mother and what she could do. And of course, what had Kennedy said to him?

  “This is the most beautiful plant!” Tennessee gushes. “What is it? A fern?”

  No, it is not a fucking fern. It is nothing like a fern, the only plant you’ve ever heard of.

  “Isn’t it beautiful, Arthur?” The name shaped in her syrupy tone drops me over the edge. My father darts a look at me—not apologetic, but honest. He knows this will hurt me. He never let Mother use his real name. He didn’t like it. Insisted she call him by his middle name, Gregory.

  Still, he doesn’t speak. This is too hard. This is who I am, he seems to be saying. And you aren’t part of it. But you already know that, Millie! It’s all in the past.

  “Tea!” Tennessee says. “What’ll it be? Country Peach Passion? Mint Magic? Raspberry Zinger?” She starts pulling out tiny tubs for a huge contraption they have for tea brewing. I’ve seen it on television. It’s ridiculous. Her sudden rush toward hosting makes me want to flee. No wonder I’ve managed to put this off my whole life.

  “That would be nice,” I manage. My father watches Tennessee gratefully, like she’s handling things now. She will know what to do. Has he always been this useless? I feel even more confident that my father was not the reason for Mother’s suicides, that they were, instead, part of her magical book world. She could not respect this man, certainly not enough to off herself over him. Could she?

  Tennessee cues my father, indicates her head toward the kitchen table—a huge built-in with two benched sides and on the ends, spindle-backed chairs straight out of Friendly’s Family Restaurants. My father doesn’t move. Her eyebrows bounce; her lips squeeze. When my father shrugs, she gestures hugely.

  “O-ohhhh,” he mouths, catching on. I see where his kids get the syllable stretching. I don’t do that.

  Tennessee smiles ingratiatingly, as if I hadn’t caught on or she doesn’t care if I have.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Mill—” He can’t seem to finish my name. He turns to me as if I can feed him the second half, and I see pain in his eyes—surprised and ashamed, precisely what I’d thought I wanted.

  Instead of following his lead, I inch back toward the door.

  I try the words. “What don’t I know?” I say, floundering. I hate the way that came out, desperate. I hear the boys and Rose cheer and pound video game controls on the other side of the wall.

  My father begins to nod agreement then catches himself. It’s my turn to flinch.

  “I know, Millie,” he manages my name. “This is hard.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve ever heard him say.

  “What is hard? You know all about it don’t you?” I can’t bring myself to say “the book world” in front of Tennessee, but I’m sure he knows what I mean.

  “Here, your tea’s done,” Tennessee says. She places the mug on a brash tray, crackle-painted with a folksy teapot. I don’t know which flavor she’s chosen but it’s a deep cranberry color. There are ten kinds of sugar and sweetener neatly fanned out around my mug, which also reads, “Mrs. Burns.” Either she’s an evil genius or the dumbest woman alive. “Sit, please,” she says. They take neighboring seats.

  I pull out my chair and perch across from him, I can see my father has begun to sweat. He’s obviously unsure how to start.

  I think of Pinocchio. Truth. That’s all I’ve got right now. I must hold onto it. “I saw you serving yourself a generous helping of chicken wings at the International Food Bar. I know Kennedy told you about the cancer, and now you’ve slipped up and said you’ve seen him before. What about?”

  My father turns scarlet. He mops his brow. From their arm movements, I can tell Tennessee is squeezing his thigh under the table. I’m as jealous as when I was a little girl.

  “Your father. Your fucking father doesn’t love you enough,” my mother said to me in-between the first time she tried to kill herself and the second.

  “I didn’t think you wanted anything to do with me, but I always did what I thought was best for you, and your . . . situation,” he says. Outside, a bicycle bell pings. Tennessee’s brow knits in sympathy. I want to punch her.

  “I was hurt,” I say, hating myself for it.

  “Sure,” he says. Again, it rings honest. His voice betrays no pretense.

  Tennessee doesn’t look anything but sympathetic, clucking her tongue and shaking her head, as if this has nothing at all to do with her, the woman whose photo my mother and I used to throw darts at, the one snuggling up with my father while we went without a fire in the fireplace because that was a man’s job and we liked to sulk about it. Any other father would ask her to give him a minute with his daughter.

  We sit that way for a moment, the air around us burning, the sun through the vertical slats blinding. I don’t fit here.

  I’ve spent so long demonizing him. I never considered the possibility of his own emotions. In my thoughts, he was a supporting character—there only for what he’d made us feel, on hand for a convenient bit of blame, but never suffering feelings of his own, never given his own chapter. Where was the satisfying, simple justice, the good guys versus bad? No. No. That isn’t the way things work out once you actually get to them.

  “Thanks for the tea,” I say to Tennessee. “Do you think I might have a moment alone with my father?”

  He looks horror-stricken, but she nods. “Of course, dear.”

  I’m not your dear, I keep to myself.

  He tries to smile. It fails. “Dad, what do you know?”

  “Know about what?”

  “About Mother. About paging-in.” He doesn’t speak for a long while, during which I watch him and recognize the look of him, the one that never let me truly hate him. Kindness.

  “It isn’t real, Millie. You know it isn’t.”

  “I knew you would say that.” I smile, an instinct. “Then why did you leave? Huh? We all know you left because you were jealous. Because Mother could do it and you couldn’t.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t know a thing about it. She didn’t want me there. You only wanted Mother. I left. There isn’t a day I don’t feel terrible about it, about the way things ended up for you. But after that, everything I did, every decision I made, it was all for you, for your best interest. Kennedy ass
ured me all those years ago that you were doing better. That you should be allowed to have a normal life. That you deserved it—finally.”

  “Sure, you cared so much for me! Nice story you’ve been telling yourself all these years. And of course Kennedy would say something like that! That’s all he ever wanted for me. Why you’ve all kept it a secret, I can’t understand. But I don’t seem to understand much these days.” I can’t seem to control my speech. Now I’m in the scene, it’s got a life of its own, and now I realize that means it may not go my way. Still, I smile; there’s always a layer of meaning if you just dig deep enough; it doesn’t always have to be pretty.

  “I told Kennedy I was going to tell you, but I guess he couldn’t bring himself to prepare you for it. But listen, seeing you today, putting Rose in danger like that, I . . . I can’t let this go on any longer. It isn’t right. There are people who can help you, Millie.”

  “The Universalists? Please! Don’t tell me you’re on their side, that you would sacrifice Rose.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Millie. This is all part of it.”

  “Of course it is!”

  “What about your daughter? That is why Kennedy came to me. He’s worried what will happen to her, to both of you, when he dies.”

  “Don’t you talk about my daughter.”

  “Look, I know how angry you must be. I’m your father, and I left you and never had anything to do with your life. It’s the worst thing a person can do. I’m not proud of myself. And on top of that, I never talked to you about the most important thing. I had to make a decision about what was right. And in the end, I chose to go Kennedy’s way; he was very convincing.”