Tired seems more likely, though.
I go over to the large, metal filing cabinet in the corner of the room and unlock the drawer marked A–C. I flip through the alphabetized files and shove Caplan, V. in the proper place. I’m about to shut the drawer when I notice the corner of one file sticking up slightly. I should just tuck it back in, respect the fact that these files are confidential, but what can I say? I’m nosy. So I pull it up and read the name. My breath catches.
Black, R.
It’s probably just someone with the same first initial as my mom. Black is a fairly common last name, after all. But then I flip open the file and see my mom’s name scrawled in Uncle Roy’s handwriting on the inside cover, and I begin to shake.
In an instant, I know that she’s not in Italy.
Everything Uncle Roy has told me is a lie.
I glance over at him, fury coursing through me. His eyes are still closed, and now his mouth is hanging open, his jaw slack. I hear the soft whistle of his snores as I pull the report out as silently as I can.
Our reports are usually a page long. Two, max. My mom’s is a stack of pages, roughly stapled together. I slip them underneath my shirt and into the waistband of my plaid skirt, then quietly close the filing cabinet. I walk back over to Uncle Roy and set the key on the desk. He startles awake, and our eyes meet. I look away before he can see my anger.
I have never gotten anything past him, ever, and for one second, I’m sure he’s caught me. He knows I’ve taken my mom’s file, and he’s going to demand that I put it back before I’ve even had the chance to read it.
But he just yawns and rubs his eyes. “I guess it’s time to turn in,” he says, slipping the key on its silver chain back around his neck. He stands up, groaning as the joints in his knees pop, and I follow him out of the rectory.
On the walk back to the house, which is less than thirty feet, Uncle Roy notices me shivering. “Shelby, where is your jacket?”
It’s not the night air that’s causing me to shake. I’ve been blaming myself for my mom’s disappearance for months. He let me believe that I’m the reason she left. “I’m fine.” My voice sounds higher than normal, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
The file starts to slip as we walk. I put a hand to my stomach to keep it from sliding down my leg and onto the ground.
“Are you hungry?” Uncle Roy asks. “I just realized that we forgot to eat dinner.”
I didn’t forget—I scarfed down a couple of granola bars I had stashed in my backpack when I was cleaning Ms. C’s living room. “I’m fine,” I say, kicking off my loafers just inside the front door. “It’s been a long day. I just want to go to bed.”
Uncle Roy pauses outside my room, like he’s waiting for something. Probably for me to apologize for attempting to exorcise Ms. C on my own. Well, he can wait forever.
“Well, good night, then,” he says.
I’m itching to dive into my mom’s file, but I have to wait for Uncle Roy to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I wait for his bedroom door to close. And then I wait some more, because I’m afraid of what I’m about to read.
I pull the report out from my waistband and sit down on my bed. I run my hand over it. The paper is worn soft as old leather, like it’s been read again and again and again. Uncle Roy’s neat block letters fill up every inch of the pages.
I take a deep breath.
Case Number: EX100-17-0092
Incident: The Exorcism of Robin Black
Exorcist: Father Roy Watson
Second of December, approximately 2000 hours. My partner, Robin Black, asked me to attend a routine exorcism of one of our young parishioners, to be held in the boy’s parents’ home. Robin had attempted to expel the demon on her own several times previously with no success. She believed that in this particular case, the strength of two exorcists performing the incantation would be the most effective way to eject this stubborn demon and save the young man’s soul.
I accompanied Robin to the house on the evening of December 2nd. We commenced the exorcism in much the same way we always do, however, as this was Robin’s case, she took the lead. She is an experienced exorcist who is particularly good with children, and she typically handles all cases involving any clients under eighteen.
Everything was going well—it seemed Robin’s hypothesis was correct, that two exorcists are better than one, at least when it came to the stranglehold this demon had on the boy.
We were almost through the exorcism and the demon was in the throes of finally being expelled when the young man began calling for his mother and Robin became distracted. She stumbled on the incantation. While it was only for a moment, it was enough for the demon to wrest back control. However, when the young man went limp a minute later, I believed the exorcism to be successful. I encouraged Robin to finish the job and approach him with the holy water, but when I turned to face her, I could see that the demon had simply traded one body for another. Robin’s eyes were black and soulless. She hissed at me, and before I could stop her, she ran out of the house and into the night.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. Even though I knew from the second I found the file that my mom is possessed, it still hits me like a punch in the gut.
I guess Uncle Roy was hoping that he’d be able to fix her before I really felt her absence. But I’ve felt it every second that she’s been gone. She left a huge hole in my life, one that no one else could ever fill. He knows that. He knows it, but he still didn’t tell me the truth.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down so I can finish reading the report. I need to know everything.
12-20-16. I tracked Robin to Pike Place Market, however I wasn’t able to get close enough to her to effectively exorcise her.
02-13-17. Capitol Hill. She recognized me and ran away before I could get near her. I have noticed a dramatic increase in demonic activity in the city these past two months, and I fear this demon is responsible.
04-04-17. Belltown. Almost got close enough to restrain her, but once again she slipped out of my grasp before I could put handcuffs on her. This demon is proving more clever than most.
Each page tells a similar story: Uncle Roy finds my mom, but she manages to elude him. He’s seen her dozens of times over the past five months. I turn to the last page, which has an entry dated three weeks ago, and it almost stops my heart:
If my suspicions are correct, then this demon is a portal to the underworld. It is directly responsible for the rash of possessions we’ve seen lately. This demon must be stopped at any cost.
Oh my God.
My mom is the portal.
Chapter
11
I WAS awake most of the night, my mind flipping through every terrible situation that my mom could be in and all the havoc she’s creating. I sweated so much, I soaked through my sheets. She’s out there somewhere, alone and helpless, and Uncle Roy, the only person who can help her, has not been able to get close enough to exorcise her.
I’m not ready to confront Uncle Roy yet. I want to get out of the house before he wakes up, so even though it’s just past sunrise, I get up and throw on jeans and a hoodie. My entire body is stiff with tension, and there’s a throbbing in my temples from lack of sleep. I stuff my mom’s file into my messenger bag and quietly open my bedroom door.
I can smell coffee brewing. Uncle Roy is banging around in the kitchen, making his breakfast. Seems like I’m not the only one who’s having trouble sleeping. I guess that’s what a guilty conscience gets you.
I go out the back door so I don’t have to pass by him. Unfortunately, the only shoes that are back here are my mom’s hideous, blue rubber gardening clogs. I hate these shoes—I always made fun of her for wearing them—but I can’t help but smile, thinking how she would laugh if she knew I was being forced to put them on my feet.
I walk down to the doughnut shop a few blocks from our house. I have no appetite, but I have to get something if I’m going to kill time here, so I order a couple of apple
fritters. I sit in a red vinyl booth and pore over my mom’s file, looking for some kind of clue that Uncle Roy might have missed. Something that might lead me to her.
Two hours later, I’m no closer to an answer. My throat is raw from holding back tears. I am exhausted and overwhelmed, and I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I imagine that this is how Uncle Roy’s been feeling for the past five months, but instead of sympathy, anger floods through me. Because he didn’t have to face this alone. I could have helped him. He should have told me. We could have been working together to find her.
I check my phone. I have three missed calls from Uncle Roy. He is usually up way before me, so I guess the fact that I’m already out of the house has set off a few alarm bells.
Still don’t want to talk to you, I think. I’m about to throw my phone back into my bag when Spencer texts me. Now, him I definitely want to talk to. I automatically start to smile, a Pavlovian response to just seeing his name light up my screen. Mood = lifted.
How’d you do on the bio quiz?
Okay, so it’s not exactly a declaration of his feelings, but still. He’s checking in. That has to count for something, right?
Also, what bio quiz???
I grimace. Great. So while I was busy helping exorcise Ms. C, I missed a pop quiz in the class that is arguably my worst subject (next to geometry. And German).
I used to be a really good student. But then my mom left and I started training with Uncle Roy, and maintaining my grade point average became the least important thing in my life. I mean, it’s hard to care about photosynthesis or the proper conjugation of German verbs when you’re in the middle of a spiritual war.
I didn’t exactly make it yesterday. I cringe even as I type the words. Spencer, of everyone, knows I can’t afford to miss class. Especially bio (and geometry. And German).
It takes him a minute to respond. He’s probably wondering what to say. He’s so hard core about school, I’m sure he can’t imagine any scenario that would cause him to miss class. And he certainly wouldn’t imagine that I skipped because I was conducting an exorcism.
You okay?
I swallow. Maybe I should just tell him. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?
But I know from the way my legs have lost all feeling that I don’t have the nerve. Because what if he freaks out? What if he no longer wants anything to do with me?
I can’t risk it. Not yet.
All good! I even add a happy-face emoji to really throw him offtrack. You’re up early. It’s barely 8:30 a.m.
Just as I’ve sent the text, I get another call from Uncle Roy. I’ll have to deal with him at some point, obviously, but I’m just not ready to talk to him yet.
Lacrosse practice. Gotta run. See you later?
My shoulders sag. Spencer and I literally just started texting and he’s already rushing off. Why do I keep trying to make a relationship happen when he’s clearly not that into it?
But a second later he sends me a rose emoji, and my mood is on the upswing again.
Oh my God. He sent me a virtual flower! I am smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt. He could have sent me a tulip or a sunflower, but he sent me a red rose! And everyone knows that red roses are a sign of love.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I shoot him the smiley face with heart eyes. Communicating my feelings through emojis isn’t as scary as using actual words. Now, if only they had an emoji for exorcist.…
* * *
Vanessa’s sister, Isabelle, is at the kitchen table working on some kind of craft project when I barge through the O’Malleys’ back door twenty minutes later. The table is covered in balls of brown and white wool.
“She’s still sleeping,” Izzy says, winding a long string of brown wool around a piece of cardboard.
“But it’s nine o’clock.” Vanessa’s mom never lets anyone sleep past eight.
“My parents are in San Francisco visiting Frank,” she says. “They left Antonio in charge, and he doesn’t care if she stays in bed all day.” Frank and Antonio are Izzy’s older brothers. Antonio is taking a gap year, which mostly seems to involve playing video games and fighting with his sisters. Frank, his twin brother, is studying botany at the University of San Francisco.
“What’s up with your shoes?” Izzy says, snickering.
“Quiet, you,” I say, setting the box of doughnuts I brought from the shop on the table amid a sea of pom-poms. I’m still buzzing from my text exchange with Spencer. “What are you making?”
“Hedgehogs.” Izzy holds up a fuzzy brown ball the size of her fist. She’s painstakingly glued on googly eyes and a tiny black felt nose. It’s pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “I’m going to make them into keychains and sell them at the church craft sale. I have to make sixty of them by tomorrow.” She scowls at the small pile of finished hedgehogs. “Vanessa’s supposed to be helping me.”
“I’ll help you,” I say.
“Really?” Izzy looks so thankful when the truth is, she’s the one doing me a favor—I need to do something to take my mind off my mom. Making adorable pom-pom hedgehogs might do the trick.
She patiently demonstrates how to make a pom-pom, expertly twisting the wool around the cardboard circle. Izzy isn’t much of a talker, so after she’s satisfied that I’m doing a decent-enough job, we work mostly in silence. My fingers are starting to cramp when we hear someone bounding down the stairs forty-five minutes later.
Izzy’s face tightens as Vanessa comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt and yoga pants, her dark hair twisted into a messy topknot. She does a double take when she sees me sitting at the kitchen table with her sister.
“Hey. I didn’t know you were coming over. How long have you been here?”
“Awhile,” I say.
“Oooh, doughnuts.” Vanessa flips the pink cardboard box open. She grabs an apple fritter and settles into the chair across from me. “Iz, I said I’d help you with these later,” she says, surveying the mountain of pom-poms we’ve created.
Izzy scowls at her. “No need,” she says, picking up the glue gun. “We’re almost done.”
“Oh, good.” Vanessa smiles at me. “What are you doing here so early, anyway?” She takes a huge bite out of her doughnut.
I can’t tell her the truth, but Vanessa can always tell when I’m lying, so I say, “I thought maybe we could go to the flea market.” My mom used to take us all the time. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m hoping that if I look in some of the places she used to go, I’ll find her. The flea market is as good a place to start as any.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I do find my mom—especially if Vanessa is with me—but I’ll worry about that if it happens.
“Can I come?” Izzy is carefully squirting a small blob of glue on to the back of a googly eye.
“Sure,” I say.
Vanessa shoots me an annoyed look, but I don’t see the harm in bringing Izzy with us. Vanessa sighs and stands up. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”
* * *
The three of us wander around the flea market for a couple of hours. Vanessa almost dies with laughter when she catches sight of the gardening clogs I’m wearing. She buys a mood ring, and Izzy buys a bunch of craft supplies, and we eat pierogi drowning in sour cream. But I can’t relax or have fun because I’m slammed with memories of my mom and the thousands of times we came here together.
There’s no sign of her, and yet she’s everywhere I look.
* * *
When I finally return home, Uncle Roy is in the kitchen, standing in front of a tabletop easel. He’s gently swirling a paintbrush dripping with yellow paint around the center of the canvas.
“Is your phone broken?” he says, standing back to survey whatever it is he’s trying to create. From this angle, it looks like a misshapen yellow ball. “I called you several times.”
I shrug. “Sorry. Ringer was off.”
I need to make him understand that the only way to get my mom back is
if we work together. I need him to agree to let me help him, so I can’t go all medieval on his ass for keeping this news from me, as much as I’d like to. I have to play this exactly right, calm and cool, or he will shut me down.
I take a deep breath and pull open the fridge. I grab a bottle of kombucha and pour him a glass.
“What’s up with all the flowers, anyway?” I set the glass in front of him.
“In the Victorian era, flowers were used to convey messages,” he says. “The daffodil”—he gestures at the yellow blob with his paintbrush—“represents hope.”
“What do the other flowers you’ve painted represent?”
He sets his paintbrush down and picks up the glass. “Perseverance. Courage. Protection.” He takes a swallow of his drink, and his whole face collapses in on itself. “What,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “is this?”
“Kombucha.”
“And what is kombucha?”
“Fermented tea, essentially.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Terribly good for you,” I say. “It’ll help with your digestion.”
“I don’t need any help with my digestion,” he says, handing me the glass with a scowl. His eyes finally meet mine, and his eyebrows raise in alarm. “Shelby, you look awful. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’ve been better.” I pull my mom’s file out of my bag and set it on the table, and we both stare at it, waiting for the other to break the silence.
The sigh that finally escapes from Uncle Roy sounds like steam coming from a tea kettle. A grim expression settles over his features. “You read it, I assume,” he says.
I nod. I read it so many times, I practically have it memorized. And I made a copy, so I can go back to it whenever I need to. But I’m not about to tell him that.
Uncle Roy’s eyes briefly drift shut. When he opens them and looks at me again, I see the toll that holding in this secret has taken on him. But whatever his reason is for keeping this from me, I already know it’s not going to be good enough. Nothing he can say can make up for lying to me about my mom.
When Life Gives You Demons Page 7