Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  His chestnut hair is tousled and his t-shirt is on inside out. I realize that he must have rushed over here as soon as he heard the news, without taking the time to dress correctly or worry about his appearance. The thought that it might be concern for me that spurred his flight weaves a warm tingle through me, a velvet burn.

  Irritated by my irrational response, I close my eyes and hope that he’ll go away without confusing me any further. Instead, I hear the soft tread of his footsteps as he approaches. His fingertips brush my arm and my eyes fly open.

  “Did you have anything to do with Nicole’s death?” I ask, watching him carefully, reaching out with all my senses to evaluate his response.

  Black fury flashes in his eyes, leaving them glassy and unfocused, like a camera flash has hit him at the wrong angle. He pulls his hands to his side, clenching the fists as he struggles to maintain control. Finally he relaxes and looks down at me with a sad expression.

  “I deserve that,” he admits before shaking his head, eyes locked onto mine with earnest sincerity. “I had nothing to do with Nicole’s death,” he says clearly. My skin remains quiet and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t really think it was Jake, but given his history of violence, I had to be sure.

  “Good,” I whisper, abruptly exhausted. I lean back against the elevated mattress, overwhelmed by the discomfort in my body. Every muscle aches and I am so stiff I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks and I give a bitter laugh. He flushes and gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. That was a stupid question.”

  My mother’s voice rises in parting and she joins us in my room. “I’m afraid to take you home,” she says brightly, holding a sheaf of papers that I assume detail how to care for a recovering hypothermic patient.

  “When can we leave?” I ask patiently, ignoring her first statement.

  “As soon as they get that nasty IV out of you.” She turns her falsely cheerful smile on Jake. “It was so nice of you to check on her, Jake. Derry will need her friends; she’s been through a lot.”

  I suppress the hysterical laugh bubbling up from the knot in my throat. The thought of Jake being my comforting new friend gives me a giddy sensation of unreality, both appealing and disquieting at the same time.

  “Where’s Cole?” I ask, wondering why Jake is here without his brother, the one that could reasonably be considered, if not a friend, at least an ally.

  Jake’s face is stony as he returns his gaze to me. “He couldn’t make it,” he replies shortly. My skin buzzes uncomfortably.

  “My father told me to tell you to call him if you need anything,” Jake says, turning back to my mom. She glances away to hide the satisfied smile that pulls at her lips before thanking Jake and telling him to come visit me later, when I’m feeling better. Before I have the chance to contradict her, Jake is gone, throwing one last inscrutable look my way. My arm is still warm where his fingers brushed.

  Chapter 11

  The next few days are a blur. Mom brings me home and promptly quarantines me in my room, not allowing me to go outside or return to school for fear that I will somehow relapse. I don’t bother arguing with her. I find I don’t have the energy to do anything but lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying that whole night over and over again in my head.

  Every now and then I hear the front door open and close, indistinguishable conversations taking place beneath me. My mother comes up every so often to check on me and bring me food, but I only get out of bed to use the bathroom, preferring to remain cocooned in my nest of blankets, shutting out the rest of the world until the thought of Nicole doesn’t hurt so much.

  On the evening of the third day since I came home, Mom enters my room, placing a steaming mug of tea on the bedside table before standing over me, hands on her hips, clucking disapprovingly.

  “I’m afraid you’re broken,” she says bracingly, gritting her teeth to make an entirely unconvincing smile.

  “What?” I ask wearily. She sighs and passes a hand over her face. I look at her more carefully and am surprised to see strain written all over her features. Her eyes are red and puffy, dark rings around them so deep she looks bruised. Everything about her seems to droop and a stab of guilt pricks at me. Resentful, I push it aside, unwilling to add any more to the sea I’m already drowning in.

  “I said it’s time to get up. The viewing is tonight, and you need to be there.”

  Her words are like a slap to the face. I shoot her a dirty look and bury my head in my pillow, trying to muffle the sound of her voice.

  “I’ve already seen her,” I retort, knowing if I ever actually get out of bed, out of the house, see other people, I’ll be forced to acknowledge the fact that the world hasn’t stopped spinning, that time didn’t just stop the moment I saw the shadow from the bridge.

  “Honey, I know this has been awful for you. But you have to get up. You can’t just stop living because of what happened. You need to start moving on,” Mom says gently, cradling my head in her hand before she stiffens and her voice resumes its usual brisk tones. “Get up, get a shower, and meet me downstairs in half an hour. No more wallowing,” she commands before exiting the room, the sound of her footsteps in the hall determined and sharp.

  I lay there for another ten minutes, refusing to process what she has asked of me, refusing to even consider complying. Finally, more out of a habit of obedience than an active decision to do so, I roll out of bed and stumble into the hall bathroom, turning the hot water on full blast in the shower, still trying to reach the frozen core that hasn’t budged since I found Nicole.

  Twenty minutes later I am downstairs, dressed in black, my still damp hair twisted into a sloppy coil at the nape of my neck. Mom shakes her head when she sees me, but gives her best attempt at an encouraging smile and herds me out the door before I can change my mind.

  There is only one funeral parlor in town, just a few minutes from the high school. At one point it was a huge old Victorian home, no doubt some pastel color frosted with all the usual frills and gables, but now it is stripped of all fancy and painted in weather-stained ivory with black shutters. The huge wraparound porch is enclosed and filled to the brim with people waiting in line to get inside. I shudder, wondering if they are all here for Nicole. I can’t help but think of how alone she felt, how desperate she was to find a friend and wonder where these people were then.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I whisper, more to myself than to Mom. She reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  “You can, sweetie. And you need to. C’mon. Let’s get through this,” she insists, maintaining her firm grip on my hand and tugging me forward. Unless I want to make a scene I have no choice but to follow her, so I grumble under my breath and trudge alongside, each step more uncertain than the last.

  We join the crowd at the back of the receiving line after establishing that yes, everyone is here for Nicole’s viewing. I look around at the faces of those in line and smother a sense of disgust. They are nothing but ghouls. They are buzzards, here to pick at what’s left of Nicole to feed their own sense of self-importance. Just ahead of me I see Tasha chatting animatedly with one of her clones and a scorching bitterness pulses at the back of my throat. My skin hums discordantly, and the insincerity hovering around me like a poisonous fog is suffocating.

  Tasha spots me and her eyes gleam with wicked satisfaction. She waves her hand and gestures for me to join her. I glare back at her in astonishment, wondering how she could possibly think I’d be so stupid. When I don’t respond she frowns and mutters something to her companion before pushing her way through the crowd to reach me. Mom’s hand is steady on my back, clearly stating her intent to make me suffer through this no matter what.

  “I’m pretending to care so I can get attention,” she says breathlessly, halting beside me as though it is completely natural. I continue to glare at her and her smile falters, eyes darting back and forth anxiously.

  “Who’s your friend, Derry?
” Mom asks gently. I glance at her and then at Tasha, ignoring the friendly, sympathetic smile she wears and remember the vicious glint in her eyes when she tormented Nicole, how easy it was for her to destroy my friend without a second thought.

  “She’s not my friend,” I reply coldly and turn my back on Tasha, irritation flaring when Mom hisses her disapproval.

  “Derry, really,” she says, fingernails pressing into my back.

  “She’s the one who started all the rumors about Nicole on Facebook. She made Nicole’s life miserable,” I answer, my voice devoid of all emotion. Angry red colors Tasha’s face as she glances around to see how many people overheard. Everyone around us has stopped talking and is watching our exchange with unabashed curiosity. Several adults look at Tasha with disapproval, but most of the onlookers are our classmates, and they are moving their eyes back and forth between us like watching a tennis match.

  “That’s so not true,” Tasha says loudly, avoiding my eyes and whatever unwelcome truth they hold for her. Why she is bothering to deny it now when for months she had no problem letting everyone know what she thought about Nicole is beyond me, but it’s clear from the expressions of those around us that everyone knows the truth.

  “Yes it is, Tasha. Everyone knows. I’m not sure what you’re doing here,” a smooth, cool voice says behind me, and fierce nausea erupts in my stomach, threatening to bubble over and turn me into a slobbering mess on the floor. Mom’s hand on my back steadies me, but nothing has prepared me for my reaction to the sound of that voice.

  “Whatever. I was just going to pay my respects, but…” Tasha mutters defensively before pushing through the line to get to the exit. Any relief I might have felt in her departure is drowned out by Nicole’s voice replaying my ear.

  “I was right about him,” she had said.

  “Are you okay?” Phillip asks, stepping into my line of vision. He is as beautiful as ever, blond hair shining even under the dim lighting, vivid green eyes focused on me with concern. I wonder how I never noticed the cruel tilt to his mouth before, how the top lip is just a hair too thin, too severe.

  Unable to answer, I just nod and watch him carefully, wondering if he is thinking of the way I looked in the road the night Nicole died.

  “Hello, I’m Derry’s mother, Salinda MacKenna,” my mother says, extending a hand for Phillip to shake. When his hand clasps hers, I have to control a violent impulse to smack it away, to prevent him from touching her, to prevent him from contaminating her.

  He turns to look at me again, eyes searching mine for an answer to an unasked question. My stomach churns and I can feel a fine trembling dancing over my skin that has more to do with fury than fear. His clear green gaze meets mine and certainty settles under my skin, leaving me quiet.

  Phillip killed Nicole.

  “I heard about what happened to you, that you found her. I’m so sorry,” he says, his tone holding just the right blend of sympathy and unhappy disbelief. I find that my lips curl up to give him a grateful smile.

  “Thanks. The whole thing has been pretty upsetting,” I say smoothly even as I wonder where the words are coming from. I am disconnected from my own mind, as though the practical part of me has now taken over, shunting my emotions to one side until there is time to deal with them.

  “I’m sure. If you need anything at all, I’m here for you,” Phillip says, his voice kind, but he can’t put false warmth into his eyes. They are reptilian and detached.

  “That’s so nice, isn’t it hon?” Mom asks anxiously. I realize that she must be able to feel the tension in my back, like a bowstring ready to snap.

  “I know this isn’t the time, but I’d like to talk to you soon.” Phillip lowers his voice and steps closer to me. I bite down on my lip to keep from cringing.

  “About…well, the police asked me a couple questions, and I just wanted to clear something up.” He stops, waiting for a response, but I am absolutely incapable of speech.

  “Maybe another time, Phillip,” my mom says, disapproval tightening her voice. For a second, I glimpse a snarl on Phillip’s well-shaped lips, but the impression passes and he smiles apologetically and steps back.

  “Of course. Sorry. I’ll see you at school, Derry,” he promises.

  “Looking forward to it,” I reply quietly, that impassive voice in my head coming to the rescue again. He nods and turns away, back to the group he was standing with a bit behind us.

  My shoulders slump from the effort of maintaining control during our conversation and the rest of the wait to get inside passes without incident. I barely notice where I am until I am next in line to see Nicole, the white coffin suddenly huge, vast, taking up the entire room and sucking all the oxygen from my lungs.

  “Go ahead honey, I’m right behind you,” Mom whispers, giving me a little shove. I stagger forward and fight the primal scream that is clamoring in my throat as I look at her, frozen again, unmoving, all the life drained from her smiling face.

  They have clothed her in a blue silk dress I’ve never seen before, and her hair is back to being lank and dull, resistant to the mortician’s well-meaning efforts to curl or shape it. Her lips are unnaturally pink and pushed awkwardly into mimicry of a smile. My face is suddenly wet and I angrily brush the tears away, absurdly furious that they have tried to mask the true expression Nicole’s face had held. This complacent smile, these closed eyes and over-blushed cheeks are a selfish attempt to diminish Nicole’s last moments, to deny the panic she must have felt before the water claimed her. Beneath those tightly closed lids I know her eyes are still stark with terror, still urging me to hurry, to make it in time.

  “I don’t think Nicole’s death was an accident,” a bass rumble says behind me and I turn abruptly to see Detective Radcliffe talking to Nicole’s mother, his hat in hand. She nods and presses a tissue to her face, allowing her husband to put an arm around her. He is stony-faced and silent, never making eye contact with any of the mourners who offer him sympathy. There is no life to him, as though he is a living, breathing statue, caught by the sun and turned to stone. Tearing my eyes away, I wonder what Radcliffe really said, but am more interested in his deeply held conviction. Without another glance at the shell that was once my friend, I walk over to Beverly, who gives me a hateful glare as I approach.

  “I am to blame for my daughter’s death,” she says spitefully, her voice low and mean. I don’t know what she really said, but it must have been shocking because Radcliffe gives her a startled look and glances at me with sympathy.

  “Now, Mrs. Sharp. There’s nothing this young lady could have done. It was an accident,” he says placatingly, but Nicole’s mom doesn’t take her eyes off me. Her husband stares straight ahead, unseeing.

  “I thought she was so much better,” she whispers miserably, finally dropping her gaze. Guilt hardens inside me, shifting and morphing into something less familiar. A cold, clean sense of purpose, knowledge of what must be done to ease this woman’s suffering. There is little I can do for Nicole now when I have failed her so ruinously, but I can at least spare her mother the pain of thinking that Nicole took her own life.

  “She was better, Mrs. Sharp. Nicole didn’t do this to herself. She would never have killed herself. She wouldn’t do that to you,” I say with as much conviction as possible. Beverly looks up at me, eyes narrowed and unconvinced. She dismisses me with a wave of her hand and pointedly looks past me to the next person in line. My face burns with the rejection.

  “Miss MacKenna, it’s good to see you out, though I wish it were under better circumstances,” Radcliffe says, distracting me from my dark thoughts.

  “Thanks,” I mumble unthinkingly before focusing my attention on him, remembering what I had heard him say. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” he says, drawing me aside to a small nook with couches. There is a group of students from the high school occupying them, but a sharp nod from Radcliffe sends them scurrying.

  �
��We’re going to need to you to come down to the station tomorrow to sign an official statement. We’ve held off as your mother requested because of your trauma, but we really need to get things wrapped up now.”

  “What about Phillip? Has he been questioned?” I demand quietly, my voice uncompromising as a rock. My rage is powerful, and I can almost feel it stretching long fingers toward the detective, wrapping around his mind to yank out the truth. He frowns at me uncertainly and begins to speak.

  “We asked him whether or not he met with Nicole and he says he didn’t. Said that she wanted to meet him at the bridge where Miranda died, but he wasn’t comfortable with it and refused her. He said he was home asleep the whole night. His mother and father confirmed it. Says he’s sorry you were under the wrong impression. Said Nicole has been pestering him for weeks, she was obsessed with him.” Radcliffe breaks off, looking bewildered, no doubt wondering why he is being so candid with me.

  For once, I don’t feel guilty. Every question from here on is for Nicole, to put her to rest. I don’t care if it’s unethical anymore.

  My initial reaction is to forcefully deny what Phillip has said, to call him a liar, but something stops me, a certainty that I will diminish my credibility if I point accusing fingers just now. I shift gears, getting into what I really want to know.

  “What killed her? Was it the fall? Did she drown? Or was it something else?” I demand quickly and quietly, knowing I have only moments before someone notices us sitting here in the corner and disrupts my chance at the officer. I have no doubt he’ll avoid me afterwards.

  Still looking puzzled, he answers haltingly. “The fall alone from the suspected bridge couldn’t have killed her. The water was too deep from all the snowmelt, and the wound on her head doesn’t look like it came from a rock. There was something embedded, some kind of organic material. But she did drown. She was still alive when she hit the water.”