Rooms

by Lauren Oliver

  It was over soon, thank God. Greg spoke, and so did his father, Richard’s sister’s husband, since Richard’s sister had spent half of her adult life feuding with Richard and had even refused to come to the memorial service. Richard’s longtime business partner spoke, and Minna focused on the fact that he looked pretty good, better than she remembered, but before she could wonder whether he was still married and whether it would matter, he was finished talking and the service, at least the formal portion of it, was over. Then she was crowded from all sides. People slipped hands over hers—smooth hands, rough hands, hands as old and thin as parchment, and whispered, “I’m so sorry,” and exhaled the smell of breath mints and alcohol.

  She spotted Danny moving toward her, politely but forcefully, pushing through the crowd. He still wasn’t looking at her, though. Before she could call his name—before she could say anything—he had moved past her without even a glance and had stopped in front of her mother.

  “Mrs. Walker, is there somewhere we could go and have a talk?” he said, in a voice very different from his usual one. At the same time, Minna realized that the second cop was standing just behind Danny, thumbs hooked into his belt, shifting his weight. He had acne scars and a fat cold sore on his lower lip and looked like a bad actor doing a tough cop routine.

  “I told you,” Caroline said. “I go by my maiden name.”

  “What’s this about?” Minna stepped next to her mother, forcing Danny to look at her. He did, but only for an instant.

  “I’m sorry we have to do this now,” he said. And he did sound sorry. “If there’s somewhere more private . . . ?”

  “What’s this about?” Minna repeated, so loudly that several people looked. She lowered her voice. “Danny?”

  Danny sucked in a deep breath. “This really isn’t the place.”

  “This really isn’t the time,” Minna said, getting angry. “We’re having a memorial service, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  At least the room was emptier now. The crowd was flowing out toward the dining room, to refill on drinks and make inane comments about the circle of life.

  “And like I said, I’m very sorry,” Danny said. “But we received a complaint—”

  “A complaint?” Minna repeated.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Caroline said simultaneously. But she swayed slightly, and Minna had to steady her.

  Danny looked at his partner—Minna assumed the guy with the acne scars was his partner—for help. When he didn’t say anything, Danny went on, “A woman named Adrienne Cadiou got in contact with the station. Apparently she’s been having trouble with harassing phone calls. Sometimes thirty in a day. You know anything about that?”

  “She’s a liar,” Caroline said quickly. Then, to Minna, “Get me a drink, Minna.”

  Minna didn’t move. The name was familiar to her, but it took her a second to place it. Then she did, and she realized. “Mom,” she said and brought her hands to her forehead. There were explosions of pain behind her eyeballs. She thought of the Fourth of July when she and Danny had snuck out of Lauren Lampert’s party to make out on the wooden raft in the middle of Gedney Pond. What had happened? She opened her eyes again and the colors dissipated.

  “She’s lying, Minna, I’ve never even spoken to the woman, I—”

  “All the calls originated from this number,” Danny said, interrupting her. Caroline went quiet.

  Christ. Her mom probably had no idea that people had caller ID. That phone calls could be tracked.

  Minna felt like laughing or crying or both. “All right,” she said to Danny. “What now?”

  “Well . . . ” Danny turned to his partner again, but then something began beeping and Acne Scars yanked a phone out from his waistband. “It’s Rogers,” he said, and then he turned his back to Minna and Caroline, speaking words too quietly and rapidly for Minna to make out. People were still watching them, whispering, doing a bad job of pretending not to stare. Minna wanted to scream at them to get out, to go get sauced in the dining room like normal guests.

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble,” Danny said for the third time, and Minna nearly slapped him. “It looks like she wants to press charges.”

  “Charges?” Caroline repeated, as though she’d never heard the word. She clawed at Minna’s arm. “The drink, Minna,” she said urgently.

  “You can’t arrest her.” Minna was speaking as forcefully as she could while still whispering. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m not going to cuff her,” Danny said with a short sigh, as if Minna were the one being unreasonable. “After the service is over, maybe you or your brother can drive her into town. We can talk about what’s what when we get there.”

  “We haven’t seen Trenton in hours,” Minna said, seizing on Danny’s suggestion that Trenton drive as if she could prove the absurdity of the whole complaint. “And he’s not allowed behind the wheel of a car, anyway.”

  Caroline teetered again, and Minna steadied her. “Where’s Trenton?” Caroline said. It was like she had somehow delayed the effect of the alcohol she must have consumed; now it was hitting her all at once. “Did he see my speech?”

  “She can’t come down to the station,” Minna said. “Look at her. And don’t say you’re sorry again.”

  “Trenton! Trenton!” Caroline’s eyes were wide with panic. She was gripping Minna’s arm so tightly, Minna was sure she was leaving marks. “Minna, where did Trenton go? We’re burying Dad this afternoon. We have to bury the ashes . . . ”

  Danny’s partner finished his conversation. He pivoted and flipped shut his phone. “Rogers is on his way,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high pitched and did not at all match his face.

  “He’s on his way over here?” Danny said.

  Caroline seized her opportunity. She lurched forward, nearly upsetting a chair; before Danny could stop her, she had barreled around him and passed into the hall.

  “There’s been a development.” Acne Scars barely registered Caroline’s departure. “Vivian Wright’s cell phone went on an hour ago.”

  Danny went still, like a deer listening for danger. “Someone found it?” he said.

  Acne Scars shook his head. “She sent a text,” he said, “to a 516 number.” He turned to Minna. His eyes were very shiny, and his lips wet. “Registered to one Trenton Walker.”

  TRENTON

  Trenton still felt woozy, even after puking twice. He splashed cold water on his face, getting his shirt collar all wet in the process. He didn’t care. In the medicine cabinets he found a few miscellaneous toiletry items that Minna had skipped over or missed, among them a half-used tube of toothpaste and a travel-size bottle of mouthwash. He scrubbed his teeth and tongue with his finger, nearly puking again. Then he rinsed four times with mouthwash. The whole time, he was expecting the ghost to start badgering him—hurry up, please Trenton, you promised me—but she was, uncharacteristically, quiet.

  By then, Katie had texted again. You didn’t tell me you were having a party.

  Before he could write back and correct her—not a party, a memorial service—she had texted again. Where are you?

  The room was still revolving a bit. Trenton eased the bathroom door open and peeked into the hall, which was crowded with people—all of them were shuffling slowly out of the living room in unison, like zombies gearing up for attack. Minna had booted up the speakers, and soft music intermingled with the sound of murmured voices and repressed laughter. Someone had farted.

  Trenton had missed the whole service.

  Mrs. Anderson, his first-grade English teacher, spotted him and waved. Trenton ducked quickly back into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Go toward the music, Trenton texted. I’ll watch 4 u.

  This is the worst party I’ve ever been 2, she texted back.

  The song was an acoustic version of “Born to Run,” by Bruce Springsteen. Trenton had to admit: Minna was a genius for picking it. Trenton’s dad was a Bruce fanatic, partly, Minna said, because Ri
chard Walker identified with his story: the everyday, working-class guy who makes it big on his own steam. Trenton remembered being five or six years old and sitting in the passenger seat of his dad’s new Mercedes, summertime, windows down, sunlight streaming so brightly through the windshield it was practically blinding, the bass reverberating so hard through the dashboard Trenton could feel it in his teeth. And Richard was singing along, and drumming with one hand on the wheel, and Trenton had felt very old, then: like his father’s best friend.

  Trenton checked the hall again and saw her: red hoodie cinched tight, sunglasses on, a bright spot of color in a sea of blacks and grays, startling, like a spot of blood on a clean floor. He started to move out into the hall to greet her, but she put a hand on his chest and piloted him backward into the bathroom again and closed the door behind her.

  “Look,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and wrenching off her hood. “I don’t have much time.”

  She had changed her hair color again. It was dark brown now, like his.

  He was filled with sudden joy. The world shrank down to the size of a single room: Katie was here, with him. “I thought you ran away,” he said.

  “That’s funny,” she said.

  “Or your parents shipped you off.”

  “My parents don’t know where I am,” she said. A brief look of pain, or maybe worry, passed across her face. “Listen, Trenton. I need you to listen to me. I have to explain a few things to you, okay?”

  “I’ve been up shit’s creek since the fire,” he said. He was still dizzy, but now he thought it might be because they were standing so close. He could see individual freckles under her makeup, like tiny stars. “But I made sure Amy didn’t tell.”

  “Listen.” She grabbed both of his arms. Surprised, he sat backward, onto the toilet. Thankfully, the lid was closed. “Just shut up for two seconds, okay? I have four things to tell you.” She released him and straightened up. He said nothing. She began pacing. The bathroom was so small she could only take two steps in either direction before having to pivot and return. “One. I have to go away soon.” She was ticking off items on her fingers.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just listen, for Christ’s sake. Two. I’m a liar. I’ve lied to you about a lot of things. But I’m not a bad person.”

  “Okay.” Trenton wondered if he should stand up again. He didn’t like how she was pacing. It was making him nervous. But he didn’t want her to yell at him, either.

  “Three.” She stopped in front of him. Her eyes were like an animal’s—big and pleading. “I like you. You’re kind of an idiot, but I do.”

  Trenton was going to protest, but then the weight of her words hit him—I like you—and he felt like something had just knocked into his chest. He couldn’t even breathe. He was afraid that if he so much as moved, he would send the words scattering back into nonexistence, into untruth, like cockroaches startled by a sudden light.

  But Katie was watching him, expectant, clearly anticipating a reply.

  “What’s the fourth thing?” Trenton asked, in a voice that barely sounded like his.

  For the first time, Katie smiled. “This,” she said, and dropped onto her knees on the rug in front of the toilet, and put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.

  For a half second, he was seized with terror; then, just as quickly, his anxiety passed, and when she slipped her tongue into his mouth, he found he wasn’t worried about what to do, or whether he was using too much pressure or too little. He just let go. It was like falling into a warm bed after an exhausting day. It was dark and sweet and soft. Now even the room disappeared. Now there was only her mouth and her breathing, her warm hands on his shoulders.

  The kiss lasted for minutes, hours. He was dimly aware of a growing crescendo, as if applause were swelling from an unseen audience. At a certain moment, the crescendo crested, and a sudden flood of awareness passed over him, and he realized he was hearing not applause but footsteps and shouting.

  The bathroom door swung open, smacking hard against the tub.

  Katie accidentally bit his lip.

  Trenton drew back, wincing.

  Minna was standing in the doorway, gripping Amy’s hand. Crowded next to her were two cops. Trenton recognized one of them as the guy Minna used to date.

  Danny was breathing hard, as if they’d come from a long distance. “Vivian Wright?” he said.

  Katie looked at Trenton and sighed. “Busted,” she said.

  Amy touched a finger to her lips and said, “Shhh.”

  ALICE

  “I knew she was a liar.” The new ghost is bitterly disappointed: Trenton is still alive. She begins to cry, and Sandra hushes her sharply.

  “Stop it,” she says. “There’s no use blubbering. It won’t do you any good.”

  “Nobody asked you,” she says. Then: “I told you I wasn’t Vivian.”

  “You told us different things,” I say gently. I feel a momentary ache of sadness for her: the ache of an empty room after a party has dispersed. Every minute, she forgets how to be alive. She loses her lines and separateness; she is drawn into the air, blown apart on the wind coming through the open windows. “Who are you, really?”

  She sniffles, a sound like the faint stirring of mice in the walls. “My name’s Eva,” she says at last. “It was Eva. I don’t know what I am now. I—I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “Join the club, sister,” Sandra says, but without conviction. I can tell that she, like me, is tired of pretending.

  Trenton, Minna, Amy, the two policemen, and Katie—or Vivian, rather—have returned to the living room, which is now empty of other mourners. The cops have placed six chairs in a semicircle and everyone is seated.

  “Detective Rogers will be here any minute,” the cop with the bad complexion says. “Everyone just sit tight.”

  “What I want to know,” Danny says to Vivian, “is why you picked the Davison house. How’d you know they’d be away?”

  “Can I see your badge?” Amy asks him.

  “Shhh, Amy,” Minna says. But Danny passes the badge over.

  “Internet,” Vivian says. She almost—almost—sounds embarrassed. “Their house was listed on vacation rentals.”

  “Why did you do it?” Trenton asks her in a low voice.

  She looks down, picking at the hem of her jacket. “I don’t know. Just to get away for a while. Be somebody else. It felt kind of nice to have everybody looking for me, though.” She looks up at him. “Will you?”

  “Will I what?” Trenton says.

  A smile flickers over Vivian’s face, moving so quickly it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Will you look for me?”

  “Yes.” Trenton’s voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes.”

  “Are we done here?” Minna directs the question to Danny. “In case you’ve forgotten, we were in the middle of a memorial service. We’re burying my dad today.”

  Danny looks embarrassed. “We’re still going to have to take your mom down to the station.” Then he looks around, as if for the first time noticing her absence. “Where is your mom, anyway?”

  That’s when the gun goes off.

  PART IX

  THE HALL

  SANDRA

  Here’s Caroline:

  Gripping Richard Walker’s pistol tightly in one hand, while a man tries to wrestle it away from her; ignoring the crowd of people shouting instructions, pushing past her, calling for the police. There is a small hole in the ceiling, and a fine sift of plaster raining down onto the assembled guests. The front door hangs open like a mouth; standing on the front porch is a woman.

  The man with the black hair has Caroline in a bear hug. “No, Caroline. Caroline, stop.”

  “What the hell is she doing here?” Caroline’s voice is shrill. “Get her out. I want her out.”

  “Mom.” Then Minna comes tearing around the corner, and Trenton, and Amy, until Trenton seizes her around the waist and forces her to stay back
. The cops follow, eyes bulging and chests puffed out like they’re about to cream in their pants with importance. Vivian hangs back.

  “Move aside,” Danny says, squeezing through the knot of people. “Everyone clear out. Move aside.”

  The other guests hang back, conversing in whispers, trying hard not to show their excitement. They look like scavengers tailing a dump truck.

  “Mom, come on. Come with me.” Minna puts an arm around her mother. Caroline is trembling like a wire about to snap.

  “Get her out.” Her voice crests to a high shriek, like steam out of a kettle. Everyone is frozen and horrified. One woman has a smile plastered on her face, as wide and ugly as a Halloween jack-o’-lantern.

  Minna puts an arm around Caroline’s shoulders. “Shhh, Mom. Come on.” Caroline doesn’t budge.

  “She shouldn’t be here,” Caroline says. “She has no right, do you hear me? No right.”

  “It’s okay, Mom.” Minna glares at the woman on the porch. “Who the hell are you?”

  She’s dressed in black, and for a moment, backlit by the sun, her features are all in shadow. Then she takes a step into the hall. She looks like a dog that’s been kenneled and only half groomed: she has a bewildered, panicked look, like she has no idea where she is, and even though she’s dressed for a funeral, the hem of her slip is showing beneath her skirt and her black top is stained. She has dark red hair, frizzy, graying at the temples, hanging in a long braid down her back.

  Her jaw is moving soundlessly—up and down, up and down. It takes me a second to realize she’s saying I’m sorry, barely breathing it, so quietly I’m sure no one else can hear.

  Danny unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his belt and takes two steps toward Caroline. Trenton steps quickly in front of his mother.

  “You must be fucking kidding me,” Minna says.

  “I’m sorry, Minna,” he says quietly. “I really don’t have a choice.”

  “No way.” Now Trenton steps up.