“Right. You girls really interrupted my day.” My grandma scratches the top of the Captain’s head. “Kimber asked how the Captain died. Do you want to tell her?”
“She asked how he died?” I echo. First it was what happened to my grandma’s friend Louise, and now this?
“Go ahead,” she says, examining a strand of her red hair for split ends. “Tell her.”
I press my lips together, trying to suppress my agitation. There’s no way I’m telling this story.
“What’s the matter?” my grandma asks.
“Nothing. I don’t remember, that’s all. It was natural causes, right? He was old.”
“Old and sick,” my grandma agrees, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“It’s getting late,” Kimber interjects. “Rachel is right. We should probably go.”
“All right. Go ahead.” My grandma stands up straight, and the three of us start to walk toward the stairs. As Kimber moves past her, my grandma reaches out in a quick motion and grasps her by the arm. Her eyes narrow. The hall seems to tunnel. I stop breathing for a second, staring.
She gets like this sometimes. The person I’ve known all my life slips away and is replaced by someone completely different. I’ve seen it happen countless times, but I never get used to it. Her typically bright eyes take on a thick glassiness, making them seem almost cloudy. When she speaks, even though her voice has the same tone and pitch, it is somehow different. It seems older. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, and I’m not sure if it’s more her madness than it is her gift.
Maybe it’s both. Like my mom said, it’s a blurry line.
Kimber is frozen, staring at my grandmother. I can tell she’s scared. She looks ready to cry.
“You’re hurting me,” she says, the words coming out in a whisper.
The edges of my grandma’s mouth curl upward in a slight smile. “There are things much worse than death,” she says. “You remember that. Things much worse.”
Kimber yanks her arm away. She stands there, rubbing her skin where my grandma took hold, speechless with horror, her breathing shaky and shallow. I wasn’t expecting anything like this to happen, but considering everything else that’s going on right now, I should have known better than to bring her here. Even though it’s been a long time since my grandma has slipped away like this—months, maybe close to a year—it’s always a possibility.
And then, all of a sudden, Kimber breaks away from us and runs down the stairs. From the window in the landing, my grandma and I can see her as she rushes toward her car and climbs inside.
“Why’d you do that?” I demand. “You scared the hell out of her.”
My grandma gives a shudder. She shakes her head, coming back into herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. What did I say to her just now?”
I pause. “You don’t remember?”
She shakes her head. “I never do, sweetie.”
“You said, ‘There are worse things than death.’”
“Oh my.” She feigns embarrassment, but I can tell she’s half amused by all the fuss over what is, to her, a normal occurrence. “I’m sorry. Go after her, then. What a thing to say.”
I stare at her. “Grandma, are you okay? Are you taking your pills?” I regret the question immediately. I sound exactly like my aunt.
But my grandma doesn’t seem to mind. She simply ignores it, glancing down at the Captain. She gives him a pat on the head. “I think I’ll take a nap, sweetheart. We can talk more later. Okay?”
Again, I feel the urge to confront her, but it feels like the wrong time. As weird as it sounds, I’m just too tired. “Okay,” I agree. “We’ll talk soon.”
She stands in the hallway, watching as I move down the stairs. Just as I’m reaching the front door, she calls out to me. “Rachel?”
I pause. “Yes?” I ask, not turning around.
“It’s true, sweetie. There are worse things. You know that.”
What is that even supposed to mean? Does it mean anything at all? Or is it just the ramblings of an old woman, her brain misfiring to form thoughts that make no sense at all, insanity in action?
There is so much that I want to say to her right now, so many questions to ask. But I don’t; I’m too afraid of what her answers might be, of where they might lead me. It’s like I’ve got a loose thread, and something is tugging at it, pulling just hard enough to make me certain that one good yank could make everything unravel, and I’d never be able to put things back together again. Not the way they were.
Kimber sits alone in her car, hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, staring straight ahead at my grandma’s house. Except she isn’t really looking at it; her mind is obviously elsewhere.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m fine.” She turns her head so quickly that her long hair whips through the space between us. “What’s the matter with her?”
I don’t have the energy to explain my family’s history of mental illness right now. I am so exhausted that all I can think about is getting some sleep. My body is so weak that I can barely pull my door shut. “She’s old,” I say. “She gets confused sometimes, that’s all. We should leave.” I glance at the barn, resting wide and still against the horizon, and picture my sister inside, alone, maybe peeking out one of the windows, watching us. Why wouldn’t she speak to me? Why won’t she come home?
Kimber won’t let it go. “No,” she says, shaking her head. Her hands, I notice, are gripping the steering wheel tightly. “It was like she became somebody else. I’ve never seen anything like that, not in my whole life.”
“She’s sick,” I say. “You know, emotionally. She takes medication for it. It makes her strange.” All of this is sort of true. Except that it’s not. The medication is supposed to make her normal, not the other way around.
Kimber stares at me. “Sick,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
“Mentally ill.”
“Yes.”
Kimber starts the car. She nudges the gearstick into reverse and begins to back down the long gravel driveway. With her head turned, almost nonchalantly, she says, “That kind of stuff runs in families, Rachel. Doesn’t it?”
We’re sitting at the intersection of the driveway and the road. I know what she’s getting at. Has my sister talked to her about this, or is it something that everyone is talking about behind my back?
“I guess so,” I say. Even my voice is weak; the words come out like they’ve been rolled in gravel.
“Okay. So maybe Alice is having similar problems. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
She’s wrong. Maybe my grandmother slipped over the edge at some point, but I’m not even close. What does Rachel think, though? The idea that she might doubt my sanity is a stinging possibility. She’s never said anything like that, not to me, and the thought that she might choose to confide in Kimber, of all people, feels like a betrayal. If she had concerns, she should have told me directly. She would have told me.
As Kimber drives slowly through town, I have to fight to keep my eyes open. When we reach my house, we see that my aunt’s car is parked outside on the street, but I can’t even muster the energy to care that I’m going to get in trouble.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” she offers, even though it’s obvious she’d rather not.
“That’s okay.” My legs are shaky as I get out of the car; I would almost rather crawl inside than have to stay upright.
Kimber seems oblivious to my fatigue. “Will you be at work tonight?”
Work. Shit, shit, shit. I’d totally forgotten about work. Mr. Hahn is hardly ever at the restaurant in the evenings, but what if he shows up tonight? How am I supposed to act around him? If I don’t go at all, will that seem even stranger? The idea of having to remain conscious, waiting tables and chatting with customers, seems impossible. I feel like I could sleep for days and still be exhausted.
“Sure,” I manage, even though I’m anything but certain. “I’ll be
there.” Kimber works as a server at the Yellow Moon too.
“All right. Then I’ll see you later.” She looks at my house, then at me. She gives me a bright smile. “Good luck in there.”
Chapter Seventeen
The house is oddly quiet as I step inside. All the downstairs lights are on, and the television is turned to the midday local news, but the sound is off. From the hallway, I can see my aunt’s purse sitting on the kitchen counter. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock is the only sound breaking the silence, but even its noise is overwhelming; the room throbs with each passing second. I feel so weak that even climbing the stairs seems unmanageable.
“Hello?” I call, startled all over again by how soft and hoarse my voice is. Before I can sleep, I have to give my aunt some explanation as to why I’m home so early. It won’t be difficult to pretend I’m not feeling well. As I stand in the foyer, I summon every remaining shred of my strength, trying to muster the energy to find her. From the corner of my eye, I see Linda McCartney—the cat—taking deliberate steps down the stairs. Overnight, she has become so skinny that I can make out hollows near her rib cage beneath her long orange fur. I can see the outline of her spine. It’s probably because she’s nursing her kittens so much; they’re sucking everything out of her.
My aunt is sitting on the floor of my bedroom. She’s looking through one of my old sketchbooks, which sits open in her lap. Beside her, there’s a whole stack of them, probably going back at least a few years. She’s crying.
My aunt is not my friend; we have never gotten along well. But in all the years I’ve lived here, she has quietly encouraged my art, even when things between us have been particularly rough. Every birthday and Christmas brings new paints, canvases, pencils, and brushes. It’s not cheap, I know, and since my parents didn’t leave us any money, she and my uncle are under no obligation to indulge my interest. In return for this kindness, I have treated them terribly; I know this. There is a part of me that understands how much I owe them. They fought to raise Rachel and me when our grandmother wanted us, because they believed they could do a better job. They have been strict but fair. They love me. Yet in the past year, I have done little else but put them through endless troubles.
I have my reasons. Good ones. To my aunt and uncle, though, I’m just a brat.
But as I stand here, watching her cry, her eyeliner and mascara smudged, foundation worn away beneath her eyes to reveal fine wrinkles, I feel nothing but sorry for her. Maybe I’m just too tired to waste what little energy I have left being angry and resentful.
“Rachel,” she says, surprised, “what are you doing here?” She glances at her watch. “It’s barely twelve thirty.”
“I feel sick,” I say, slumping against the wall, out of breath just from climbing the stairs. “The nurse sent me home.”
She sniffles. “They let you walk? It’s over a mile.”
I nod. “I guess it was okay because I’m eighteen.”
It’s a flimsy explanation at best, but she doesn’t question it.
“What are you doing up here?” I ask. “You’re going through Alice’s things?”
She shakes her head. “No. I mean, I didn’t mean to. I came home from my meeting and sort of wandered up here, and before I knew it I was looking at her sketches.” She stares down at the open book. “They’re so good. She really has a gift. You already knew that.”
The book in her lap is open to a portrait of the gap-toothed girl I’ve been sketching for so long. Because of the way her eyes are drawn, no matter where you’re standing in the room, she’s always looking at you. I didn’t plan it that way, not at first, but for some reason that’s how most of my drawings of her have turned out.
“Come here,” my aunt says. “Sit down with me.”
As I take a seat on the floor beside her, it almost feels like an unseen hand is tugging me downward, like I don’t have control over my own body. I lean against her, still catching my breath, grateful for the moment that she believes I’m Rachel; I can rest my head on her shoulder without it seeming too odd.
My aunt runs a finger along the jawline of the gap-toothed girl. “Do you know who this is?” she asks me.
“No.” My eyelids flutter. I could fall asleep right here. “Do you?”
She doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she says, “There are pages and pages of her in these books. It’s the same face, over and over again.” She gives me a sideward glance. “Alice must know her somehow.”
Despite my exhaustion, my lips tilt upward in a slight smile. “Alice says she’s never seen her before in her life.”
Aunt Sharon shakes her head. “She’s wrong. She must be.”
“Oh?” I yawn.
“Yes,” Aunt Sharon says. “She must have met her somewhere, at some point. Maybe just crossing paths on the street, but still. Her face didn’t come from thin air, Rachel.” And she pauses, glancing down at the portrait again. The girl stares up at us, and even though she’s half-smiling, there is something incredibly sad about her expression.
“You know, I recognize her from somewhere myself,” my aunt says.
The information surprises me; a jolt of energy ripples through my body. This isn’t the first time she’s seen one of these portraits, and she’s never mentioned that the girl looks familiar until now.
“Where do you know her from?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter. There’s an edge to my voice, and my aunt senses it.
“I didn’t say I knew her. I said I recognized her. And I don’t know how. But I could swear I’ve seen her before.”
She touches the drawing again. Then, abruptly, she closes the sketchbook and sets it aside, on top of the others. The redness around her eyes has faded somewhat; it’s like she was never upset at all. “Anyway,” she continues, “that’s not important right now. You look exhausted, Rachel. You should take a nap.”
She stands up, extending a hand to help me to my feet. I’m too tired to think about anything right now, even my sister. All I want to do is fall asleep.
My aunt pulls the covers aside and helps me climb into bed. I feel like a small child as she tucks the blanket beneath my chin and presses her hand to my cheek, checking for a fever.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs, but my eyes are already shut, and her voice sounds far away. I feel her hair brush against my face as she leans down to kiss me on the forehead.
“Get some rest, sweet girl,” she whispers. But I barely have time to process her words before the room slips away—slowly at first, and then all at once—like someone is reaching out from the darkness to yank me toward them, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The dream is vivid and bright: I’m on the trail again, but this time Rachel is walking a few steps ahead of me. She’s in her outfit from Saturday night, but her feet are bare as she navigates the stone-covered path, stopping every few seconds to kneel down and peer at the ground.
I try to walk faster, but my legs won’t move as quickly as I need them to; no matter how hard I struggle to catch up with her, she remains a few paces away, just out of reach. The wound on the back of her head is nearly identical to mine, the shiny, damp circle of bare flesh oozing fluid, refusing to heal.
She glances over her shoulder, looking at me. “Can you help me, Alice?” she asks. There is almost no expression to her face; it’s like she doesn’t understand who I am, even as she says my name.
“What are you looking for?” Again, I try to get closer, but it’s difficult to walk. Each step is a struggle for me, like I’m wading through a layer of sap.
She shades her eyes from the bright light all around us, which is harsh and blinding, even though I don’t see the sun anywhere. The bruises on her face are much worse than mine; her left eye is swollen shut, and she has a split lip. There is blood smeared around her nose, dripping from her nostrils. When I look at the ground, I see that the droplets have been falling onto the stones, leaving bright-red bursts of color every few paces as she moves along,
like a grisly trail of bread crumbs marking her path.
She doesn’t seem like she’s in pain, though; instead, she’s preoccupied by her search, oblivious to the way she looks. “I’m so thirsty, Alice. I’ve never felt so thirsty before in my life.” She pauses. “Will you help me look? I could swear I just had it a minute ago.”
“You could swear you just had what, Rachel? Tell me,” I plead.
My desperation has no impact on her. “I got it at the fair,” she continues, “from an old man. It’s the most amazing thing, Alice. It’s a little monkey carved out of a peach pit.” She frowns, biting her bottom lip, a blossom of blood appearing as her teeth sink into the flesh.
“Rachel, you’re bleeding! You’re hurt!” I try to reach for her again, without success. If anything, the distance between us seems to be growing wider, even though we’re both standing still.
She gives a dismissive wave of her hand; her wrist is encircled by a thick line of dried blood. “That’s not important right now, Alice. Help me find it, please? I was going to give it to Charlie.”
“I have one too,” I say. “Don’t worry about it—I’ll give mine to Charlie. Just come home.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s not good enough. We need to find this one.”
“Why?” I demand.
“Because it doesn’t belong to him. It belongs to me.”
“What do you mean?”
She pauses. She tilts her head, listening. “Be quiet,” she whispers. “He’ll hear us.”
“Who will? Rachel, who is it?” I try to take a step forward, but I cannot even lift my feet off the ground; it’s like I’m glued in place.
“I have to leave,” she says, looking around, a trace of worry in her voice. “Promise me you’ll keep looking, okay?”
Paralysis begins to spread through my body, starting at my feet and creeping upward, until I can’t even move my arms. I try to speak, but I can’t open my mouth. All I can do is stare at her.
Beautiful Lies Page 18