Some Laneys Died: A Skipping Sideways Thriller

by Brooke Skipstone

  She wanted me to smile, to give her a hug, and put my foolishness behind me so we could get to bed. But all I could think of was how to jump from one universe to another. If I could imagine what happens in another bubble, then why couldn’t I be there? When I wrote, I saw real people saying and doing real things. There was no difference in my mind between what I saw with my eyes and what I imagined I saw. So wasn’t I in another universe when I used my imagination?

  I couldn’t go back in time, but maybe I could skip sideways. “When I write, I live in these different worlds.”

  “In your mind, Laney.”

  “Could I ever see another universe?”

  She shifted her legs and moved closer. “Let’s try this thought experiment. In one universe, you decide to stay inside the house. In another, you run outside to play in the rain. The you inside the house looks out the window by chance at the same time as the you outside looks through the window inside the house. What would either of you see?”

  I wanted to say, “Each other,” but I knew she’d scoff at me. So I gave the answer she wanted. “An empty, dry living room and an empty, wet front yard?”

  “Yes, because the act of looking causes another split in your own universe, one that fits logically into your particular story. Besides, by the time either of you decide to look through the window, you would have already made a dozen decisions, creating more universes which have moved forward in their own time frame. How would either of you ever catch the other?”

  I stood, holding my stories. My brain was like a racehorse, ready to take off as soon as she moved away from the gate. “I need to write something.”

  She stared at me, mouth open, right eye squinting slightly like she didn’t recognize me. Then she shook her head. She held her hand up for me to help her stand. “You’re not going to stop this obsession, are you?”

  I pulled her up. “No. I can’t.”

  She tightened her lips and touched my cheek. “Maybe . . .”

  “No.” My words rushed out of my mouth. “Thanks for explaining this to me, Mom. I’ll read more about what you told me, and then we can talk again.” I turned toward my desk and pulled out my chair.

  “Please don’t stay up too late, Delaney.”

  “Sure.” I sat in my chair and tapped my keyboard to awaken my computer.

  I heard my door close then tried to imagine all the worlds my choices had created. In one of them, surely, Hannah Strong and Sean West still lived together in our house, happy, with a perfectly normal daughter who doesn’t dream about losing herself in unseen universes. Or finding herself in them.

  2

  Some time after I left Marissa’s sleepover, I drove by the park where the girls were found. I don’t remember why. Later, I arrived home. My mind was in a fog for the rest of that weekend. I read the article about the two girls many times. I tried to imagine what had happened to them, even wrote several pages of their story, but stopped. I tried imagining the other option of staying at Marissa’s and never opening the story on my phone. That version was more interesting, but ultimately led nowhere. I think I studied for finals.

  A simple choice had changed my life and sent my father packing. Another choice—reading the article—has possibly changed things, though I’m not sure how. Make a few choices here and there, and pretty soon—bang—you’re in a universe you never intended to visit. Better to know each decision and make sure it’s the right one. And to recognize the important ones.

  Months ago I decided to keep track of each choice, trying to avoid mistakes. But some days it’s hard because I deliberate over each option, afraid to commit to only one.

  I worry that counting is crazy and unhealthy. Sometimes I try to stop, but it’s like being trapped underwater. I’m holding my breath, but it can only last so long before I panic, before I worry about drowning. Eventually I have to break through the surface, gasping for air, and realize I just made a choice that could’ve killed me.

  I have to stay focused. Too much is at stake.

  Monday, I decided to just do and not think. Didn’t worry about each choice. Just took them as they came. Clothes, driving route, parking space, who to respond to in the hallway, who to seek out, whose invitation to accept or reject. As a result, I beat my previous record of just over two hundred recorded choices. None of them seemed life changing, but who knows?

  Today, I start over and am up to ten when I watch Khannan grimace as Mom kisses his cheek before she rushes out the door this morning. I could’ve turned away to fill my travel cup with coffee. But I don’t.

  By lunch, I’m at thirty-five when I drive home and yell at a girl about my age wearing shades practically running from my front door in a pleated miniskirt.

  “Who the hell are you?” I bark.

  I could’ve bitten my lip and pretended to find something in my car until she pulled away in hers. But I don’t.

  About my height but showing so much more skin than I’ve ever dared to, she flashes her white teeth behind purple lipstick and brushes past me, saying nothing, headed toward her red Outback. Mine is white.

  Is there a gold stud in her tongue?

  She hurries down the sidewalk, her skirt riding up obscenely with each step. She waves at me and purposely spreads her legs as she slides into the seat, smiling again before she shuts her door. Then she guns her car around the rest of our circular driveway and races down the street.

  I’d left my graphing calculator on my desk this morning and need it for class this afternoon, so I have to go inside.

  The foyer reeks of weed. Sofa pillows lie scattered around the living room, and a chair stands in the middle of the kitchen, ropes sagging in loops onto the seat. Others lie curled around the legs.

  Visions of Khannan’s skinny body filling the chair grate against my eyes. I shake my head and turn away, trying to keep the bile out of my throat.

  I don’t want to see this. I want to scream but force myself to take deep breaths instead.

  The same thing has happened again—a man my Mom trusted has cheated on her! And I doubt it is Khannan’s first time.

  He and his son, Eddie, moved into our house a year ago. Mom seemed happy and asked me to give the man a chance, and I did. But during the past few weeks, his boredom with her has become more obvious, to me at least. Despite his gourmet dinners for us each night. Despite rubbing her feet with lotion as they watch TV. The man is faking it, I’m certain.

  But I already screwed up one of her relationships. I can’t do it to her again.

  I stare at the ropes and see a flash of wrists tied together. A girl’s? Did he tie her up? What the hell?

  A door opens down the hall. My throat tightens, and I hold my breath, trying to back away. I hear footsteps. Or think I do.

  I run as quietly as I can to my room and close the door. My calculator rests on top of a folded section of newspaper I read last night. I grab both, head toward the window, and pop off the screen, which I shove under my bed like I’ve done many times before when I needed to sneak out of the house. Straddling the tree limb, I reach back and push the window down before jumping to the ground and running around to the driveway. My face burns as my eyes stare at the front door, willing it to stay closed until I leave our neighborhood.

  I barely get to my class on time, say nothing to anyone, and plop into my seat near the back of the room. During the next fifty minutes, I scribble down every choice I’d made from the time I’d left school to sitting at my desk. Then I write, “What do I do now?”

  I can’t tell Mom. Not again. But not telling her has its own consequences. Doing nothing is still doing something.

  Truthfully, I want Khannan to leave. I’ve always thought there was something phony about him, and now I have proof. Supposedly, he’s a software engineer who works at home as often as his office. Maybe he has his dominatrix (or slave) visit him every time he works at home—or just looks at porn all day. Isn’t that what guys do?

  My mother needs someone besides Khannan, but she
claims she loves him. She’s told me how lonely she was until she met him. He makes her feel special—remember foot rubs and dinner. And his son, Eddie, my age, is usually pleasant and polite—even cute—but mostly invisible now since he hides in his room with his Xbox. At first, he asked me to help him with math, but stopped after I finally got tired of him telling me how hot I am. Just another horny boy.

  When Dad lived with us, we had fun—fishing, camping, hiking. We took trips to national parks. He laughed loud and gave frequent hugs. And he was spontaneous, which got the better of him when Gibbs showed up at our July Fourth picnic at Falls Park—cut-off top and short shorts, long legs and golden hair. Stand Gibbs next to Mom, and no one, absolutely no one would choose Mom. Except for another physicist, maybe.

  Or Khannan, who is her best friend, she says. An illusion he perpetuates while he cheats. Or maybe because he cheats.

  Who knows what goes on inside men’s minds? Do they know? Do they make real choices or just follow their dicks everywhere?

  I glance two rows up and see Terry thumbing his phone in his lap while he pretends to be taking notes, his long hair hiding his eyes. What’s he looking at? He was one of the guys Marissa and Kaitlyn FaceTimed in their underwear on Friday before I left.

  “Hey, Laney,” Garrett whispers from behind. He’s the only person I allow to call me that, the same name my father used. “Reach back.”

  I move my hand behind my seat. He pushes a paper into my palm and drags his fingertips along my wrist while I push my tips against his. Long, strong fingers—he plays keyboard—with extra soft skin. Sometimes I’ll hold my hand back during class, and he’ll stroke it, so softly. I get breathless and tingly everywhere. I clutch the paper then open it on my desk.

  Sneak out tonight at 2? We can see the Leonid Meteor Showers together.

  My heart races. I’d love to. We could hold hands and count the streaks of light.

  I write back. Not sure I can. There may be a blowout at my house tonight. Talk later.

  I hold the paper out for him, wanting to feel his fingers again, but the bell rings, and everyone stands.

  “What’ve you been writing?” He bends toward my notebook still open on my desk. “I watched you filling up that page the whole period.”

  I pick up my notebook before he can see any of the words. “Which is why you’re making a C in this class.” I smile and push some hair behind my ear. It hangs below my shoulders now.

  “True. But then I couldn’t ask you to tutor me.”

  I look into his dark brown eyes, dancing above the freckles on his cheeks. Tall, lean, a little awkward sometimes, but always cute. I wonder how he would react if he knew I wrote stories about him. I wet my lips. “If we didn’t spend so much time studying, maybe we could do something else.”

  He grins. “Like what?” His eyes flash to my breasts.

  “Watch the meteor shower, silly.” I raise my brows. “What else would we do?” We walk toward the exit. “But I don’t think I can go tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I haven’t decided whether to tell or not tell.” He stops in the hall, looking confused. I smile and snicker softly. “You’ve got that look down pat. It’s too cute.” I kiss his cheek quickly. He almost drops his books. “Talk to you later.”

  I turn my back and walk toward the Pre-cal room, sporting a big smile, knowing his eyes are glued to me. That’s a moment he won’t forget. And a choice I won’t regret.

  A few hours later, I park in my driveway, staring at the front door. What will I see inside? The chair and ropes? A satiated Khannan? What will I say to him?

  I can’t sit out here forever, so I grab my pack from the seat next to me and notice the newspaper underneath. Toward the bottom is the headline DNA Evidence Suggests Skeletons Were Twin Sisters.

  3

  I read that story at least ten times last night. I’ve always wanted a sister and never understood why I am an only child. I remember playing in front of a mirror, imagining the other girl was my twin, like I was looking through a glass into another world. She couldn’t sit next to me, but she was just on the other side of the barrier. I never told anyone, but my sister sometimes moved and spoke differently than I.

  Why would someone murder twins?

  Why anything? I mean, so often explanations make sense only after the fact, as if reasons are concocted to get to a specific result—which already happened and surprised everyone.

  Of course, one can always call the unexplainable an illusion or a mental aberration. Some might claim I had a wild imagination as a child, or maybe I was a little crazy. Neither of which explains anything, especially the fact that my twin and I touched sometimes. When Mom told me the girl inside the house couldn’t see the girl looking into the house, I had to bite my lip. I knew they could sometimes because I had seen her.

  I shove the newspaper into my pack and start to exit the car, still unsure what I’ll say to Khannan.

  I stop.

  I should think this through and consider all the options first. Why wait until I make a choice—probably in anger or frustration—and then spend so much time and energy writing about what I should have done? Think of all the possibilities now and make a better choice.

  I close the car door and let my imagination go, hanging on as it enters the house.

  * * *

  The foyer smells like Febreze, way too much of it. One of the sofa cushions is turned around with the zipper in front. Smiling to myself, I know I have him. No way a cushion in my mother’s house would be backwards. Tip-toeing around the corner, I peek into the kitchen. Empty. The granite counters reflect the skylight above, and the terra cotta tile clicks under my shoes as I approach the kitchen table slowly.

  And then I see it. A chair with a crack in the back near the seat. And an ooze of wood glue. Made by someone pushing back and straining against the stimulation. I pull the back slightly and open the break just as Khannan walks in, reading the newspaper.

  He stops in his tracks, glances at the chair, licks his lips. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Which time? Now? Or earlier?” I allow a slight smile to stretch my lips and raise my brows.

  He narrows his eyes, looking more puzzled and afraid. “Now.”

  “At lunch I came by the house just as a cute young girl was leaving.”

  He swallows and widens his eyes. “I’m not sure who . . .”

  I fold my arms and lean against the counter. “Kind of young for you, don’t you think?”

  He coughs. “For me?”

  “Who else? Eddie?” I almost laugh.

  “Delaney, do you not remember?”

  “I remember sofa cushions all over the floor and this chair right here,” I say as I drag it to the center of the kitchen, “with ropes.” I grin and shake my head. “Ropes, Khannan? Really?”

  Khannan moves away slightly then sits down at the table. “Let’s go through this from the beginning. Eddie claimed he was sick this morning, so he stayed home. I came home before lunch to check on him and found him naked in this chair, struggling to get up. I heard noises by the front door, so I ran to check them out. A . . . teenage girl, as you put it, was frantically trying to put on her clothes.”

  I try not to smirk and laugh but can’t stop a weird bark from escaping my mouth. “So Eddie’s the one messing around. Not you?”

  “Certainly not me.”

  “And who was the girl?”

  He bites his lip and narrows his eyes. “You, Delaney.”

  I’m drowning in ice water and cover my mouth. I can’t breathe.

  “It’s OK, Delaney.” He stands. “We can keep this between us, and I’ve already spoken to Eddie. That will not happen again.”

  I close my eyes.

  * * *

  My phone vibrates, and I gasp for breath. I jerk up in my car seat, reach for my phone, and see a message from Mom. I just received exciting news! Will be home soon.

  I’m still having trouble breathing, so I open
my car door, hoping to let in some cool air. But an 80° breeze blows against me. It’s December in Austin, Texas, and it’s this hot!

  Am I going crazy?

  I close my eyes and try to see the girl’s face again, but so much is covered by her sunglasses. Her hair is my color, and our figures are the same—large in the bust, slim in the hips.

  Me with Eddie? I shudder. Why would my imagination take me there?

  I grab my stuff, lock the car, and walk toward the house. Some leaves have fallen, mixed with acorns, but not because of any change in the weather. Just exhaustion from hanging on during this endless summer. Seems like we run the air conditioner year round.

  Panic surges for some reason as I open the door. No smell of weed. No overdose of Febreze.

  My legs wobble as I call, “Khannan!” Silence. “Eddie!” More silence.

  The sofa. Check the sofa. I stumble-run into the living room and note the cushions. All correctly placed. Then into the kitchen where I grab a chair and check for glue. Nothing.

  My heart thumps against my chest. I sling my pack onto my shoulder, pinning my hair against my back. Damn! I yank my hair out from under the strap with a snarl and a yelp.

  I try to calm down, breathing slowly, deeply, and feel sweat trickle from my armpits.

  The screen! I race to my bedroom, toss my pack on the bed and collapse onto my knees, reaching for the screen, which I had removed earlier. Nothing. Looking up to the window, I notice the screen in place and the window locked.

  But I removed it. I couldn’t have locked the window from outside.

  Unless I never went out the window and raced out the front door like Khannan said.

  I run to the kitchen again and kneel down to check the chair, carefully rubbing my fingertips along the back. Nothing. No groove. No ridge.

  If there’s no crack, then I’d just imagined Khannan’s story about me and Eddie. Why would I do that?

  But if the window is locked, then I never jumped out of it.