The Dead Girls Club (ARC)

by Damien Walters

  It’s too much to unpack.

  But now I know why her body was never found. I wasn’t a “super-clever-best-hiding-spot-for-a-grave-ever” kind of kid. I definitely remember burying the knife and running home, but after, there’s a gray area. I assumed it was one piece my mind hid too deep to find. When you don’t know the whole story, you piece it together, fill in the gaps.

  That last night, we were in the basement on a cold floor. I thought I killed her, so my mind made her dead. I remember staying beside her for a long time, but what’s a long time to a kid? A few minutes at best? I tap my fingers even harder.

  And when I went back, she must’ve been pretending. That’s all. She was smart and clever. She could’ve fooled me if she wanted to. And after I left her there alone, what the hell happened? Did she get up? Was she cold and hurt and scared? If so, even if she didn’t want to go home, why didn’t she come to my house? How did she survive the knife wound? Where did she go? What did she do? Did someone else save her? And if so, who? Why didn’t she ever let me know? Too many goddamn questions. It bugs me.

  Red Lady, Red Lady.

  I got caught up in her, too, believed she was real. Now I know better. Mass hysteria crops up now and again in all parts of the world. The dancing plague, the Tanganyika laughter epidemic, the West Bank fainting epidemic. All documented. It explains the coughing, the blood in the kitchen, the cramps. The writing in my books, in the sugar, all messages to myself, borne of guilt and helplessness. I didn’t remember writing them because I didn’t want to. That’s why I still can’t remember some things.

  But I do remember that Becca really thought she’d save her.

  I shake out of my stare, releasing an airy grunt. There’s a pang in my chest, not for what I don’t know, but for what I don’t have, for what I haven’t had since that summer. Not even Ryan knows me the way Becca did. All the good, the bad, the ugly, all the parts that made me me. She’s still inside, that twelve-year-old girl, still reaching out a hand in the darkness, still whispering best friends forever.

  Please be kind …

  Becca’s not dead.

  And Ryan is gone.

  I pace the first floor again. I can’t stay here right now. Can’t sit in the house by myself. Not tonight. It’s all too much. I grab my keys and my jacket and slip on my shoes. I have no destination in mind, but after driving aimlessly around downtown Annapolis, I pull into an available spot on Main Street near Kilwins Ice Cream Shop. With a scoop of sea salt caramel, I sit in a rickety chair out front, then make my way to City Dock. A wooden boardwalk surrounds the water on three sides, a parking lot and the Harbormaster’s Office flanking one side and restaurants the other, a wide promenade at the end.

  The night’s a cool one, but a few bars have their doors open, letting out music and chatter. People are milling around, occupying the boardwalk benches, looking at the expensive boats moored along the waterway known as Ego Alley or sitting near the Kunta Kinte-Alex Haley Memorial at the harbor’s head.

  I keep my pace slow. At the end of the promenade I stand, overlooking the creek, watching the water slosh around the pilings. Now and again glances fix on me, linger, then dart away. I see worry, pity, alarm. Then I feel the moisture on my cheeks, the lurch in my shoulders. Hear the hitching sobs. Swallowing embarrassment, I scrub my skin dry with my forearms. Pin my emotions in place.

  And I feel someone watching me. The hair on my arms stands at attention, a legion of soldiers at the ready. Behind me, a small child cries over a spilled bag of Swedish Fish. A young couple kisses. Two men in khakis exchange a rowdy high-five. A woman waves to someone aboard a boat. No familiar faces, no one staring, but the sensation is too strong to shake.

  On my way to the car, while waiting at a crosswalk, I see Nicole leaving Middleton Tavern. Our gazes meet and hold. And she turns away. The light changes and people push their way around me. I finally shake myself out of my stupor—if she wants to be that way, so be it—and pretend her rejection doesn’t hurt.

  When I return home, the first floor smells of candle smoke, faint enough to have trailed in from the outside, but I call Ryan’s name anyway. Of course he doesn’t answer. We have three candles clustered on one end of the fireplace mantel; I press my thumb into each, and it sinks a bit in one. The wax isn’t liquid, but I swear it’s warm. Did Ryan have a candle lit earlier? Even if he did, wouldn’t it be cool by now?

  Wielding a fireplace poker, I stalk from room to room with a sense of déjà vu, but this time everything’s in its place. There’s no one on the first floor, no one on the second. I even check under the beds and the closets. No one’s here but me.

  I double-check all the windows and the doors and carry the poker with me, along with a glass of wine, to the bedroom. The lock is only a flimsy push button, but I press it anyway. I check under the bed again, then sit on the edge of the mattress, drink my wine, and listen to the quiet.

  When the glass is empty, I open my email and find the last one from Lauren. BECCA, IS THIS YOU? I type. I wait for a long time, but there’s no response.

  * * *

  I do something I’ve not done in years: I call in sick. I don’t even talk to Ellie, simply call early enough to leave a message for her to cancel my appointments. Once that’s done, I set the phone to silent and roll over. When I wake again, I’m tangled in sweaty sheets, my mouth bitter. I shove the dreams from my thoughts and unwind my legs.

  It’s sunny outside, but I keep the blinds shut. No need for cheer in this house. I return the fireplace poker and, while coffee is brewing, check my phone. No calls or texts from Ryan or Mom or Nicole. Only a response from Ellie that my appointments were canceled and she hopes I feel better. I fill a mug. Put together some yogurt with blueberries and granola but toss most of it out uneaten. Send Ryan a quick text apologizing again. In a few moments, it shows as read, but there’s no response. I wrap my arms around myself and rock.

  I send my mom a message, too. In her case, it shows as delivered, not read. Then I send one to Gia, apologizing, telling her I can explain. Delivered. Read. No response.

  I scratch my scalp. Refill my mug. Dump it into the sink and return upstairs. The sheets smell sour, but I don’t care. Nearly an hour of flopping back and forth from belly to back like a beached whale later, I climb out of bed again. This time I shower.

  I’m in the hallway, hair in a towel, when I hear the patter of soft footsteps. I stand, fists clenched tight. Someone’s in the kitchen. Robe belted tight, I toddler-step to the first floor, pausing at the landing. And there, a single footstep. Careful, cautious.

  No fireplace poker in sight, but I raise a fist and run in, voice a hero’s war cry. But the kitchen’s empty. The breakfast nook, too. The entire first floor. I let my fist drop. Walk the rooms again, twisting my hands together, but you can’t out a damned spot when you’re the one who’s damned.

  I change into leggings and an old hoodie. Fuzzy socks. I don’t know where the day went, but the sun’s already dropping below the horizon.

  On the back patio, I drag the fire pit a little closer to the house and light it up. Inside, I open my bag and remove the ribbon, the drawing, our construction paper book, and Becca’s half of the necklace. I fetch mine, too. In the family room I catch movement from outside, a flash of pale darting near the glass, disappearing again. Skin? A dress? A plastic bag tumbled by the breeze? Armpits damp, I tiptoe across the room. There’s enough light left outside to make out the edge of the yard, the river beyond, its surface like a sheet of glass today. Nothing and no one else.

  The fire has built up nicely, blue and orange flames dancing in the shadows. It’s time to say goodbye to my childhood ghosts. To my guilt. Time to put myself and my life back in order. I feed the ribbon to the fire pit first, closing my eyes as it burns. The book goes second, and although tears are coursing silent tracks, I manage a small smile.

  She was alive the whole time!

  I hold the drawing for a time, then feed it to the fire as well. The neckla
ces are cheap metal, but I doubt this blaze is hot enough to melt them. The water behind our house beckons, and feeling much like old Rose in Titanic, I carry them down. Unlike Rose, I can’t bring myself to let go. These I’ll keep, to honor our friendship. I turn back to the house, and there’s someone standing near the fire pit. Not just someone. Becca.

  The necklaces fall to the grass. My steps are slow, faltering. I’m not sure what to think or feel. She’s here. At my house. But she’s not smiling. Fear tightens my belly, but I keep moving forward. She’s not frowning, either, just watching me, her face impassive. I stop a few feet away.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says. She’s wearing jeans and an old olive drab jacket. Boots with scuffed toes. A battered tan messenger bag slung over one shoulder. I step closer and give her a hug, my vision blurry. I can’t help it. She’s alive. She really is. She smells of old smoke, a hint of mildew, and musky earth, not patchouli, but a scent in a similar vein. At first, she’s stiff and awkward in my arms, then she relaxes and gives a squeeze before we let go.

  Wiping my eyes, I say, “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s you and you’re here and … oh my god.” I say, touching the hollow of my throat. “Do you want to go inside? Do you want some wine or water? Or anything?”

  “I’d rather stay out here, and no, I don’t want anything.”

  “That’s fine. We can— Here, let me pull the lawn chairs closer.”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  I sit first. She so strongly resembles Lauren, it’s startling. She’s about the same height, but thinner. The angles of her cheekbones are sharper, her chin more pointed. And she looks older than she should. Much older. She drops her bag on the patio and shrugs off her jacket, revealing a faded red long-sleeved Henley. She’s even skinnier than I first thought. And not the healthy-eating-and-consistent-exercise kind. Her collarbones, the tendons on the backs of her hands, speak of ill health, of days without enough food. The firelight reveals weathered skin, a chipped front tooth. I feel a surge of guilt for my own physicality. Limbs made stronger in the gym, skin clearer in the bathroom, belly full of healthy options. Doctors and dentists within easy reach.

  “I have so many things I want to ask you,” I say, crossing my ankles under the chair. “I’m not even sure where to start. I guess … how have you been?”

  “I’ve had some rough years, you know, but things are starting to work out.” She glances at the house. “Looks like you’re doing okay.”

  Guilt rises again. “I’m a psychologist,” I say. “I work with kids, but I guess you know that?” She makes a small sound, but I can’t decipher its meaning. “What about you?” I say, flicking the cuticle of my pinkie with my thumbnail.

  “Nothing important. Just a job that pays the rent,” she says, gaze darting from side to side, foot bouncing.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears. Lean forward with elbows resting on my thighs. “Why didn’t you call me? Tell me you were okay?”

  She shrugs. “Never seemed like the right time.”

  She pushes up her sleeves, yanks them back in place, but not before I see the thin tracery of scars patterning her skin. Now I understand. She’s an addict. Recovered, though. There’s a clarity she wouldn’t have if she were still using. Hello, more guilt. It hurts to see her this way. To know her road has been potholed and cracked.

  “I got the things you sent,” I say.

  Something akin to a grimace darts in and flickers away so quickly it might not have been there at all. There’s a tension in the air, rubbing like sandpaper on skin.

  “The book … remember how many we made?” I say. “Do you still draw?”

  “Uh-uh,” she says, looking down, rubbing her palms together as though she’s cold. Her foot ceases its movement.

  “You were so good. Everyone said so, remember? The drawing you made of Roxie? I kept it on my wall for a long time,” I say. “It’s still packed away somewhere in my parents’ attic. I think I might’ve loved it as much as I did Roxie.”

  Her brows pinch together. The tension grows larger.

  “Please be kind,” I say, watching her closely. Something isn’t right here. She isn’t right somehow.

  She blinks. Scratches her arm. The frown deepens. She has no idea what I’m talking about. I can understand her forgetting about my old dog, but our catchphrase? It hits me like a punch in the solar plexus. This isn’t Becca. I don’t know who she is or what the hell she’s doing here, but she’s not Becca.

  She sits back with her arms folded over her chest. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out.”

  “Who are you? Why did you let me think you were Becca?” My chest aches at the cruelty. The callousness.

  “I’m Sarah, her mom.”

  I go rigid. “That’s not possible. Her mom is—was—Lauren Thomas.”

  “No, Lauren was her aunt. I’m Lauren’s sister, Becca’s real mom.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.” And I don’t. Becca had an aunt, I remember that, but she was dead when we were kids. Or so I thought.

  “It’s not that hard, doc. I got pregnant when I was fourteen. Lauren was just supposed to take care of Becca until either I got my shit together or my mom finished chemo. Lauren was thirteen years older than me, see. But it didn’t happen like that. And my mom … well, her chemo didn’t work so well.”

  My mind is reeling. I can’t make these puzzle pieces fit because I don’t know where the corners are.

  “Look,” I say. “You should go. My husband will be back and—”

  “The same husband I saw all packed up and leaving?” She stares until I wither beneath the weight. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “So, my sister told Becca I was dead,” she continues. “Guess she thought it was the best thing to do, I don’t know. I did get clean for a little while and I tried to see Becca, but Lauren wouldn’t let me. One Halloween I even tried to take her, but I was a mess then, not even eighteen yet. Lauren and I ended up getting into a pretty ugly fight.”

  A piece falls into place, and I say, “The angel.”

  “Huh?”

  “Becca told me a story about almost being kidnapped by an angel. I thought she made it up.”

  Guilt ages her at least five years. In the firelight, she turns skeletal. “She remembered that?”

  “At least some of it.”

  “Yeah, I thought with the costume, Lauren wouldn’t know it was me. Like I said, I was a mess. I was a mess for a really long time. When Becca called me…” She looks off toward the water.

  “She called you? When?”

  “Yeah, the summer she … disappeared. She found out the truth and she wanted me to come get her. Said things were bad with my sister. The drinking and the hitting. But I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone her and me. She called me a couple times. I kept telling her I couldn’t help. The last time she said I needed to come and get her that night or she might die. But I couldn’t get to her for a couple of nights. I went to her house, figuring I’d talk to Lauren. Maybe she’d let me see Becca.”

  Her words are stones in my heart. “Lauren said no, didn’t she?”

  “Wrong. No one answered the door. So I left. Then I saw the news, and that was that, right?” Sarah tips her chin down, peeks up through her lashes. Not coquettish, but sneaky.

  I meet her gaze as evenly as possible. Keep my composure.

  “I would’ve helped if I could,” she says. “I would’ve taken Becca away.” But she looks to one side when she speaks.

  I can’t imagine how Becca must’ve felt finding out her mom wasn’t her mom, and then finding out her birth mother wouldn’t help her. No wonder she was such a mess that summer. And after she realized she couldn’t rely on either one, she turned to the Red Lady. She didn’t understand the how and why. How could she? Her birth mother’s name—Sarah—the name of her childhood invisible friend, the name of the witch in the book we made, the name of the Red Lady. All those dangling threa
ds twisting into one. All because of this woman.

  “I never saw Lauren when she was in prison,” she says. “But once she got out … She really did think she killed Becca. She was having blackouts and remembered that they had a fight and she hit her, but nothing after that. So when the cops said she killed her, she just went along with it. No fucking way would I plead guilty to something I didn’t remember doing, but Lauren … she was weak.

  “I got to thinking, what if Lauren didn’t kill her? I guess if you knew her the way I did, you’d understand. I made her go over everything she did remember, and one thing kept bugging me: Becca said someone was going to help her. Lauren didn’t want to tell me who, so I had to convince her it was the right thing to do. She said it was you. You were supposed to help Becca.”

  My hand fumbles toward the pocket in my hoodie, but my phone’s inside. I glance from Sarah to the house. She’s in the chair closest to the French doors, but if I run, I should be able to make it inside fast enough to shut and lock the door. Should being the operative word.

  “From there, I just had to track you down. Wasn’t too hard. I even found your picture in the paper. I called you a couple times but figured you wouldn’t talk to me. So I had the idea to send you the necklace. Lauren wasn’t real happy about it, said she wouldn’t be involved, said you never would’ve hurt Becca, but it wasn’t her decision to make.”

  Wait. This piece doesn’t fit, no matter which way I turn it. How did she even have Becca’s necklace? It was around Becca’s neck, and she was in the basement. Sarah wasn’t there. “Where did you get it?” I say.

  “Get what?”

  “Becca’s necklace,” I say. “And her drawing and the ribbon. Where did you get them? How did you get them?”