The Space Between

by Brenna Yovanoff

  Raymie watches his hands, still scowling. “That’s not a heart, that’s a valentine.”

  “Okay, fine. But were there valentines like this when someone took you to the storage shed?”

  She nods and I smile encouragingly. I’m waiting for her to go on, when Truman turns and walks out of the tiny bathroom. He sits down on the bed, raking his hands through his hair and staring fixedly at the wall.

  “Jesus,” he says in a small, dry voice, like the words are stuck in his chest. “That’s not even possible. She was in there for almost a month, with no food and no water. How is that possible?”

  “Well, she’s a demon,” I tell him, leaning sideways to talk through the open door. “We’re almost impossible to kill through adverse conditions or neglect. I mean, you have to actually want us dead. This is more like someone just ignored her for awhile.”

  Raymie nods in staunch agreement and piles bubbles on top of her head like a hat.

  “Who put you in the shed?” I ask her, cupping my hands, pouring water over her to rinse the soap off.

  “My mother.” She scrubs at her eyes. “She told me I’d be safe and to wait for my father. But he never came.”

  Something is humming uneasily in my chest. It beats against my ribs like a bird, and I kneel beside the bathtub, looking down at her.

  If I hadn’t found the key, she’d still be sitting there in the dark and the cold, waiting for her father. How long? Maybe forever. I imagine Raymie’s mother, bringing her to Asher Self-Storage, tucking her away to wait for a man who can’t come for her, who’s chained to a table in a dark church.

  I have a litany of reassuring stories, things to tell myself—that the situation is not completely dire and Truman’s dream is definitive proof that my brother’s still all right. But deep down I know that Truman may be right. A dream is no substitute for the real thing. Maybe Raymie is not a clue after all, just a complication.

  “I want to be dressed again,” she tells me.

  Her plastic bag is in tatters on the floor and I can’t put it back on her. In my head, I make a list of all the things we need, soap and shampoo, clothes for Raymie and for Truman, and the list makes things seem orderly. The world, falling into place.

  “I’m going shopping,” I tell Truman. “Raymie ought to have clothes, and I’m going to get you a toothbrush and some socks and shirts. What else would you like?”

  He smiles at me and shakes his head. His eyes are very blue. “Nothing. Don’t buy me anything.”

  “You need things, though. I’ll get you a comb, at least. Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “Yeah,” he says, nodding toward Raymie. “Yeah. Maybe a toy?”

  THE ROSARY

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I find a drugstore without much trouble and wander the aisles, choosing things and putting them in a plastic shopping basket. The store is mostly empty and the overhead lights are harsh and florescent. The whole place smells like cleaning products.

  I find sleepers for Raymie and a toothbrush for Truman and a white cloth rabbit with black button eyes. The orderliness of the shelves is comforting. It helps me think. By the time I’m done comparing the relative merits of two different sun bonnets, I’ve decided that we have absolutely no choice but to leave Chicago.

  It’s dark when I start back to the hotel, and the street is a sea of headlights and traffic lights. It bothers me how nervous I’ve become. I feel skittish and on edge. Every shadow of every building could hide the monstrous form of Dark Dreadful.

  When I open the door to our room at the Arlington, Truman’s sitting on the bed with Raymie. They’re watching television while he holds her in the crook of his arm and explains about fish, how they live underwater. There’s a towel tucked around her like a nest.

  I tip the shopping bags out onto the bed. “Here, I got some things for both of you.”

  Truman sets Raymie on the pillow, bundled in her towel, and begins to pick through my purchases, examining a black book bag with shoulder straps. He holds up a fuzzy baby suit with long sleeves and built-in feet.

  “Do you like it?” he asks Raymie.

  “Maybe. What’s that?” She points to a synthetic duckling appliquéd on the front. “The yellow thing?”

  “A duck,” he tells her. “Are you telling me you know how many chambers a heart has, but you don’t recognize a duck when you see one?”

  Raymie shakes her head. “My father knows about hearts. He told me all the kinds of muscles and blood and bones. Why is there a duck?”

  “It’s a decoration. You know, something fun.”

  “No.” Raymie shakes her head. “I don’t know fun.”

  Truman stands over her, still holding out the yellow sleeper. “So, do you want to put it on?”

  She looks over at me. “May I?”

  “Yes, that’s why I bought it.” I pop a plastic comb out of its packaging and toss it into my black bag. “Now we need to get you dressed and pack our things.”

  Truman is wrestling with the yellow sleeper, trying to remove the price tag, which is fastened on with a little plastic cord. I yank it out of his hands and snip the cord with my teeth. Then I tuck Raymie into the suit, zip it closed, and deposit her on the bed. Looking down at herself, she pats the appliqué duck with both hands, then begins to rifle through the pile of recent purchases.

  “What’s this?” She holds up a small vinyl package.

  “It’s a sewing kit,” Truman says. “See the little scissors, and all the thread?”

  Raymie clutches the package to her chest, rocking back and forth with it.

  “It’s not a toy,” I tell her, offering the rabbit instead. “That’s for Truman to fix his clothes. This rabbit is for you.”

  Raymie considers the rabbit, watching it flop in my hand. When I shake it at her, she drops the sewing kit and takes it. Squeezing it against the front of her sleeper, she bites the top of the rabbit’s head. She’s still looking at the little vinyl package on the bedspread though.

  “Did you have a good time watching television with Truman?” I ask, tidying my purchases—one pile for Truman, one for Raymie.

  “I like him,” she says. “He’s lost, like my mother.”

  Truman is examining the four-pack of socks and the T-shirts, but that makes him look up. “What does that mean? What’s she talking about?”

  I collect the new toothbrushes and drop them in my bag. “Nothing. It’s not important. Right now, we need to be concentrating on our next move. On leaving town.”

  “Will you take me with you?” Raymie asks, gnawing on the rabbit.

  I stare down at her. “Of course I’ll take you. I’m not going to just leave you here.”

  “Last time, I stayed,” she says. “We were pretending to move away, but I stayed with the things. My mother said to wait until someone came for me. It was a trick.”

  I kneel by the bed so I can look directly into her face. “Do you know what you were hiding from, or if it was bad?”

  Raymie scowls, shaking her head. “I don’t know what it was.”

  Truman gives me a sharp look, still holding the package of socks. “She just spent at least four weeks in a storage shed, in sub-zero weather,” he says in a low voice. “She didn’t eat for a month. If her mom thought the best solution was to put her in a cardboard box and leave her there, then yeah, it was bad.” He drops the socks on the bed, watching me carefully. “Maybe even the same thing that killed Deirdre.”

  His expression is challenging, like he’s waiting for me to tell him all the secrets of Dark Dreadful. But I find myself reluctant to describe her. It suddenly seems reckless even to speak her name.

  “Deirdre was the victim of a terrible attack,” I say, keeping my voice flat and matter-of-fact. “We don’t know who or what killed her.”

  “What about that rosary? Myra said they found it on the—” His voice falters then and he looks past me, toward the window. “She said it was with your sister.”

  I re
member Myra’s nervous behavior at the Prophet Club, fidgeting with the token Moloch had given her. “You mean the string of beads?”

  “Yeah, only it wasn’t beads. I mean, they were beads, but it was a rosary.”

  The word is Latinate and only marginally familiar. I know the meaning, but not the significance. “Are you saying the thing that killed Deirdre adorned her body with a holy artifact?”

  Truman shrugs, looking apologetic. “Not exactly an artifact, more like an accessory. I mean, they’re pretty common. People—Catholics—use them for church all the time.”

  As soon as he says it, my skin goes cold and I’m transported back to the dream of my brother, bound to the table. Church. The rosary—whatever it signifies, whoever left it—came from a church. For a moment, I only stare up at him. My eyes feel wide and dry and electric.

  “Hey,” he says catching me by the arm. “Why are you looking like that? What’s wrong?”

  “We need to go to Las Vegas,” I say, forcing myself to stand still when what I want is to wrench away from him and start packing. “Myra’s there. She has the rosary and maybe she can tell us what it means. It must be some kind of a clue to finding Obie.”

  “Wait, what? How are we going to Vegas?”

  “I’ll draw a jump-door. We just need an east-facing wall.”

  “Daphne, do you realize that you are totally not oriented in reality?”

  I grab the book bag off the bed and shove it at him. “Just pack, please. We have to go.”

  He puts the socks in the bag without conviction. Behind him, Raymie just sits placidly on the bed, watching us. He reaches for the package of undershirts next, then stops.

  “We. I’m assuming we means you, me, and her. Christ, I can see so many problems with this. I can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just—it’s too weird and school’s starting back up and I live here and I barely know you.”

  I want to tell him that I’m worried about him. That he’s come too close to dying too many times and that if I leave him behind, he’s going to manage it eventually. But that’s not the only reason I need to bring him with me. His dreams are crucial, the only link to my brother, and no one in my family has the slightest knowledge of holy articles or churches. None of us are equipped to handle this.

  I suspect I need him almost as much as he needs me.

  “Please come with me,” I say, and my voice sounds very small. “I need your help.”

  He takes a deep breath and glances from me to Raymie and back again. “Can I think about it?”

  “That depends. How long will that take?”

  He touches his mouth, looking someplace else. “Daphne, this is a big deal. I can’t just walk away from my life.” He says it like he’s trying to convince me, but when he looks back at me, his face is stoic and resigned. We both know that he can.

  MARCH 9

  1 DAY 10 HOURS 10 MINUTES

  Daphne was pacing around the room, gathering up the things on the bed and tossing them into her bag.

  Truman watched her open a package of plastic barrettes, drop them, pick most of them up off the floor, and shove them into her coat pockets. He felt a surge of sympathy for this new version of Daphne, a twitchy and agitated version. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. It was a stare he recognized—that glassy, panicked look, like the room was shrinking.

  “Daphne,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm. “Daphne, stand still. It’s going to be fine.”

  She stopped pacing and looked at him. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing fast and shallow. She glanced away and whispered, “Things aren’t fine.”

  “Okay, that’s okay. But just for a little, let’s pretend they are anyway. Do you know how to do that?”

  She shook her head, still giving him that wild, uncomprehending stare.

  “Okay, you start like this. Whatever is freaking you out, stop thinking about it.”

  She gripped the bag with both hands. “What do I think about instead?”

  “You think about whatever comes next. Think about what you have to do to keep going.”

  “Is it really that easy?”

  “Yes,” he said. But it wasn’t.

  He’d spent all afternoon while Daphne was out trying not to think about her and mostly failing. It was impossible not to think about her, and thinking about her led to other things. Thinking about her meant thinking about home and Charlie and Dio’s bathroom floor and before that, the bathtub and the hospital and her brother.

  Finally, he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, and that helped a little. Then he sat down on the floor across from the baby, who was still wet-haired and dripping, wrapped in a ratty bath towel. Truman propped his elbows on his knees and they sat looking at each other.

  She was nothing like the babies whose mothers lived in the Avalon. Those ones were sticky and neglected-looking. They screeched or cried and their noses were always red and dripping. Raymie was grave. That was the only word for it—grave, and a little severe, and now, without the layer of dirt from the storage, very clean.

  They sat across from each other on the dusty carpet like they were waiting for something. Truman desperately wanted a cigarette, but if one thing had been drilled into him, it was that you were never supposed to smoke around babies. Probably even crazy-looking nightmare babies with metal teeth.

  “So,” he said, after a long pause. “Obie was your dad, huh?”

  Raymie nodded solemnly. “Did you know him?”

  “Yeah, I knew him.”

  “Were you one of the wounded?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Wounded. Hurt, injured. A process in which the skin is cut or broken.”

  “No, I know what it means, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Raymie stared up, blinking at him. “He helped people sometimes, in the hospital. They were wounded. Did he help you?”

  Truman looked back at her. “Yes,” he said.

  At the hospital, they’d sewn Truman back up, pumped him full of someone else’s blood. They gave him pain medication that made his wrists numb and his dreams terrible. Surgery had saved him, but before the operating room, there’d been Charlie, dragging him out of the water, slowing the blood. Alexa, with the phone to her ear, speaking rapidly. Truman himself only had vague recollections of hands, voices, sirens, an oxygen mask. Nothing.

  He’d been afraid of a lot of things—afraid that he would go to Hell and that he would ruin Charlie’s life. He’d been afraid that his mother, watching from some undetermined location, would be disappointed and ashamed of him. He’d been afraid it would be messy and disgusting and weak and cowardly, but never at any point had he been afraid that he would survive. That first night, he lay in the adjustable hospital bed and watched the beat of his heart blip up and down across a black screen.

  Obie had come into the room very late, in his chalk-green scrubs, bringing water in a plastic cup. It was Obie who made the whole thing seem much more real than Truman’s stitches or his blood in the tub or the sick way the room seemed to spin around him.

  “So,” he said that first night, when Truman was still dizzy from blood loss and painkillers. “Worst day of your life, huh?”

  And Truman had laughed at that, because something was building in his chest and laughing was, of course, easier than crying. Then he began to cough.

  Obie offered him the water, shaking his head when Truman tried to raise a hand to take the cup himself. “Don’t,” he said. “You’ll disturb your sutures.”

  He held the cup while Truman drank from a straw with an accordion joint. He rested his hand on Truman’s shoulder and the weight of it felt warm through the fabric of the hospital gown. That was the part he remembered best. How, when Obie touched him, it hadn’t hurt.

  “I see you went for the bleed-out.” The look on his face had been knowing and wise and very sad. He’d smiled and then turned away, busy with the monitors and the IV drip.

&
nbsp; Hearing bleed-out said aloud felt like being hit hard in the stomach. Truman had begun to cough again and Obie came across to him and pushed the button that raised the bed.

  Truman closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Obie was still there, standing over the bed, looking down at him. Obie’s hair was shaggy, longer than the way most of the other men on staff wore theirs. He clasped his hands behind his back as though he were waiting for something.

  Truman winced. “How are my arms?”

  “You’ve got a bunch of superficials and a couple not-screwing-arounds. You would have died if your stepdad had stopped to pick up a newspaper or something.”

  Truman cut his eyes away, taking in the linoleum floor, the pastel garden wallpaper. “Where’s Charlie?”

  “I don’t know. Home, maybe.” Obie was still looking down at him—intense gray gaze and sad, indeterminate mouth. “What do you remember?”

  Truman stared up groggily and shook his head. “Like . . . before the tub? I remember waking up. There was ice on the windows because the furnace is broken. Charlie was still at work. I didn’t go to school.” Other memories surfaced slowly, and he winced. “I remember getting drunk—really drunk.”

  He looked away, waiting for Obie to point out that drinking before five was bad news and drinking before noon was just sad but drinking before eight in the morning was completely unstable.

  Obie didn’t mention it though. He only sat down on the foot of the bed, looking expectant. “But that’s all? Nothing unusual or strange? What about after?”

  Truman glanced away. He didn’t point out that pretty much everything about the day you decided to kill yourself could be considered unusual. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

  That wasn’t quite true. He remembered the flooded bathroom and the oxygen mask. He remembered a dream of a girl. She had wide, dark eyes and black hair. He imagined reaching for her hand, grasping it in his, and smiled dazedly at the ceiling.

  Obie leaned close, snapping his fingers in Truman’s face. “No, no, no, you’re getting dopy. Focus. I know it’s hard, but stay with me. I need you tell me what you remember.”