by Kim Savage
“I’ve been worried,” he says, hangdog. “I love you, Liv.”
“Oh, Shane. That’s so sweet. I don’t deserve you.” A creak, the sound of her shifting in her bed. “You know what I learned? The incubation period for mono is four to six weeks. You might want to get checked.”
“When did you start feeling sick?” he says, suspicion threading his voice. I can hear the gears in his head turning, see the bubble over his head that says, We starting screwing around on this date … Even Shane is capable of mental math.
“Four weeks ago. I think I got worn down, spending all that time preparing for my ethics oral. Mr. Austen has been really hard on me.”
Liv took ethics last year. What is she talking about?
“Austen? The guy who got caught in the sexting scandal with Gina Rubino?”
“Yes, him. Also, remember that reporter, Ryan Lombardi from WFYT? He and I have been working really hard on this story he’s writing about the state’s corrupt parole board.”
My muscles go rigid. That’s Paula’s angle on the story, not Ryan’s. And there’s no way Liv would be working with the media; she hates the media, wants the attention to go away.
“The guy you told me you think is good-looking?” Shane’s voice quavers.
Liv laughs lightly. “Did I tell you that? Sometimes I’m too honest for my own good. Anyway, I’m not sure if you heard, but the police failed me. There are so many facts you have to dig up—it’s perfectly exhausting. We’ve been spending hours and hours together, often until very late.”
“You’ve been with that little putz?” His words are compressed, as though his teeth are clenched.
“Ryan is a cruel taskmaster. But that’s okay. You, if anyone, know I like things rough.”
I spring to my feet and knock briskly on the open door. Shane whips around, close to the bed now, his ears angry pink seashells.
“Julia! I’m so glad you’re here!” Liv says, flushed. “Shane was just checking in to make sure I didn’t need anything. I told him I’ve been getting everything I need.”
Shane’s head snaps back to Liv. Against his thigh, his fist opens and closes.
“They’re letting me out early, mainly because I gobbled up every last bit of goo they thrust upon me and washed it down with plastic cups of apple juice. Yellow custard, neon Jell-O, crystalized Italian ices. All that sugar! Deborah made puffer-cheeks at me the whole time.” She says the last part to me, winking.
“I overheard you saying crazy, nonsensical things just now,” I say, underscoring every word. “Because of your fever.”
“Nope. Not saying crazy things, no. Shaney, could you find one of those hospital carts and steal me a tube of that hospital-grade Eucerin? It’s hand cream. Everyone steals it, the orderlies, the dietary aides. I’ve been watching them. It’s like hotel soap: you’re supposed to take it.”
Shane’s eyes flicker between confusion and malice.
“They keep syringes in there too,” Liv says.
He wipes his nose hard and stalks away in search of a cart.
“You look really well,” I say, because she does.
“Yeah, well. They overfeed you here.”
“I was at your house when it happened. Your mother was looking everywhere for you. They said you passed out at youth ministry?”
“Mono can cause anemia. I guess I just fainted.”
“Liv,” I say softly, approaching the bed, “can we talk about you and Shane?”
“I really need to go to the bathroom and get dressed before Deborah comes back. Will you stay?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, looking at the door. Not while Shane’s here.
Liv eases from her bed, holding her johnny behind her. I hand her an orange bag with her clothes inside from the L-shaped table. A chart is clipped to a hook on her bedpost. My eyes flash over the word ketoacidosis. The nubs of Liv’s spine snake down her neck and back, visible between loose johnny ties. As she reaches for the doorknob, her johnny parts at the back.
Across the top of her right buttock, where her back naturally curves, is a swoop of faded black marker, half a circle with half an X inside. It is faint, but it is there, and not only there. Half of the same is visible on the inside of her right thigh, and very lightly, nearly rubbed out, are circles with Xs on the backs of her thin arms.
“Liv!” I gasp. “Did the doctor do that?”
She freezes, her hand high on the door.
“The marker. On your skin,” I say.
She looks over her shoulder, eyes moist and bright. A housekeeper in maroon scrubs and plastic gloves bustles in and Liv ducks into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. As the housekeeper starts to strip Liv’s bed, I grab the clipboard, scanning for the word mononucleosis, but it’s not there. There are various blood sugar counts taken over the course of the last twenty-four hours, all in the three and four hundreds, and the words anorexia consult upon discharge highlighted in yellow. I grab my phone from my back pocket and take a picture of the chart just as Deborah throws open the door. Shane skitters around the corner, followed by a woman in maroon housekeeping scrubs screaming in Spanish. Deborah’s eyes widen, cartoon-style. Shane hands the housekeeper a tube of cream. Liv comes out in street clothes. Deborah hustles about, complaining that this whole thing has been an expensive inconvenience for her, between taking time off work and the outrageous parking fees at the hospital garage. The orderly returns and Deborah shuts up. Liv settles obediently into the chair and the orderly decides, to Deborah’s disappointment, that we need nothing and disappears, along with Deborah’s happy mask. Shane takes the handles of the wheelchair. Liv reaches around to cover Shane’s hand with hers and we head en masse toward the elevator to the garage, one bizarre, misfit family. Deborah looks straight ahead, no doubt dying inside that her daughter holds the hand of a pale, tattooed boy with a waist smaller than hers.
I walk last. Shane leans over the chair handles, greasy hair falling forward. He whispers in Liv’s ear, “I try to love you. Why do you have to make it so hard?”
Liv pats his hand.
“This isn’t over, you know,” he says. “I have a lot more questions.”
“You’re right.” Liv’s hands slip underneath the blanket on her lap. “I’m not nearly finished with you.”
NINE
362 Days After the Woods
As if I need reminders that I am invading the personal space of Paula Papademetriou and Desh Patel and their only child.
Purple cabbages border a topiary carved into the letter P. Under my feet, the mat is initialed with a curly P. A brass knocker on the purple door is shaped like a shell engraved with another P. In the corner, two rockers are painted glossy white, with matching throws across the backs, one in a pastel plaid, one in darker jewel tones, embroidered PP and DP, respectively. My plan suddenly seems like a bad idea. I hold my breath and stab the doorbell. Bong-bong-floosh!
I ought to go.
I press the doorbell a second time: bong-bong-floosh!
Footsteps inside. No turning back.
The door falls open.
A boy, my age, or maybe a year younger, blinks as if the late-day sun hurts his eyes. “What?”
“Hello.”
He twists his mouth to the side. “Hello.”
“Is your mother home?”
“You are?”
I had planned to say I was a friend but instead I say, “She’s writing a story about me.”
The boy looks me up and down. “Whatever. My mother’s out. It’s just Dorotea.”
“Hud-sohn?” a voice calls from deep in the house.
“I gotta go.” He starts to shut the door.
“Dorotea?” I ask.
“The nanny. Listen, no one’s supposed to come here. My mother gets stalkers weekly. You better leave.”
I consider pointing out all the Ps in just these two square feet don’t suggest she’s hiding her identity. Instead, I turn to walk down the porch stairs.
“Wait!
” Hudson calls. “You’re the chick from the woods. The one who saved her friend?”
I dig my fingernails into my palms. “That’s me.”
“Stay and wait. She’ll be back soon.”
I cross the threshold into a grand foyer. I don’t have good taste. I don’t think it’s in my genes, though Mom’s and Erik’s lab-coat wardrobes make that indeterminable. But I suspect Paula’s house is dripping with taste, and layers of it. The creamy damask wallpaper looks thick, the oriental rug under my feet is thick, and the polished mahogany hall table is at least ten inches thick. My reasons for being here start to feel thin. I stare at the crystal dew-drop chandelier above my head. When I look down, the dark spots in front of my eyes dissolve into a squat woman standing before me.
She faces Hudson. “You have friend?”
“Yep. This is Julie.”
“Julia.”
Dorotea plants her hands on her vast hips and looks at Hudson.
“She’s staying,” he says.
“Door stays open, your mom say!” She faces me. “You eat?”
“No, thank you,” I say, but Dorothea has already vanished into the kitchen, where Judge Maria Lopez is haranguing someone on TV.
Hudson ambles away. “You must feel lucky, considering what happened to the Spanish chick.”
“I guess.” I follow Hudson through a dining room set with gold-rimmed china, massive leather chairs, and a crystal vase overflowing with yellow roses. “I shouldn’t stay. You’re having a dinner party.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The table is set for a party.”
“It always looks like that. Come on, you can wait in here.” We enter a dark back room decorated like a pub, with a glossy wooden bar and neon signs that say things like DESH’S GUITAR LOUNGE and more Ps etched into the glass mirror above the bar, sewn into throw pillows, and printed on cocktail napkins. Hudson collapses into a leather L-shaped chair with cup holders. It faces the widest flat-screen I’ve ever seen.
“Sit!” he says.
I sink into an identical chair. I could sleep in this thing, but something tells me to keep my guard up.
“This used to be the trophy room.” He jerks his thumb at the empty shelf. “Now Mom keeps her awards at the office. Otherwise she’d never get to enjoy them. You want a Coke? SoBe? Dorotea!” he hollers.
“I don’t need a Coke or a SoBe. I should probably go.”
“It’s fine. Dorotea needs stuff to do anyway. All she does is cook and clean; it’s not like she’s gotta change diapers or anything. She doesn’t even drive. When my mother’s not home she calls a car company whenever I have to go anywhere.”
“So where did you say your mom was?”
“Like I said, I dunno. Dorotea!”
Dorotea appears.
“We’d like Cokes,” Hudson says.
Before I can protest, Dorotea bustles behind the bar and pulls two sweaty Cokes in old-fashioned glass bottles out of the fridge. She opens them with a bottle opener and hands them to each of us. Hudson grunts. I turn to thank her, but she is gone.
Hudson slugs his Coke and wipes his mouth with his arm. “So let me guess. You think my mom is your new best friend.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You show up at her house desperate. Acting like she’s your crack dealer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jonesing for a little attention from Paula.”
“That’s rude.”
“Trust me, I’m used to your type showing up on our doorstep. Paula brings her work home. Remember that baby that got kidnapped by the father and taken to Saudi Arabia? The mother spent a month crying at our kitchen counter. Total story immersion is Paula’s thing.”
“That’s called being a professional.”
“A professional enabler. Also among her skills: doing everything she can to remain—what’s the word she uses? Oh yeah, relevant. And by that she means young.”
“You’re talking about your own mother.”
“My own mother is the scrappiest dame you ever met. Did you know they were going to fire her when they hired that hottie she co-anchors with now? Laura Underpants.”
“Underwood.”
“Whatever. Paula fought hard. And dirty. There weren’t three chairs at that desk, only two. In the end, they fired Harry Case—the guy with the mustache, who was never in danger of getting axed in the first place—and let Paula stay on. She had a lot to be thankful for when your story came along.”
“Meaning?”
“She was tanking. To begin with, no one even watches local news anymore, and when they do, they want to see a smoker, not a forty-something has-been.”
“Your mother is a Shiverton legend. People love her.”
“Loved. Taking down a popular police detective and department full of guys who moonlight as the coaches, boosters, pub and liquor store owners doesn’t exactly endear you to the masses. I’m just telling you the facts.” He waves a remote at the screen and it blasts Cartoon Network.
I struggle to release myself from the pod chair. “Thanks for the Coke. I’m out of here.”
“So you get that she’s using you, right?”
I check for Dorotea. The coast is clear. I cock my head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little prick?”
“Am one? Yes. Have one? No. Would you like to see the evidence?” He pulls a lever and his seat flies backward, his socked feet under my nose. I make a face at the tang and back away.
“Here’s the thing,” he says. “If the Latina in the woods can be connected to the same perv who attacked you and your buddy, the police are screwed. The parole board chief and maybe the detective in charge of the case will get axed. Blowing open a story like that with actual consequences? That makes you valuable. Rel-e-vant. Uncannable, even. At least for a while longer.”
I swipe the clicker and shut off the TV. “You are a rotten little punk.”
He extracts a different remote from the crease in his seat and flicks on the TV. “Problem is, she’s getting shut out. Everyone in this sleepy town is pissed at her for crucifying the good guys. That’s not to say they don’t feel sorry for you. And beyond Shiverton, who cares if the lazy cops go down? But this is a local story, and Paula needs her local sources. The common folk. They figure, the perv is dead. Let sleeping dogs lie. The cops know better now, so they’ll be more careful about where their sickos wander. Even Tufts has a no-Paula policy, now that she’s suggesting their vet student had some, shall we say, sketchy leanings.”
“How do you even know all this? You’re just a disrespectful, spoiled private school kid.”
“You hit the nail on the head, Julie. I need to keep tabs on the money flow. Don’t think I’m not fully aware that if my mother loses her job I don’t get to stay at Governor’s Academy. Tuition is thirty-eight thousand. That’s one year at a subpar college. I say a prayer of gratitude every day that you got away from that twiddler in the woods and lived to tell about it.” He straps on virtual reality headgear, goggles that look like the ones Donald Jessup wore in the woods. I recognize the opening sequence of Prey, a garden of Eden unfolding in technicolor, then the scene grows dark, the music ominous. Hudson chooses weapons for his character, a hunter in fatigues with outsized muscles and a crew cut.
I force myself to look away from the screen. “Don’t think I won’t tell your mother everything you said about her.”
He tilts his controller and jams his thumbs into the buttons. “And who do you think she’s going to believe? You might be important, but I’m all she has in this world. The only thing she and my dad share these days is an initial.” His avatar gets sliced in half by a centaur bearing a samurai sword. He swears, shoving his goggles to the top of his head and fixing cold eyes on me. “Oh, and if you think I must be stupid because it’s not in my interests to tell you the truth about Paula, you’re wrong. It’s just a hunch, but given what I know about human nature, I’m pretty sure you’re more interested in revenge
on those incompetent cops than in the fact that Paula might be using you.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re a sad, lonely kid who feels neglected by his mother and sees every person related to her career as a threat that you must take down.” I storm away, stopping in the kitchen to leave my Coke on the counter and thank Dorotea, who jumps away from the TV and hides her head in the dishwasher. Niggled that my sign-off feels lame, I fly back to the media room. Hudson torques his shoulders right to left. I yank his goggles off, giving his ears a good hard tug along with them.
“Ouch!”
“Just wanted to point out that it’s easier to win at Prey when you have opposable thumbs.”
“Touché, be-atch!” He pulls his goggles back down and gets back in the game. “By the way, I lied. My mother’s in the study, taking calls.”
“You—she’s been here the whole time?”
“I just wanted us to have a chance to talk. We’re done now. Goodbye.” He waves me away without looking.
I wander into the short hall before the dining room, wondering where the study might be in this massive house where it feels like nobody lives, despite all the initials everywhere that remind you someone does. And if I find the right door, do I knock? Or do I find Dorotea again and ask her to introduce me? Before I met Hudson, I’d been worried about the decorum of showing up at Paula’s house when I couldn’t even put a name to what I wanted (comfort? answers?). Then I got pissed. Now I’m back to sheer, cold anxiety, and I shake my hands to warm them. My notebook weighs unnaturally heavy in my bag—it’s the only thing inside—but none of Hudson’s “facts” are worth recording, little bastard. As I still myself, I hear a murmur coming from behind a door off the dining room. Paula’s voice. Is she with someone? Little Bastard said she’s on the phone. I will wait.
Two minutes, then five. I slump against the wall. I begin to worry that Dorotea might come through to clean, or that Hudson will emerge from the man cave and rat me out for being a stalker. Though stillness also feels like the norm in this house. Finally, the murmuring stops. I tap the door lightly.
“Come in, Dorotea!”
I ease the door open to see Paula sitting behind a mahogany desk. But I was wrong; she’s still on the phone, just listening. Her eyes widen, pleased, and she waves me in with gusto, phone to ear. Everything besides the desk is white: rug, wing chairs, couch, and pillows. I fix on three framed photographs: Paula with President Obama, Paula with the governor, and Paula next to a blonde with a tepid smile. Paula catches my gaze and points, mouthing, “Elizabeth Smart.” She talks into her neck. “Don’t worry, even if he manages to stay on point, he still looks bad. I need the questions no later than six.” Paula hangs up and stands. She’s dressed for the evening news, in a sheath dress with a leather panel at the waist. “To what do I owe this visit? Sit, sit.”
