When the elevator door opens, Mr. Heid is tapping his watch, sounding like Poe’s raven crying, "Nevermore."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I ride home over the wet streets, the air full of that slushy whisper of water spraying under wheels. Though the rain's finally stopped, I'm still soaked to the skin. My plan is to sneak up the servant stairs, change into dry clothes, and then go find the location of that Petersburg Batholith, so I can maybe figure out how it got into Drew's bike tires.
Maybe it will tell me where she rode her bike. Maybe even why.
But when I get to my house, Betty Crocker is still hard at work.
"My lands!" My mom exclaims, wearing the same pink apron, though it's late afternoon. "How did you get so wet?"
"It's been raining."
"Yes, but—" She looks perplexed.
Uh-oh.
I move for the stairs. They're right there, within sight.
"Why would a person stay out in the rain like that?" she asks.
A person.
"I didn't stay out in it, I was riding my bike."
"Whatever for?"
"I wanted to see Drew." Not a lie, I tell myself, still aiming for the stairs.
"But you saw Drew yesterday." She steps from the stove, coming closer. "Someone told me that."
Someone.
That other girl. The one who pretends to be Raleigh.
If I run up the stairs, it will only make things worse.
So I turn toward my mother and her pink apron. She is guarding the oven like a bank security officer in front of a vault. Yes, the meds are working; she's more cheerful. But the paranoia? It's here--I can feel it.
“Is Dad around?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
She doesn't answer.
Our eyes lock and the shiver that goes through me has nothing to do with my cold, wet clothes.
“Mom?”
"David is in the den," she says.
Her voice isn’t cheerful anymore.
***
I stay home the rest of Saturday with my parents. It's agony. My dad, whose work consists of judging opposing sides, is forced to become the judge between the defendant (me), and my mom, the paranoid prosecutor. Calm and steady, my dad spends the rest of the afternoon orchestrating activities for all three of us. Scrabble, until my mom starts thinking our words mean something else. Monopoly, which goes so slowly her mind wanders into dark places that nobody would ever want to buy or rent. By dinner he's switch to playing black-and-white movies on the DVD player. We eat a second casserole. They are coming out of the oven with sickening regularity.
I know what my dad's doing. He's trying to reclaim the family we once knew.
And I don't blame him.
But that family seems like a very long time ago.
Every hour I excuse myself and call Drew's house. Then I call Rusty's apartment. By seven p.m., when I'm pointing out to Jayne that more than twenty-four hours have now passed since anyone saw Drew, she acts like Rusty and hangs up on me.
I check my email all night long.
There is nothing from Drew.
***
Sunday morning I hunker down in our family pew at St. John's Church. My hands are clasped so tightly my knuckles are turning white.
Reverend Burkhardt stands in the high pulpit, built before the Revolutionary War.
"We're all smart people," he says. "We're capable. We have good jobs, money. Nice houses, nice families. We're in charge of our lives."
Please, I pray. Bring her home.
Although far more than twenty-four hours have passed since anyone saw Drew, when I called Officer Lande late last night, she said the police still couldn’t do anything. Not unless the parents want to file a report. Not unless there are signs of foul play.
She even called Jayne and Rusty. They're still saying Drew's playing games.
"But you have to wonder," Reverend Burkhardt says, "do we really know what's going on?"
He leans forward. The pulpit is shaped like a ship's prow, elevated over the sea of St. John's congregation. His deep voice slides along the concave plaster ceiling, landing with a thud in our pew.
"You can't see the whole story. So don't be fooled."
I glance at my dad, seated beside me. My mom's on his other side. His eyes shift toward me, just long enough for me to acknowledge his own concern. He holds my mom's hand, tight.
"God himself says the invisible is more important than the visible."
Just what we needed: a sermon pointing out the positives of paranoia.
Right there, my prayer changes.
Shift the topic. Or close his mouth.
"What do we all like to say when we don't understand something? We say, 'God works in mysterious ways.' "
I slide down in the pew. Help me.
"And that always sounds great. It makes us sound wise and benevolent. But then we turn right around and focus only on what's right in front of us, completely forgetting that there are things hidden from sight. Important things. Crucial things."
I slide so far down I can smell the lemon oil that's been buffed into the old southern pine pews.
"For instance, consider the empty tomb."
From this perspective, the man's eyes look black, smoldering in his hard face.
"The women were crying because Jesus wasn't there. But then Jesus himself told them He would be leaving. Did they listen? Or did they focus on what they could see?"
I slide my eyes to the right. My father is rubbing his thumb across the back of my mom’s frail hand.
"He also promised to send somebody after him who was even more powerful than God's own son. The Holy Spirit." His voice drops to a whisper. "And guess what? The Holy Spirit is invisible."
I raise my gaze to the ceiling and plead. He has to give this sermon now? When the meds are just kicking in, when my dad is pouring everything into making her well?
Although Reverend Burkhardt keeps talking about invisible worlds and things happening below the surface, his voice seems to fade. His words sound muffled, like they're coming through water. I stare at my dad's thumb brushing her skin, over and over and over again, like someone trying to release a magic genie trapped inside a bottle. And then, before I realize what's happening, they are standing. Everyone is singing. My dad's voice says there are new mercies morning by morning.
The service ends. And I can't get out of there fast enough.
"Dave." Wade Tounsend is ambling over. City councilman, king of networkers, he must want to plant some seeds. "Sounds like the Johnson case is keeping you busy."
The councilman never acknowledges my mother. Most people don't, even in church. Especially in church.
She stares out with glassy eyes, some robotic rabbit.
My dad never lets go of her hand.
I move past them, heading outside. I can taste the men's cologne, smell the women's perfume, feel invisible walls of repentance. Someone mentions seeing frost on their mums this morning. Somebody talks Redskins football. I burst through the front doors.
The wind is gusting, sending dead leaves swirling over the brick entrance. I follow the leaves all the way to where they pile up against an iron gate surrounding the church cemetery. I lean on chilly rails, gulping down the fresh air. The sun pushes through the clouds and strikes the tombstones, throwing shadows on the sunken graves. Harmons are buried here, Colonists from the 1700s who stacked foundation stones for this church. Their descendants are here, and the generations that followed, and the bad thought climbs into my mind before I can stop it: Someday, my dad's going to die. And my mom—
"Hi."
I spin around with a gasp. "Stop sneaking up on me!"
DeMott smiles. "Stop running away."
My heart is pounding too hard to think of a response, so I just try to act calm. I look down, hoping to hide. His tux, naturally, is gone. But his creased chinos and peacoat look just as formal. On anybody else, the navy wool coat would look dorkus-majorkus. But somehow, the thing fits DeMot
t like it's some ancestral hand-me-down from a Fielding who fought in the War of 1812.
"How's your friend?" he asks.
I look at his face. He’s serious. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I still can't find her."
He looks alarmed. "Did you call the police?"
"Twice." I explain all the official rules regarding missing persons, how the situation is idiotic because her parents are, technically, idiots. “They can't seem to get it through their thick heads that she didn't run away.”
"Why can't you file a police report?" he asks.
I don't say anything for a long moment. Yesterday's adventure in family-togetherness ruined my plan. "I'm trying to," I finally say.
"I'm really sorry, Raleigh."
"Thanks, but I don't see why people insist on saying they're sorry for things that clearly aren't their fault."
"We can't be sorry with you?"
I turn around, gazing at the graves, not trusting myself to talk right now. Something too warm is waiting at the edge of my eyelids. And unfortunately, this bone yard is only making it feel worse. The old marble stones are blank, all the names and dates eroded from too much rain and snow and sun. It's like these people never really existed.
"And why do people pick marble for headstones?" I say. "It just deteriorates."
He steps forward, standing next to me, gazing into the cemetery. "Drew," he says. "That's her name, right?"
I squint, fixing my gaze on the white steeple. Its iron bell sits silent. "Yes. Drew."
"If there's anything I can do . . . "
I wait for the second part of his oh-so-polite statement--the things people also say when talking about my mother. ‘If there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to call.’ But it's not something they really mean. Or else they would just call.
"I mean," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "Anything you need."
I look at him. His eyes are so clear I can see the tiny gold flecks inside the blue. Like sparks in his eyes. He holds my gaze but doesn't say anything. We stand like that for a long time, what feels like forever, and then something leaves my shoulders, just rolls off, and I want to take a deep breath and hold this moment forever.
But Satan clomps into it.
"You can't be serious," Tinsley says.
She's on her cellphone. No longer dressed like lemon meringue, she's sheathed her toothpick legs into tight winter-white jeans, topped with a white jacket and scarf. She resembles a polar bear, starved, with its claws out.
"I'll have to call you back." She cuts the phone and gives me an icy glare. "What's going on out here?"
DeMott answers. "Her friend Drew is still missing."
"What a clever girl," Tinsley says.
"Tins, it's really serious."
"Did you not hear one word that Reverend Burkhardt said?" she asks him. "It's clear as day that we can never see what's really going on right in front of our own faces."
I look at him. Is he trying not to laugh?
Tinsley keeps yapping about the point of the sermon, but I shift my attention to the church's door. My dad is leading my mom down the steps. The blank expression on her face says she's orbiting Neptune. Worse, his expression seems distant, too.
"Raleigh?" asks DeMott. "Is there anything we—"
"I have to go."
But Tinsley steps in front of me. "Don't forget your promise."
Her smile. It tells me that the sermon is right, that what I'm seeing isn't what’s really here. Beautiful, perfect Tinsley, she is a black hole of hate.
I smile back at her. "What promise are you talking about?"
Her smile sticks. She's used to playing mean. "You know, the promise you made Friday night."
“I don’t remember.” God forgive me for the lie. “Why don't you remind me? What did I promise?"
Her lips stretch back so far it's like she's baring her teeth. "You promised to tell me if your poor mother suffers another breakdown, bless her heart."
The cold, heavy feeling climbs back onto my shoulders. "Oh, that promise.” I nod. “I thought you meant the promise about not telling anyone that Drew's tutoring you because you're flunking math."
Something flickers in her mean eyes. But otherwise she doesn't move.
Stepping around her and DeMott, I walk toward my parents. They stand on the ancient sidewalk holding hands, waiting in a narrow beam of sunlight.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
But I should've known it wouldn't end there.
"Yoo-hoo!"
My mother is calling up the front stairs, after a strained lunch, after my rushing upstairs to change out of church clothes. I had a plan.
But of course the plan is thwarted.
"Raleigh Ann? Are you there?"
Of course.
Instead of using the servant's stairs in back of the house, I was trying to sneak down the front, running out the main door onto Monument Avenue before anyone realizes I’m gone. But now, coming down the stairs, carrying my backpack, pulling on my St. Catherine's sweatshirt, I realize the best-laid plans are going to be laid to rest.
She is running up the wide stairs toward me. Crying out, "No! Turn around!"
I freeze.
"Put on a skirt—a dress—something—anything else—hurry!" She pivots, calling downstairs. "Give her one moment, she’ll be right down."
But in that one moment, the world tilts on its axis. I am here with my backpack full of geology equipment, and my manic mother and DeMott Fielding are standing at the bottom of our front stairs, smiling up at me.
She whispers. "Go put on something nice."
"Uh, this is nice." I stammer.
"You look like you're doing yard work!" She spins back to DeMott. "Make yourself at home in the parlor, DeMott. I'll get you something to eat."
"No!"
She startles.
"I mean," I try to think of another way to block his poisoning. "He doesn't have time."
She pulls back. The expression in her eyes shifts. "How do you know?"
One moment. I have one moment before the world begins tilting again, all the way back to suspicion.
"I don't know that," I say, truthfully. "I'm just guessing."
Her eyes roam over my face, searching for signs, clues, signals that she was wrong to think I belong to her.
"She's right, Mrs. Harmon," DeMott calls out. "I just came by to see if I could help her—”
"Get to school," I cut him off.
"School?" She frowns, confused. "It's Sunday."
"I have a big project due tomorrow."
"Project." She lets the word hang there.
"Yes. A special project."
Her eyes darken.
"Monday comes up fast," DeMott says.
Both of us look at him. His handsome face is so open, so kind—so totally guileless—that once again the atmosphere shifts.
Before it can change back, I hustle down the stairs. My pack feels heavy with the rock hammer, camera, and notebook, but compared to the gravity behind me, it's feather-light. I rush for the big door with its leaded glass. DeMott, who has also changed into more casual clothes, is making his polite goodbyes.
"Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Harmon. I'll take you up on it next time."
I glance back, once.
She's still waiting on the landing, staring down at us, but all that happy glee about DeMott's appearance is gone. It's gone and I can see it, like one of those invisible-but-real things. She's going back in, the black caves calling her name.
"Do come again." Her voice is wooden. "Won't you?"
***
DeMott drives a pickup truck, a fact that boosts him ten points on a scale I never even knew existed. Every guy at St. Christopher’s, our brother school, seems to drive a BMW or Benz or some other hot sports car daddy shelled out for.
This truck isn’t even new. I give him another five points for that.
He holds the passenger door for me. I add three points—most southern
guys would hold the door.
I watch him cross around the front of the truck and hop inside.
“Thank you,” I say.
He turns the key. “For what?”
“For picking up the signals.”
“Oh.” He nods, pushes in the clutch and shoves the stick shift in first. Manual transmission gets another two points. “You’re welcome. And I like your mom.”
I try to make a sound in my throat, to express my parental annoyance, but what gurgles out makes my face turn bright red. I sound like I’ve got the flu.
He laughs. “Raleigh, I’m serious. She’s great.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I don’t lie.”
That statement shuts me up. We roll down Monument Avenue. He drives around JEB Stuart on his horse.
“In what way?” I ask.
"Pardon?"
No "what" for him.
"In what way is my mom great?"
"For one thing, she's genuine. Like your dad. I wish more people were like them."
I stare out at the window at the cobblestone road. This is true: my mother is genuine—mostly genuinely nuts, but even when she's well, she's herself, always. And my dad, I've never seen him be phony. Ever. That's probably what Drew most despises about Jayne—her mom doesn't ever drink alcohol in public, but hides in their house getting bombed.
"Thanks," I tell him. "I needed to hear that."
He shrugs, like there's no need to thank him. Which somehow only makes me want to thank him more. I steal glances at him. He's wearing jeans now and a Carhart jacket the color of toast. The hum of the road fills the cab as he steers around Stonewall Jackson. It gets to me.
"Okay, look, I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I shouldn't have treated Tinsley like that."
"It was rude."
"I know. I'm apologizing."
"But you didn't say it to me. You said it to her."
I turn away, staring out the passenger window. The row houses display their autumn flags, a Richmond tradition. They wave in the breeze.
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