Dead Spell

by Belinda Frisch

  “What if he doesn’t want you hurt at all? What if he’s trying to tell you something?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  * * * * *

  The Registry of Deeds office was located a mile from the Reston town line and it took Brea and Adam the better part of a half hour to get there.

  Brea rang the silver bell on the desk and an old, portly woman with large pores and a reddish complexion answered.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re doing some research on a family property for my grandmother. See, my grandfather’s sick and…” Brea couldn’t help but stare at her thick, nicotine-stained nails.

  “Is the property located in town?” She wiped her bulbous nose with a soiled, cotton handkerchief.

  “Yes. Yes it is.”

  The woman stuffed the used cloth in her pocket and Adam shuddered. “I’ll need the address, please.”

  “6 Maple Street,” Adam said.

  “Maple Street. It’s a shame what they’re doing out there, buying up the old houses for cheap cause the people are poor. Lot of old farm families still out there. Lot of history.”

  “Who’s buying up the houses?” Brea asked.

  “You know that big developer guy. Ah, shoot. Winslow,” she said. “Winslow Construction. I knew it would come to me.”

  Adam rolled his eyes at Brea.

  “6 Maple Street,” Brea reminded the woman.

  “Oh, right. I’ll be right back with those books.”

  Adam waited until the old woman stepped away. “How long you think she’s worked here?”

  “A hundred or so years, give or take.” Brea stopped laughing when the old woman came back with a stack of books.

  “This could take a while.” Adam took the books from the counter.

  The woman pointed them to a cubicle on the far wall. “Feel free to have a seat over there. The sales are listed by property and date.”

  “That really narrows it down.” Brea followed Adam to the three-walled desk like the kind in the in-school suspension room and pulled up two chairs.

  “If it wasn’t a family property, they probably bought it around the time they got married. If Harmony was two, I’m guessing early 90’s or so?”

  “I don’t know what kind of calendar these people use, but this isn’t any chronological order I’m familiar with.” Adam worked his way through two books to Brea’s one and was the first to find any record of sale. It was to a Calvin Hirschman and his wife Evelyn in 1952. “It’s a start.”

  Brea found the next and the next after that. There were three sales in five years and the activity slowed after that.

  “Bingo.” Adam handed Brea the open book and pointed to the place on the page. 6 Maple was sold to Gerald Thomas and Charity Shippee on May 5, 1989.

  “Shippee? Both of their last names are Wolcott. Do you think Charity changed them?”

  Adam shrugged. “With her, anything is possible.”

  “There’s no sold date listed. It looks like Charity still owns it.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “I can’t imagine her married, with a house, keeping up payments.” Brea shook her head. “And all this time she would have had to pay taxes…it’s just…she can’t even keep the power on at her trailer. Why wouldn’t she have sold it?”

  They brought the books back to the clerk for reshelving and thanked her.

  “Anytime, dears.”

  Adam tried not to stare at her mouth. “You feel up to another cup of coffee or something to eat?”

  “After seeing her teeth?” Brea smiled. “I don’t think it’s a great idea. If someone sees me with you, all hell’s going to break loose. I don’t want to see anyone who knows my mother.”

  They went out into the parking lot and Brea saw Rachael, Amanda, and Becky standing around in a circle like they were waiting for someone. Rachael shot Brea a dirty look mumbled something.

  Adam gave her a look. “Friends of yours?”

  Brea shook her head. “I wouldn’t say friend. They’re probably waiting for a ride from the game.” She pointed at Tompkins field across the road.

  “Are they part of the ‘anybodies’ you didn’t want seeing us?”

  Jaxon pulled up in his Audi and she felt her stomach drop. “No, but he is.”

  “Brea, where have you been? You’re mother’s been calling all over looking for you?” He was wearing his football uniform and a shiner from his last run-in with Adam.

  Brea put her hands on her hips. “And did you cover for me this time?”

  “Of course not. I had no idea where you were.”

  “What are you doing here, Jaxon?”

  Amanda and Becky got in the back seat and Jaxon shot Rachael a nasty look.

  Rachael stood in the open passenger’s side door like an impatient girlfriend. “Jaxon, are you coming?”

  Brea scoffed. “I guess she was right about you.”

  “She who? What are you talking about?”

  “Jaxon, come on.” Rachael tapped her foot, squinting because of the sun.

  “I said hold on.” Jaxon looked at Amanda. “What’s she even doing here? You said you needed a ride, you and Becky. Rachael wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Brea shook her head. “Just go, Jaxon. It’s not worth arguing about.”

  “What isn’t worth arguing about? And which she said what? Brea, I was scared shitless after what happened at your house, then you won’t even answer my calls?”

  “Harmony told me what you said about your father and my mother in cahoots, using you to keep me away from her in exchange for …oh, look, a new car.”

  “That’s ridiculous. That Harmony girl was crazy.”

  Adam lunged and Jaxon moved away before he could grab him.

  “Stop it! Both of you, freaks…” Rachael got between Adam and Jaxon and Brea felt her blood boil. “You ask me, Harmony killing herself did us all a favor.”

  Brea snapped. She pushed Jaxon aside and went at Rachael’s gut, knocking her off-center and dropping her to the crumbling pavement.

  “Brea, what are you doing?” Adam tried to pull her off Rachael, but she was swinging, hard. So hard that her fists went numb. “Brea, stop.”

  Rachael got in a few slaps and hair pulls, but quickly switched to defense. She held her arms over her face like a shield and was screaming for help when the police cruiser pulled up.

  Brea’s Uncle Jim flew out of the driver’s side and yanked her off Rachael before she knew what was happening.

  “You bitch,” Brea screamed and kicked and tried to get loose, but Jim had her in a full nelson.

  “Knock it off.” Brea just realized he had grabbed her and went silent and still. “Can I let go of you now?” He choked up on his grip, a kind of warning.

  Brea had never seen him so angry.

  Rachael’s friends helped her up and she was crying. Her white cheer sweater was crimson spattered, the blood matching the maroon and gold Indian that was the Reston High mascot.

  “Are you all right?” Jim asked Rachael as he held on to Brea. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  Rachael sniffled and bled harder. “No, thank you.” She pinched her nose and tilted her head back. Her blonde ponytail was three-quarters out of its tie and her make-up ran down her face.

  Jaxon stood out of the way, leaning on the trunk of his car while Jim stuffed Brea in the back of the cruiser.

  A dark blue minivan, driven by one of the girl’s mothers, pulled in to pick them up. One of them must’ve called her.

  The woman took Rachael in her arms and tried to console her.

  Brea watched her uncle give the woman his card. He helped Rachael into the van and went around to the trunk of the cruiser.

  Adam got in his truck and waited.

  Uncle Jim opened her door and threw something on the seat—an instant ice pack.

  “Put that on your hand,” he said. He was holding his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder
. “Yeah, I have her. We’re on our way.”

  32.

  Brea held the ice pack to her knuckles and stared out the window. Her ears perked at the mention of Dr. Frankel.

  “Oh, this is just great,” Brea said when they pulled into the parking lot. “Will you let me out of here?” There was no way out from inside the back seat.

  Jim opened her door and escorted her. “Don’t you even think about running, Brea, I swear.”

  “Or what? What are you really going to do?”

  They walked across the expansive two-story foyer and climbed the glass and metal staircase to the adolescent wing. A woman with her small boy in hand stared.

  “It’s not what you think. He’s my uncle, okay?”

  The woman turned away embarrassed.

  Jim pointed at an empty chair in the waiting room, “Sit. And keep your mouth shut.”

  A mid-twenties receptionist was talking on her cell phone and laughing. Jim stepped up to the cubicle and his towering presence silenced her. Uncle Jim, at 6’3 and built, exuded “bad cop” when he wanted to. She eyed his holstered gun and closed the cell.

  “Brea Miller for Dr. Frankel,” he said.

  She picked up the regular phone. “Dr. Frankel, Brea Miller is here. Okay. Thank you. You’re all set. They’re waiting for her. Go on back. Third door on the right.”

  Jim took Brea by the bicep. “Let’s go.”

  Dr. Frankel’s office was rearranged since the last time she’d seen him over ten years ago. He also grew a salt and pepper beard which seemed out of place with his bald head.

  Her mother was sitting on a chair across the desk from him and she had been crying. She had her hair pulled back in a French twist and wore a black pinstriped suit that looked more like she was interviewing for a job than dealing with a crisis. There was a small pile of used Kleenex wadded up in her lap that she was trying to hide with her folded hands.

  “Brea, please have a seat.” Dr. Frankel motioned at the chair next to her mother.

  Brea pulled it away before sitting.

  Uncle Jim stretched his arm out and made himself wide enough to block the doorway. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No,” Joan said. “Thank you for bringing her in.”

  “We’re going to have to deal with that other thing later, Jo.” Her uncle preferred Jo to Joan. It’s what he called her since they were kids.

  “I know. We will.”

  He put his hat on and closed the door behind him.

  “Brea, your mother is very concerned,” Dr. Frankel said in a calm, steady voice. “Why don’t we start by talking about the fight?”

  Brea slouched down in her chair, refusing to make eye contact. “Which one?”

  Before Joan could yell, he held up his hand and she stayed quiet.

  “The fight your uncle just picked you out of.”

  “Do you really want to go there?” She looked at her mother, but she wouldn’t look back.

  “Please.” Dr. Frankel picked up his pen.

  “Do you know what she did?” Any cool Brea collected on the ride over was gone. “She made a deal to exchange a fast-tracked rezoning for keeping me away from my best friend. She used the guy’s son to take me out…”

  “Whoa, hold it right there,” her mother said.

  “Ms. Miller, please.”

  “You asked about the fight. Jaxon, my pseudo-boyfriend, was driving his ex and her friends home. They started talking shit about Harmony and I lost it.”

  “Harmony, Harmony, Harmony. When am I going to stop hearing that name?”

  Brea let out a frustrated scream. “Did she tell you? My best friend killed herself and she didn’t even acknowledge it. Dr. Frankel, what would you say about a mother who doesn’t even console her daughter through something like that?”

  “Brea, she made that choice…”

  “You hated her. You hated Harmony and Charity and you never once told me why. I’m going to find out and you’re not going to stop me.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Joan’s eyes implored Dr. Frankel to stop it.

  “Brea, please,” he interrupted, “with your mother’s permission, I’d like you to take a break out in the waiting room. There’s a water cooler and cups behind the...”

  She was out the door before he finished.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Frankel straightened himself in his seat. “I think it’s best if we let her have a minute. She’s obviously very upset.”

  Joan wept into a fresh tissue. “She’s upset?”

  He handed her the box of Kleenex.

  “What she said is a lie. I never once asked Mitchell to use Jaxon. I might have said that Jaxon was the kind of boy I’d like to see Brea with, but I didn’t offer anything in exchange for that. If Mitchell misinterpreted, well, it wasn’t my fault. I don’t deal in favors. I don’t know where she would have even heard a thing like that, unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Dr. Frankel, Brea’s not very popular. She was only ever with that Harmony and maybe she’s a little out of Jaxon’s league.”

  “Do you think he might have said something to cover that up?”

  “It doesn’t seem like him, but maybe.”

  “Can I ask you something, Joan? What does Brea remember about when she was two? When you brought her to me, initially? Does she know why?”

  “Nothing, thankfully. She was too young.”

  “And you never talked to her about it when she got older, never explained about Harmony?”

  “That’s not the kind of discussion you have if you can avoid it.”

  “I’d like to bring her back in and ask a few questions. See if she reacts.”

  “She’s not an experiment, Dr. Frankel. I think we have enough problems already.”

  Joan walked out to the waiting room and it was empty.

  There was no one at the check-in desk and only a janitor walking around with a large plastic dumpster.

  “Brea?” Joan approached the janitor. “Have you seen a brunette girl about 16, this tall?” She held her hand up to just about her height.

  “No, ma’am,” he said and dumped a basket of trash.

  “Brea?” She threw open the bathroom door. “Brea!”

  “What’s going on? What’s the matter” Dr. Frankel came running.

  “She’s gone again,” Joan said and got on the phone with Jim.

  33.

  Brea stood on the lawn of 6 Maple debating whether or not to go in alone. In the daylight, the disheveled house looked almost more dangerous—its flaws visible, like traps. New development had sprung up around it; large houses in varying degrees of unfinished like the woman at the Deed’s Office said. A road had been roughed in and there were bulldozers and heavy equipment parked around the lot’s perimeter, probably threatening Charity to sell. A large sign announced the new development brought to you by Winslow Construction.

  “Good luck with that.”

  Brea walked through overgrown, patchy grass, the weeds, and creeping vines, up the cobblestone path to the rotting front door.

  The slate blue paint was worn away to bare wood and there was broken window glass around the foundation. She righted the upside down 6 on the door frame and stuck a piece of dry twig in the top nail hole to hold it.

  “So this was home, Tom?”

  She pushed the door open and called in. “Hello? Is anyone here?” A couple of pigeons flew through a broken windows and she jumped.

  “Hello?”

  The living room floor sagged and was full of cracked boards that she would have never walked across the other night had she seen them. She moved around where it looked most supported and breathed only through her mouth as she cut through the filthy kitchen. There were recent McDonalds wrappers piled on the remnants of a dining room table and a couple of half-empty bottles of Coke.

  “There has to be something here.”

  The basement door was nailed shut long enough ago that the rain
through the hole in the roof had rusted the heads. She tugged and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge and she went to find something to pry it with.

  A door off the kitchen led to a garage where a cherry red 80’s IROC-Z Camaro sat half-covered. Brea opened the door and looked inside. It had gas and plates and she wondered who it was registered to. She kicked through the beer cans scattered across the cement floor and found a large red tool box in the corner. Perfect. She grabbed an old hammer from inside.

  The basement door was closed solid. Whoever nailed it shut sunk the heads of the nails far enough in that she couldn’t catch them with the hammer’s claw.

  She pried the edge of the jamb, pulling and tugging as hard as she could and a loosened board fell from the roof, hitting her hard in the head.

  “Shit.”

  “Brea, are you all right?” Adam hurried over to help her up.

  “What are you doing here?” She hadn’t even heard him pull up or come in.

  “Looking for you. Come on, we have to go.”

  34.

  Joan sat on the living room couch. Her hands were shaking and she was cursing her laptop. “All I want to do is see the damned call log.” The cell phone website was down. “Did you check Maple Street like I asked you to? She knows about that house, Jim. I have no idea how.”

  Jim was still on-duty so his walkie-talkie was busy with chatter and static. He was distracted, half-listening in case he had to respond to a call. “Of course I checked it. She wasn’t there, Jo, and I don’t have any jurisdiction over this. Wherever she is, she’s sixteen-years-old. I can’t go in and snatch her vigilante-style even if we do find her.”

  “Don’t you think I know how old she is? That’s half the problem.” She pulled the combs out of her hair and it fell in messy red waves around her face. “I’m not asking you to be a cop, Jim. I’m asking you to be her uncle.”

  “She slammed the enter button and let out a sigh. “Finally.” She picked Brea’s phone number from the drop down and looked at her most recent calls. Home, home, her number, and then a ton of a number she didn’t know. She sorted the numbers by frequency and the calls started when Harmony died. “Whose number is this?”