The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  “She killed Dino and Tasha. She could’ve just played with them, like she played with Cecilia and Meg—”

  “‘Played with’?”

  “Took their strength. Like she took away your music. The way she made you start smoking. She takes thing from people—but she killed Tasha and Dino.”

  Calmly Mom asks, “What, exactly, do you think she took from you?”

  “Well, nothing yet.” Though my guitar skills seem to be lacking lately. “But that’s because of my meds. She can’t reach me when I take them, but she can when I don’t. Somehow they keep her out. Mom, it’s true!”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “Oh, really. And how did you find that out?”

  Fish-mouthed, I flop around in my own trap. Mom rises, stalks to the counter, saws a bagel with the knife, and slaps the halves into the toaster. The lever slams like a guillotine.

  “How long have you been off them?” she asks without turning.

  I play with the salt shaker. “I’m not. I only stopped them for a few days.”

  “You stopped them,” she repeats.

  “I had to! I had to find out for sure.”

  “Find out what?”

  “If Annaliese is real.”

  I hold my breath. Mom sighs, shakes her head, and returns to the table. She sinks back into her chair and takes my hand without hesitation.

  Thrilled that she’s hearing me out, I rush on, “That’s why you have to talk to Mr. Solomon. He has to make sure that room stays locked. He has to, to seal it or something. And the tunnel? Mom, that’s not safe, either. Annaliese is dangerous! She is! And I think she’s getting stronger …” Because she found me last night. She came into my room.

  Though her fingers remain entwined with mine, Mom’s voice floats over from an unexpected distance. “I can’t believe you stopped taking your meds, Corinne. You promised me. You promised Frank. After what happened to Nana, how could you be so stupid?”

  Starkly confused, I recoil. Mom, back at the counter, taps the same knife impatiently on a plate. Jaw fixed, face creased, she glares at the toaster as if willing it to pop before she smashes it on the floor.

  Yet she’s also right beside me, speaking in sync with the “other” Mom: “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m trying to understand all this, but—”

  “Mom?” I glance fearfully from the Mom at the sink to the Mom holding my hand.

  I’m hallucinating. I never should’ve stopped those pills. Now they don’t work at all! I’m doomed.

  “This is what I get for trusting you,” says the Mom at the sink … while the Mom at the table says earnestly, “I can’t ask Mr. Solomon to seal that door, not without—”

  “—this was a bad mistake, bringing you here. You’re sick, and you know it, and you won’t take your goddamn pills. Oh, yes, the doctors warned me. It’s never going to end—”

  “—a sensible reason. Honey, you need to be truthful or I can’t help you.”

  “—for us, will it? How much more can I take? How much? How much …?”

  Chlorine spirals up my nose. I yank loose and slap both hands over my face. “Shut up. Both of you! SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!”

  Wearing only my SpongeBob pajamas, I fly out of the house to crouch beside the garage. Is this part of it, too?

  Is this Annaliese?

  Or ME?

  I can’t tell, I can’t tell!

  “Rinn!” one of the Moms shrieks from the back door. “Get in here! It’s freezing!”

  I can’t. I’m afraid.

  I shiver against the splintery garage wall, my bare feet burning holes in the dazzling new snow. The back door slams and muffled clomps draw near as Mom—or whoever—marches over.

  I flail my arms. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Rinn! Stop it!”

  I shrink away, afraid to look, as she swoops me into a ferocious hug. I smell cigarettes and chlorine, but the anxious eyes that meet mine are my mother’s eyes. Still, I want to hit her, to fight her off. I want to run, run, run, but I’m not even dressed, and where would I run to?

  No place is safe.

  Instead, I let this Mom hug me and wipe my tears on her robe—tears, real tears, for the first time in forever—and lead me back into the house.

  Believe it or not, I’m relieved to see my desk chair where I left it: ordinary and benign, just a knocked-over chair with no ghostly feet imprinted in the seat. Even if I did imagine those footprints, at least I know the chair really fell. It would’ve been worse to find it back by my desk where, in a normal world, it would’ve stayed all night.

  Gathering courage, I lift it upright and then whip my hand safely away.

  Nothing happens. The chair simply sits there.

  I pile every blanket I can find on the turret floor, far away from the Hanging Beam, and stay there all day, not reading, not thinking. When Mom shows up later with Pepsi and a tuna sandwich, I pretend to be asleep. I don’t want to have to guess which “Mom” this really is.

  There were two of them this morning. One said “goddamn,” a word my real mother never uses.

  Forget the pool room. Forget the tunnel.

  Annaliese can reach me no matter where I am.

  5 MONTHS + 9 DAYS

  Sunday, December 14

  Calmer by morning, I call Nate. He and Luke are on their way out to visit relatives in Cincinnati. At least they’re not hunting, I think, though I can’t imagine Nate ever picking up another shotgun.

  So while the guy I am now madly in love with is missing in action, I finish an English paper, paint my toenails blue, and jam on my guitar. I leave my room once during the day to pee, grab an apple and a bottle of water, and take my meds. Mostly, I sleep. I do manage to get through “My Sweet Lord” without missing a note.

  Take that, Annaliese.

  You too, Mom. Both of you.

  Around midnight, I notice the lavender scent seeping up through the iron latticework of the heat register. Mom, burning a candle so late? In a surreal daze, I walk downstairs to ask her to blow it out. Honestly, I hate that smell now.

  The candle, however, sits unattended on the steamer trunk table, which means Mom left it burning when she went to bed. Is she trying to burn down the whole freaking house?

  The thought nauseates me.

  Remembering the séance and that massive puddle of wax—hot wax, when the rest of the pool room felt deadly cold—I poof out the candle, run back upstairs, and curl up in my turret in my nest of blankets.

  I don’t turn my light off.

  5 MONTHS + 10 DAYS

  Monday, December 15

  “Well, hi, stranger,” Mom greets me. “It’s about time you came up for air.”

  I fake a smile and steal a look around for any sign of that “other” Monica Jacobs. Mom watches, her thoughts perfectly clear to me: Hmm, darting eyes. Rinn must be paranoid again. I’m sure she noticed I didn’t eat her tuna sandwich, either.

  She shakes out my meds for the first time in ages. Is this a Fake Mom trick? Or has Real Mom decided she’d better start divvying them out again?

  She withdraws her hand as I reach out. “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” Trust me: I know I’ll have to take these the rest of my life, and no, I will never be stupid enough to stop them. Funny how this knowledge no longer makes me angry and resentful. Instead, I find it liberating.

  They’ll keep me safe from Annaliese. But they’ll also keep me safe from myself.

  “Swear,” Mom suggests. “Swear on your grandmother’s soul.”

  Like the word “goddamn,” this is something Real Mom wouldn’t dream of saying.

  I recite it, anyway. “I swear on Nana’s soul.”

  She hands me the pills. I examine each one before washing them down.

  “Good girl,” the Mom says with a wooden smile.

  I’d bark for her if I were in a better mood.

  The phone rings. Mom ignores it. I pick it up, and it’s Millie. But Mom shakes her head.

  “It’s Millie,” I stre
ss, waving the receiver.

  “I don’t want to talk to her now.”

  Flabbergasted, I whisper, “What should I tell her?”

  “Tell her to go to hell!” Mom shouts back.

  I don’t have to repeat the message; Millie hears, and hangs up immediately.

  And Mom’s already out the door.

  I don’t know if Mom broke the news, or if someone else discovered the pool room wasn’t locked—but Mr. Solomon’s rant over the PA lasts longer than homeroom. He does all but threaten to post an armed guard at the door. Plus, he adds, when we return from winter break, contractors will be tearing the whole pool room down. Therefore, the tunnel itself will no longer exist. An emergency exit will be constructed in the gym.

  My wave of relief leaves me giddy. No pool room! No tunnel, either!

  Thank you, thank you!

  It’s another lonely day for me. I spend lunch in the library, wishing again that I’d been smart enough to make more friends. After school, we rehearse with Mr. Chenoweth for the concert this Friday, the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Cecilia’s a bit friendlier now, and we chat a bit. Nobody else goes out of their way to talk to me, though.

  I’m driftwood again.

  When Nate and I walk home after rehearsal, I consider telling him about the creaking rope I heard the other night. And the toppled-over chair with the disappearing footprints. Not to mention my two Moms.

  But Nate picks up his pace—it’s below 20 degrees and snowing hard—and I have to struggle to keep up. As we round the corner of our street, a vicious gale slaps my breath away. Snow crystals sting my watery eyes.

  “I hate snow!” I shout. “I hate this stupid, frickin’ Ohio weather. I want sun. Sun! Stop laughing at me,” I add when his shoulders shake with laughter. I snatch that awful fur cap off his head and fling it to the curb. “You bunny killer, you.”

  My boots leave the sidewalk when Nate spins me in a circle. His hot breath thaws me. He kisses me hard, forcing my mouth open, meeting my tongue. My knees melt and he has to hold me up. He laughs again when I stick my cold hand down his shirt. He does the same to me.

  Maybe I’m not driftwood, after all.

  Maybe I’m me again.

  5 MONTHS + 11 DAYS

  Tuesday, December 16

  I know my drug levels are back to normal when I actually nod off in class. No rehearsal tonight; Mr. Chenoweth has an emergency dental appointment. Eager for a nap, I rush home without Nate, who cut out early to drive to the stable to plow a foot of new snow. I can’t believe people in River Hills think nothing of this weather, that they drive around with chains on their tires and throw snow-shoveling parties.

  I do need sunshine. Or at least a tanning booth.

  Puffing ice through my teeth, I push open my front door—and there is Frank, sitting with Mom on the sofa. He’s holding a beer, Mom a glass of wine.

  I stare, mesmerized.

  “Hey, Rinn.” He grins through his trademark gray beard. “How’s it goin’?”

  “You’re here,” I say stupidly.

  Mom smiles, too, but thinly. “He flew in just this morning.”

  “Why?”

  Frank downs what’s left of his beer in a one gulp. “A couple of reasons.”

  I kick off my boots, slink into the dining room, and drop my book bag in its usual place. I notice the official-looking papers spread over the table, and a manila envelope with the name of a San Diego law firm.

  Shocked, I face them. “You’re getting divorced?” So much for Mom and me ever moving back to La Jolla, where it’s warm and sunny and people don’t put chains on their cars.

  So much for us being a family again.

  Mom tenses visibly. “It’s just a legal separation for now.”

  Frank scratches his beard, pats his leather jacket for a cigarette, and lights up. Mom, on cue, lights one of her own. Frank glowers. “When did you start smoking again?”

  “I don’t remember,” Mom admits.

  I butt in, “You said this was temporary. You said you guys needed time to think.”

  “We have thought about it,” Mom says quietly. “And it might be temporary, though I’m thinking”—face pained, she directs this at Frank—“maybe it’s better to just go ahead and end it.”

  I twist my fingers, realizing I guessed the truth from the start: when Mom said we all needed some time apart, what she really meant was that Frank needed time away from me. To do what? To decide if he still wants to be my dad?

  “What about me?” I ask.

  Mom and Frank speak at the same time, uncannily reminding me of that two-Mom business. Frank wins. “Uh, we both think it’d be best if you stay here with your mom.”

  Well, duh. “What about vacations? Summers?”

  “It’s too difficult,” Mom says tersely. “The logistics, I mean.”

  Frank’s flash of surprise isn’t lost on me. “Monica, I don’t think we—”

  “Besides, honey,” Mom interrupts, “we really just got here. We should wait till you’re more settled in before we start jerking you around.”

  “I am settled in.” Well, unsettled, actually, with a frigging ghost on the loose. Does this mean no more beaches? No more jamming with Frank? I don’t even get to see my old room one more time? A room without a Hanging Beam, thank you.

  “You need a routine,” Mom says. “Maybe later down the line we can work something out, but for now, no. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t want me to visit.” I aim this at Frank. “I know you hate me.”

  “Hate you?” Frank repeats, unhooking his wary eyes from Mom.

  “Yes!” That’s when I lose it, with no warning whatsoever. “You hate me for everything. For what I did to Nana. For ruining you and Mom.” Tears, real tears, spring from my eyes again. I guess I haven’t been back on my meds long enough to keep this from happening. “I kept all my promises! I take my meds, I go to school, I stay out of trouble. Tell him,” I plead with Mom. “Tell him it’s true.”

  A pall settles. Mom stubs out her half-smoked cigarette. She starts to speak, but again Frank beats her to it. “Rinn, listen. This, the whole separation thing is between me and your mom. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “Liar! I said I was sorry a million times and I am. I am! How many times can I say it?” He frowns at the floor. “See? You can’t even look at me! Because every time you do you think about Nana. Every time I walked into a room, you’d walk right out. You hardly said a word to me for three whole months!” The words fly from my lips, uncontainable. “You wanted to send me to boarding school. You wanted me out of your life! That’s why Mom and I left. Because no matter what I say, no matter what I do, I’m the one who killed Nana. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  I sink to the floor, sobbing into my knees. A minute or so later I sense a heavy presence and catch a whiff of tobacco and aftershave. It’s Frank, now crouching beside me. Just the smell of him makes me cry harder.

  “Rinn.” He rests his big hand on my arm. “I don’t hate you. I never hated you.” I shake my head, a pathetic protest, and he plops down on floor like a big furry bear. “I loved my mom.” He pulls me into a hug. “I loved her. And I miss her like hell.”

  “Me, too,” I whimper.

  “The only thing I thought about all this time was me.” He rocks me hard in his arms. “I couldn’t get my head around the fact that my mom was gone. I was all torn up, and yeah, I was pissed. But not because of what happened to your grandma. Because …”

  He breaks off. I realize with pure shock that Frank, big, tough Frank, the dad I loved and looked up to almost my whole life, is crying right along with me, though not as sloppily.

  “Because of how it happened. Because I sent you there, knowing you were sick, knowing we were taking a big chance. I gave up on you, darlin’. I mean, hell, I’m your dad! Dads fix things, right? But I couldn’t fix you. So I just threw you away.” Frank’s thick fingers brush my turtleneck collar. “Right when you needed
me,” he finishes, choking up again.

  I shake my head. “You didn’t throw me away. I loved Nana. I could’ve stayed there forever if—if I hadn’t messed everything up.”

  “You didn’t mess up. I messed up. We both messed up,” Frank adds with a meaningful look at Mom. No response; she sits there like an ice sculpture, hands folded in her hap. Frank hugs me tighter. “What happened, darlin’, was not your fault.” He pushes my face up. “You hear me? You were sick. It wasn’t your fault.”