The Unquiet

by Jeannine Garsee

  Today Cecilia nudges me in the lunch line. “What happened to your neck?” Because in spite of my usual turtleneck, Nate’s bruises glow purple on the underside of my jaw.

  “I tried to hang myself last night.” Dumbfounded, Cecilia almost drops her tray. I don’t know where those words came from or why I said them. My heart skips two beats. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

  Cecilia grabs her plate of tacos and escapes without another word. I send hateful vibes to Annaliese, wherever she is. Probably quite close, enjoying every minute of her game

  I cut PE and hide out in the library so I don’t have to parade my purple neck in front of the class. It’s cold today in school—problems with the ancient furnace, according to the homeroom announcements—and I keep my extra sweater buttoned all the way up. Rooting curiously through the paranormal section, I stumble upon a book called Spirit World. Luckily Mrs. Harper, the librarian, is too absorbed in the National Enquirer to hear my stifled exclamation.

  I bury myself between the shelves, skim the index, and flip to page 126.

  One of the greatest myths about ghosts is that they are stationary. While it is true the majority of spirits remain “at home” so to speak, there are also recorded instances of ghosts traveling from place to place. While traditional spirits may attach to one location and remain there for years, even centuries, a more stubborn spirit will occasionally attach to objects, animals, or people. Because of this phenomenon, moving away from a “haunted house” is no guarantee one will no longer be haunted. One such incident involves a family in Greenwich, Connecticut …

  I slam the book shut. This time Mrs. Harper notices. “Rinn Jacobs. Don’t you have gym at this time?” It’s sad when even the librarian knows your schedule.

  I do not check out the book.

  So tonight’s the concert. Although my voice, by some miracle, is perfectly fine, I’m so jittery and depressed I’d like to skip the whole thing. I doubt Mr. Chenoweth would let me live that down.

  I beat Nate to the main doors after the last bell and plant myself in his path.

  “Rinn,” he says sorrowfully. “Just go away.”

  “No.”

  “Jesus Christ! Did you forget about last night?”

  “You were sleepwalking.”

  “What if I wasn’t?”

  I eye him. “You said you didn’t remember.” Nate shakes me off, forcing me to chase him to the sidewalk. “You said you didn’t remember jumping on me.”

  He sags against a utility pole. “Rinn.”

  “What? What?”

  “I lied. I do remember.”

  He sinks down to the icy curb. I do the same.

  “I remember,” he repeats. He tucks his hands into his armpits and stares across the street at the no-longer-green village green. Snowflakes gather on his lashes. “I remember everything. Waking up. Seeing you. Throwing you on the floor.”

  “But—”

  “I remember choking you. I—I remember how your neck felt in my hands, and—and how I wanted, I dunno … to break you, I guess.” Nate bows his head, his words muffled by the splashing tires of a car picking its way along. “So, no, I wasn’t asleep. I was awake. I was awake the whole time.”

  My hand touches what I know are the imprints of Nate’s fingers on my neck. I try to ask, “Why?” but nothing comes out.

  He understands. “I don’t know why. But I meant to kill you, or at least hurt you really bad. And then”—he swallows hard enough for me to hear—“I’d do it.” One fist smashes his palm. “What I said I’d do to myself after I shot the horses.”

  When his shoulders quiver I realize he’s crying. It breaks my heart, yet I’m too afraid to touch him, to comfort him in any way.

  He meant to do it. He meant to hurt me. He’d have succeeded, too, if Luke hadn’t heard the commotion. The same way he would’ve shot Xan and Ginger and other horses if I hadn’t decided, on a whim, to head out to the stable that day.

  But why? Supernatural or not, everything has a reason.

  Nothing in life is as random as we’d like to believe.

  The answer rams me like a wrecking ball. Forgetting I’m supposed to be afraid of him, I clutch his arm. “You’re supposed to die. You’re meant to die.”

  He doesn’t acknowledge this. He doesn’t argue, either. Maybe he already figured it out.

  Nate is meant to die, the way Dino was meant to die, and Tasha was meant to die.

  And maybe the same way I’m meant to die.

  Now that kids are walking around us and throwing funny looks, I prod Nate up off the curb. I speak rapidly on the way home, my brain in overdrive. “It’s not enough for Annaliese to hurt us like she did Lacy and Meg and Cecilia. Something’s different about us. She really wants us dead.”

  Nate mumbles, “Man, I gotta stay away from you,” which makes me wonder if he’s listening. “I can’t trust myself.”

  “You have to resist her.”

  “I want to. I’m trying. But I don’t know how!”

  I stomp my foot. “What goes around comes around.” Dino’s dad said that.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means there’s a lot more to Annaliese that we don’t know about yet. We know she’s after us, but why? What does she gain?”

  Nate thinks. “Strength. You said strength.”

  “She doesn’t have to kill us for that. She can get it from anyone. Even from a cat.”

  He kicks at the snow. “Maybe there is no Annaliese. Maybe it’s only us.”

  “No!” I say fiercely. “I saw your face when you were choking me. And your eyes—” I break off, nauseated at the memory of those unearthly black holes. “Nate, it wasn’t you.”

  We stop in front of my house. Snow hurls down so hard and fast I can barely see my front door. There’s a storm warning in effect, Mr. Solomon said. Mr. Solomon, who fired Bennie when everything that happened was Annaliese’s fault.

  I wrap my arms around Nate. After an uncertain moment, he holds me, too. No matter how hard I hug him I can’t stop him from shaking. “They’re supposed to tear out the pool soon. If that’s her home base, or whatever you call it, do you think she’ll just leave?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll piss her off more.”

  The idea of Annaliese being “more” pissed off is the last thing my frazzled nerves can endure. We don’t even know why she’s pissed off now.

  Nate bends down for a quick kiss. “Look. I’m sorry. But we can’t be alone together. Not anymore.” He twists away from me. “I love ya, surfer girl. But please—don’t trust me.”

  “Nate!”

  “I mean it. Stay away.”

  Dressed in the black vintage frock I wore to Homecoming—who says you can’t wear the same prom dress twice?—I throw myself down at my desk. I have to figure this out. I am not losing Nate!

  Chewing my lip, I copy over all my notes about my friends and what happened to them. Then I add my most recent ideas:

  15. Nate loves me. Yet he tried to kill me so he could kill himself. He did the same thing with the horses. Annaliese wants to steal what he loves the MOST. That way he will want to die.

  16. First, Mom couldn’t play the piano. Then she started smoking, staying up all night, etc. Then she started saying terrible things to me. SHE CHANGED! Is this Annaliese too? Is she stealing my mother?

  My pen halts in shock.

  YES! YES!

  I scribble more:

  17. Worse, Annaliese makes me hallucinate. I see

  my Real Mom but I see a Fake Mom, too. It’s the FAKE MOM who says those things. Annaliese wants people to think I’m crazy. She wants ME to think I’m crazy. She makes me say crazy things. It’s like if she can’t kill me, she’ll do the next best (or worse) thing.

  “Why?” I ask Annaliese. “Why won’t you tell me why?”

  She doesn’t answer, of course. But I imagine a dark, secretive smile.

  With a second surge of inspiration, I flip the paper and start a new list, leavi
ng out Meg, Cecilia, and Lacy. I hate to say it, but they’re incidental. Instead of killing them, Annaliese only toyed with them, stealing from them what they loved the most. Did what she steal make her stronger than ever?

  I write the names carefully, reverently—

  1. Tasha

  2. Dino

  3. Nate

  4. Me

  —and try to figure out what we four have in common.

  It takes less than five seconds for the winning buzzer to go off.

  Trembling, I fill in the blanks:

  1. Tasha = Millie Lux

  2. Dino = Joey Mancini

  3. Nate = Luke Brenner

  4. Me = Monica Parker

  Mom, Millie, Luke, and Joey.

  All of them friends from high school.

  You never fooled anyone, Monica, Luke said last night. Why don’t you take a good look at yourself for a change? What did he mean by that?

  I snatch up my phone. Nate doesn’t answer right away and lets it flip to voice mail, making me suspect he knows it’s me. After four more tries I wear him down; he picks up on his end and breathes into my ear.

  “I know you’re there, Nate.”

  “You’re relentless, ya know?”

  “Sorry,” I say meekly, not sorry at all.

  “So what’s so important you couldn’t wait, like, two more hours?”

  “Remember what your dad said yesterday, about how my mom thinks she has everyone fooled?” I hope he remembers. He was pretty out of it last night. “Will you ask him what he meant?”

  “He’s still at the office.”

  “He’ll be home for dinner, right? And he’s coming to the concert? Ask him as soon as he gets home. Then let me know.”

  “Well, it’s not the kinda thing you bring up over pork ’n’ beans.” I hiss impatiently, and Nate relents. “Okay, okay. God, you’re such a—”

  “Pain in the ass,” I finish with an uneasy laugh.

  “Yep. See you at school.”

  “Good.” Before he hangs up, I add shyly, “Oh, in case you’re wondering? I love you, too.”

  “You don’t look much like a rock star in that getup,” Frank notes when I waltz downstairs with my guitar.

  “It’s a Christmas concert,” I say coolly.

  Mom scrutinizes me, too. “A bit heavy-handed with the mascara, don’t you think?”

  Okay—Real Mom. But I can’t let my guard down. “Do you want me to take it off?”

  “Of course not. It’s your face.” She clears her throat, maybe sensing my suspicion. “Oh, and I’m washing your scarf. Let me find another one …”

  Frank rubs frost off the window. “Whoa, it’s sure comin’ down. Up to fourteen inches tonight, I heard. Tell me again why people live in Ohio?”

  Because they kill their grandmothers. And their fathers send them away.

  Another time I might’ve said this out loud. Instead, I smile, remembering his hugs. “I better get going. Mr. Chenoweth wants us there early.”

  “We’ll be on time,” he promises. He shrugs into his jacket and puts on the hat and gloves he was smart enough to pick up. “Think I’ll head out and shovel the drive so you girls don’t end up snowed in till spring.”

  Mom, hunting for my extra scarf, jokes, “You? Shovel snow?”

  “Watch me, babe.”

  “Well, just do me a favor and don’t drop dead in my driveway.”

  Frank growls, Mom giggles, and I burn inside my chest at the familiarity of this. Suddenly all I want is to stay home and hang out with my parents—both of them. I want to jam with Frank, to listen to his stories about Billy Idol and Madonna and Bono and Van Halen. Or we could play Scrabble—Mom always wins—or rent a DVD and pop popcorn and laugh till we hurt. All the fun things we used to do together …

  Before you got sick, Annaliese whispers, and spoiled it all.

  I hate you, Annaliese.

  Boots on, I clomp into the kitchen, flip open the cupboard—and stop, confused by the empty space on the shelf. “Where are my pills?”

  Mom walks up behind me. “It’s only five. Why are you taking them now?”

  Because I want to make sure I’m safe tonight. “I might be tired later. I don’t want to forget.”

  “Well, my goodness,” she purrs in my ear. “It looks like they’re not heeere.”

  I gag on the chlorine that gusts out of her mouth. Cold air radiates from her body, causing goose bumps to ripple over my own.

  It’s her: the Fake Mom.

  The imposter.

  The one who stole my mother’s soul.

  I refuse to turn around. “Go. Away.”

  “Go where, hmm? Back home with Frank? I’d like that. I’m sure we can find a nice place for you, too. A cozy asylum for troubled teens?”

  I clench the counter and stare at the aluminum basin. One dried-up noodle rests in the drain. “Mom. Mom, listen. I know what happened to you.”

  Her words caress me in the soothing tone she uses when I’m sick, or depressed. “What happened to me, honey? Tell me. I’m interested.”

  Don’t let her scare you!

  “You—you went into the pool room that night. That’s when she got you.”

  Her laughter tinkles, frighteningly Mom-like. It sounds so much like her, I almost give in—but I’m too afraid to face her.

  “See, Corinne? Pills won’t help you. For people like you it’s like swallowing candy. And how do you know those were really your pills? I could be feeding you sugar. I could’ve switched them any time. Or I could be poisoning you. Did you ever think of that?”

  I cover my ears. It doesn’t help.

  “Would you like to go back to the hospital? Remember what it was like, after you slashed your neck? All those kids screaming and crying? You didn’t feel very safe there. Remember how terrified you were?”

  Yes. But not as terrified as I am now.

  “What about those shots they gave you when you wouldn’t behave? How they tied you down, and all you could do was lie there and scream like everyone else.” Her chuckle skitters like electricity over my scalp. “That’s when you really wanted to die. Weren’t you sorry you didn’t do it right in the first place? One millimeter deeper, and bingo! You’d be dead.” A disapproving laugh. “Silly girl.”

  My voice returns at last. “Shut up. You’re not Mom. You are not my fucking mother.”

  Fake Mom clucks. “Oh, here we go again. Should I call Frank back in so you can repeat that for him?”

  She leans closer, closer, dripping invisible bleach. I smash my hands over my face to suck in as little as possible.

  “I almost forgot. I have a present for you.” I whimper as she pries one hand free and slaps something into my palm. “Keep it safe. Keep it handy. You’re going to need it very soon.”

  She folds my fingers over and squeezes hard, only releasing them when I cry out with pain. My hand flies open, revealing a shiny new razor blade. Blood trickles through my fingers, plopping into the sink.

  I wrench around to scream, “Get the hell away from me!” only to see Mom, with my coat and scarf, walking toward me through the dining room.

  She freezes in place. “Honey, what happened?”

  The odor of chlorine still permeates the kitchen. It didn’t fade when the Fake Mom disappeared. This can only mean one thing.

  It’s coming from the “real” one.

  Chest pounding, hiding my hand, I head straight for her and jerk my coat away. Ignoring the scarf, I drop the razor blade into a pocket, grab my guitar case, and slam out of the house into a torrential whiteout. Frank, busy shoveling, doesn’t notice me.

  I wonder if he’ll notice the trail of blood in the snow.

  I rinse off my hand in the locker room as Cecilia hovers. “You cut it on what?”

  “A razor blade.” Gingerly, I pick it out of my pocket.

  She recoils. “You know we’re not supposed to bring weapons into the building.”

  “It’s not a weapon. It’s a means of suicide.
My mother gave it to me. Except she’s not my real mother.”