Strange Girl

by Christopher Pike

  Billard reached out and took my hand. “It was Aja.”

  “Huh?”

  “She came here one day in July when I was . . . visiting my son. Or else, I don’t know, maybe she was here before me. It’s strange but I can’t remember which one of us got here first. All I know is when I saw her I felt annoyed. Like she was intruding on my space—on Barney’s little area. I wanted her to leave. I snapped at her, I think, told her she had no business disturbing the dead.” She paused. “But Aja didn’t leave, at least not right away.”

  “What happened?”

  Billard’s hand slipped from mine like it had lost all strength to hold on. Her face was suddenly stricken. “She said something, something she couldn’t have known.”

  I waited. I waited without speaking; it felt wrong to press her.

  Billard lowered her head. “It was just one sentence. I don’t know why it shook me so deeply. No, I’m sorry, that’s not true. I do know why. Part of it was the way she said it. Like she knew what she was telling me was absolutely true.”

  “Tell me.”

  Billard quoted, “ ‘Your son doesn’t blame you any more than your husband does.’ ”

  “Wait. From what I heard, your husband, Stan, it was his fault. He left the door open and your boy wandered . . .” I didn’t finish.

  “I never told anybody this except Stan and Mrs. Green, the florist. But I trust you, Fred. It was my fault the door was left open. I came downstairs after Stan had fetched the firewood. He was dozing on the couch and Barney was playing with his Legos. It was a Sunday morning. As usual, Stan had forgotten to bring in the paper. I went outside to get it. It was snowing lightly and there were five sparrows walking over a nearby snowdrift. They looked like a family—there were two big ones and three baby ones. I remember how I wished Barney could see them. Maybe he did. Our neighbor, Margaret, said she saw him playing with some birds before he stepped into the road.”

  Billard stopped talking and once again I waited. The woman rubbed her hands together as if they were cold, like she was back on that frosty morning. She continued:

  “I came back inside and took the paper upstairs to our room, where I spread it on our bed so I could clip the coupons I wanted to save. I have no recollection of not shutting the door all the way but it had to have been my fault. The door automatically locked when it was closed. Plus the handle was old and rusty. There was no way Barney could have opened it without help if I’d shut it properly.” She paused. “I was upstairs when I heard the squeal of the car’s brakes.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “You’re too kind. What you really want to say is why didn’t you tell your husband that it was your fault and not his? Why did you let the entire town think that Stan had been responsible for his son’s death?” She paused. “The truth is—I don’t know. Maybe I needed someone to blame. Somehow it was easier to keep silent and let Stan take the heat. Of course it tore him apart. Until one day—it must have been two months after the funeral—he found the pile of coupons I’d cut out of the paper that Sunday morning. A few were dated and right then he put two and two together and he knew.”

  “Did he blame you?” I asked.

  “No. He was too good a man. Too good for me, that’s for sure. That’s one of the reasons I begged him to leave.”

  “So it wasn’t guilt?”

  “It wasn’t his guilt, it was mine. He didn’t want to leave but the way people kept staring at him—I don’t know if he had a choice. Not unless I owned up to what I had done.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Billard shook her head. “Stan said what was done was done. He was a long-distance truck driver. He was gone a lot. I taught in our only high school. Everyone in town knew me. Not many people talked to Stan. He said if my lie came out I might lose my teaching job. We talked about it a lot—his leaving. He was positive it was the right thing to do.” Another tear rolled over her cheek and she wiped it away. “But I’ve always wondered if deep down inside he wanted to get away from me. That he did in fact blame me for Barney’s death.” She stopped and looked me in the eye. “That doubt went away when Aja said what she said.”

  I was confused. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Just those eleven words. I swear to you, Fred, everything that mattered was contained in those eleven simple words.”

  I gestured. “She must have heard the story about what happened to you. She was probably trying to comfort you. It doesn’t mean—”

  “I checked,” Billard interrupted. “Aja had gotten off her plane from Brazil that same morning. She didn’t know a soul in town. I doubt she had talked to anyone in Elder before we met. And yet she came straight here, at the exact time I’d be here, and said one line that freed me from a burden I’d carried for a decade.”

  “Then why weren’t you . . .” I didn’t want to say it.

  “Grateful? I was grateful. My gratitude knew no limits. My heart swelled with such relief it burst in my chest. I went home that night and wept myself to sleep. With tears of joy. Tears of gratitude.”

  “Then?” I said.

  Billard shook her head. “Then the monster in me awakened. The same monster that had so casually put the blame of my son’s death on my husband when it was my fault. That creature came back to life and said no, it’s too good to be true. It’s a miracle and there are no miracles, and besides, Aja’s just a pretty girl from Brazil. She’s no angel. I convinced myself that somehow she had heard about my past, and had gone to the cemetery that day to play a cruel trick on me.”

  “But no one knew, except Stan, that you left the door open?”

  Billard nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do, Fred. Aja showed up here from halfway around the world and immediately—with eleven ordinary words—healed a wound that could not be healed. Not only did she absolve me of my guilt over what I’d done to Stan, she reassured me that, yes, a part of Barney was still alive and that that part forgave me for leaving the front door open and depriving him of his mortal life.”

  “Hold on. Aja never said she spoke to Barney’s soul.”

  Billard grabbed my hand tightly. “You weren’t here! You didn’t hear the certainty in her voice when she spoke. I did and I believed her.”

  “Then why do you hate her?”

  “You know why!” Billard cried.

  I sat silent for a whole minute before I realized the truth. “Because it’s easier to hate her than to keep on believing her,” I said.

  Billard nodded weakly. “Easier and less terrifying.”

  I remembered what Aja had told me in Rapid City.

  “I can’t understand why Billard hates you.”

  “She doesn’t hate me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s afraid of me.”

  “It scared you having her in your class,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “You made up that story about her cheating.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she really give the exact answer that was in the book?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Billard smiled. “She’s quite amazing, that one.”

  “Did you see her again—between when you met her here and when she walked into your class?”

  “No.”

  “You hadn’t talked to her on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you want her to explain her remark?”

  “No.”

  I felt like I’d hit a wall. “Are you still afraid of her?”

  Billard hesitated. “Sure. But I’m . . . I’m mostly grateful to her.”

  I shook my head. “This is weird.”

  “I hear the two of you are dating.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You know Elder. Word gets around.”

  “What you told me just now, I won’t repeat it to another soul.”

  “I know that.”

  “But I’m worried abou
t your reaction to her remark.”

  “The weight I give it?” Billard sighed. “I suppose it’s possible she had heard about my history, although I don’t see how. Or else she could have seen me sitting here mourning over Barney’s tombstone and made a wild guess about what had happened and just ran with it. Believe me, I’ve gone over every angle in my mind—again and again. But I keep coming back to how I felt when she spoke. The way her voice touched me like some kind of magical key that unlocked not only my deepest secret, my deepest pain, but my deepest doubt.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Fred. You never do. You understand everything I’m saying.”

  I stood up; I felt I had to move. Yet I couldn’t very well walk away.

  “There’s no reason for you to say Aja restored your faith.”

  Billard nodded. “I agree, it’s not logical. It’s certainly not scientific. It just happens to be true.”

  “But she didn’t do anything!” I protested.

  Billard also stood and stepped to her son’s tombstone. There she knelt and lovingly placed her flowers so the petals touched the name of her boy. She had more tears now but for some reason they didn’t seem so sad.

  “I saw the video about Aja on YouTube,” she said as she stood back up and wiped her face. “What it showed didn’t surprise me. In fact, it reminded me of when Aja was here with me and Barney.”

  “You honestly believe she was aware of your son’s feelings?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I have no idea. But I do know this. Aja is no ordinary girl. I don’t know if I’m telling you that because I want to warn you or because I want to congratulate you. I just know it’s true.”

  I shook my head. “You’re acting like she’s some kind of saint.”

  Billard studied me. “You wouldn’t be reacting the way you are unless she had touched you as well. Touched you in some way you can’t explain.”

  “That’s not true. I hardly know her.”

  “You sound almost as scared of her as I am.” She offered me her arm. “Do me a favor and walk me back to my car. This whole ‘confession’ has left me feeling exhausted.”

  I escorted Mrs. Billard to the parking lot, before returning to collect my bike. But I didn’t leave the cemetery right away. For a while I stared at Barney’s tombstone and thought of all the scriptures I had laughed at a few years ago.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AT LUNCH THE following day, at school, I spoke to Aja only briefly. There were too many people around her asking questions about the video. According to YouTube, Aja’s encounter with the Roadhouse mob had now collected over eight million hits. Its popularity continued to soar. What struck me as odd was that half the people chumming up to her seemed to think she had in fact healed the soldier. Never mind that they were talking about a miracle and miracles were impossible.

  But—and this was a big but—Mrs. Billard’s talk had gotten to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said, or what Aja had said to her. That didn’t mean I was ready to canonize Aja. Still, a part of me, a tiny part deep down inside, began to wonder . . .

  For her part, Aja continued to insist she’d done nothing; and I found her denials strangely comforting. Also, although we only spoke for a few minutes, I’d managed to ask her if she wanted to go out with me to a movie that night. All talk of miracles aside, hearing her say “Yes” did more for me than the video and Mrs. Billard’s mysterious tale combined.

  Technically, our band had practice that evening but everyone was cool about my canceling, with the exception of Shelly. As usual, she didn’t say anything but I could tell she was jealous. Janet agreed with me. She even worried that Shelly might quit the band.

  “Then we’d have no place for the band to practice,” Janet said as we walked home from school together.

  “Shelly won’t quit. Her father wouldn’t allow it.”

  “She’s a rejected woman. Trust me, she might. You should talk to her.”

  “And say what? ‘I like you as a friend but I don’t find you sexually attractive’?”

  Janet frowned. “Don’t cancel any more practices because of Aja. And she doesn’t have to come to every show, you know.”

  “I feel more confident when she’s around.”

  “I told you this would happen. You’re falling in love.” Janet suddenly paused and sucked in a breath. “Do you think tonight will be the night?”

  “That I propose? Yeah, let’s go pick out a ring.”

  “No, silly, that you have sex.”

  “We’re not having sex tonight. For your information, tonight’s going to be our first official date. All the other times she showed up at our shows, remember? Which reminds me, I need to borrow your car.”

  “What’s wrong with your parents’ car?”

  My father and mother shared the same car, which they drove to Balen every morning. They usually didn’t return until after seven in the evening. Because I planned to take Aja to dinner before the movie, I needed to get an early start. I explained all this to Janet and she said it was okay with her as long as Bo wasn’t using it. She doubted that he was. They had another car—a Mustang that Bo had turbocharged. That sucker could do over a hundred and twenty miles an hour.

  “You know, technically, he still owns the Camry,” Janet said.

  “I thought he gave it to you on your last birthday?”

  “He did, sort of. But he never signed it over to me. I wouldn’t worry—Bo never says no to you.”

  “Nor to you.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “What are you going to do right now?”

  “I’ve found this new yoga teacher I like on YouTube. I’m going to check out a few of his videos.”

  Janet’s latest craze was learning to meditate, which was curious because I always associated meditation with New Age movements, and Janet was an even bigger atheist than I was. To my way of thinking, most people who meditated were trying to contact their soul, and to do so I would have assumed a person would have had to believe he or she had one.

  Yet Janet saw no conflict in her spiritual beliefs—or the lack thereof—and her desire to quiet her thoughts. She told me she was just looking for peace of mind and meditation gave her that and the end result was all she cared about. Fair enough, I thought.

  Still, I couldn’t imagine meditating myself. I was more interested in increasing my creativity; in seeing where my thoughts could take me. The last thing I wanted to do was get rid of them.

  Later, driving Bo’s Camry out to the Carter Mansion, I was feeling pretty jazzed. When I thought of all the times I’d been with Aja, I realized we’d never been alone for a sustained period where we could talk, just talk. I was looking forward to getting to know her better.

  Yet, a voice inside kept nagging me that she might be impossible to get to know.

  Bart answered the door and informed me that Aja was still dressing and would be down shortly. While I was waiting, he asked if I’d like to meet Aja’s aunt—Mrs. Clara Smith. I said sure and he led me to a large bedroom on the first floor loaded with tons of medical equipment. It was only then that I learned the woman had suffered a stroke shortly after they had arrived in America.

  “She’s lost the use of the left side of her body and her words are too slurred to understand,” Bart said. “But she communicates fine with the help of a voice box connected to a tablet she types on with her right hand. Her fingers are nimble—she has no trouble keeping up a natural conversation.”

  “Does she know who I am?” I whispered as we neared the bed and I got my first look at the woman. She was old, probably in her mideighties. But her hair was dyed an agreeable blond; and add to that the fact she wore makeup that had been applied by an expert, and had on a lovely white silk dress—she somehow reminded me of an old-fashioned movie star. Her stroke notwithstanding, the lady had a style about her.

  “Most definitely,” B
art said before he turned to his boss and formally introduced us. “Clara, this is Fred Allen, the singer/songwriter Aja told you about. Fred, Mrs. Clara Smith, Aja’s legal guardian.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said as I shook the frail hand she offered. She let go quickly though, to type on the pad lying on a pillow near her waist.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Fred,” a mechanical voice sounded from a speaker above her bed. The words were more natural in tone than Siri’s.

  “I hope some of it was encouraging,” I said.

  “Oh yes.” Clara must have hit a special button because a string of laughter followed. She gestured to a nearby chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  Sitting, I wondered if her gesture had contained a hidden message because I noticed Bart had suddenly split. I didn’t mind. I was curious to talk to the woman alone, and hopefully find out what kind of person it took to adopt an eight-year-old girl who’d been roaming the streets of an obscure shantytown since God knew what age. I did the best I could to explain my interest in Aja’s background—and in Clara for that matter—and the woman immediately put me at ease.

  “Please, ask any question you want,” she typed.

  “How did you first meet Aja?”

  Clara’s fingers flew over the pad.

  “Bart and I had heard stories about the ‘Pequena Maga’—that means ‘Little Magician’ in Portuguese—before we actually met Aja. That’s what the people in Selva called her. The majority were fond of her and for most the nickname was an affectionate title. But even before we met Aja face-to-face we spoke to a few who feared her, probably because she was something of a mystery. They didn’t understand how she lived, what she ate. You see, since she was a child, Aja lived almost like an animal. She had no home, no family. She wandered in and out of the jungle, and when she was in town, no one ever saw her begging for food or asking for help. And no one ever touched her or tried to harm her. They just let her be.”

  I frowned. “Are you saying no one spoke to her?”

  “Oh no. She spoke to anyone who spoke to her, although she usually had little to say. But you have to understand the people of Selva. They’re a kind people but simple. In their own way, they too live close to nature. For the most part they’re very religious and they seemed to sense a saintliness to Aja.”