by Tracy Lane
“Mr. and Mrs. Weir,” she said, extending a hand. Jake stepped forward and opened the door for Tank.
“Aren’t you getting out?” he asked as the adults went to the side and talked.
Tank shrugged. “I just want to make sure it’s official first.”
Jake nodded and leaned against the car. The woman had a clipboard in hand, and Jake and Tank watched as his father signed a few forms, then his mother, the woman saying, “and initial here…and sign here…and initial here…and sign” endlessly.
Jake had met the social worker a few days before when she and a few other folks from the Dusk Department of Children Welfare made a visit to check out Tank’s future home.
Her parents had gone down to the Foster Center several times since then, filling out more forms, answering questions and signing more documents until, finally, it was official: Tank could live with them.
Only when the Weirs shook the woman’s hand, and she finally put the cap on her fine silver pen, did Tank step out of the car. She slid out a small striped bag slung it over her shoulder. Jake leaned in past her to see if there were any more essentials. His eyes widened when he found nothing.
“That’s all you brought?” he asked.
She shrugged. “They haven’t let me back into the house, and this is all I had. I’ll buy more when I get the chance.”
Jake wasn’t quite sure what to say about that. He and Tank hadn’t talked much since her father died. She seemed fine, half-smirking and lugging her bag over to Jake’s parents, but then, she always seemed fine.
He was pretty sure she wasn’t.
“Good luck, dear,” said the social worker. She extended her hand and Tank took it, but even at a distance, Jake could tell she didn’t really want to.
When the woman was gone, Tank turned to Mr. and Mrs. Weir. “Thanks a lot for doing this. I promise I won’t get in the way.”
Jake’s Mom had to look up at Tank to say, “You aren’t in the way, dear. We’re proud to have you as part of our family.”
Tank’s face was blank, an emptiness that made Jake flinch. For the longest time, he’d thought of this as just Tank “staying over” with them. But now it finally hit him: his parents were formally adopting Tank. This was just the first step; one of many, but the most official by far.
Tank was, or soon would be, his sister.
“Come on, Tank,” said Mr. Weir, patting her on the back. “Let’s check out your new digs and then have my famous turkey burger spaghetti.”
Tank’s smile was genuine that time, and Jake felt a twinge of success.
Inside, the apartment smelled good, like tomato sauce and garlic. It looked good, too. They’d spent nearly every evening organizing the usual gaggle of camera cables and equipment so that they were lining the wall of the living room, rather than lying everywhere as usual.
Now everything had a place and a place for everything, on three metal shelves that stood side by side on the long wall between the kitchen and the master bedroom. Above them, three different posters for the Paranormal Properties series were tacked up and — mostly — straight.
The throw pillows had been fluffed, the magazines on the coffee table – though three years old – had been straightened, and the wobbly fold-up dinner table had been cleaned and properly set for the first time since they’d moved in.
“Smells good,” Tank said as she came in through the doorway.
“Jake wanted to go out to celebrate,” Mrs. Weir said with a gentle hand on Tank’s shoulder. “But we thought you could use a home-cooked meal.”
“Good thinking,” Tank joked as she inched forward into the house. She looked around, but there wasn’t much to see. They stood in the foyer awkwardly until Jake said, “Come on, Tank; let’s check out your room.”
Jake hadn’t done much to his room other than clean the sheets, make the bed, and shove last week’s homework in the top drawer of his desk. Luckily, they both had the same taste in movies, so Jake didn’t have to switch out the free monster movie posters he’d gotten from the video store down the street.
Tank stood by the bed, lowering her bag onto the saggy mattress, and the detail made Jake flush. He knew the little room wasn’t much. He’d been in Tank’s house; it was huge. A mansion really, or as close as Jake had ever come to seeing one (one that wasn’t haunted, anyway). Tank’s room was as big as the Weirs’ whole apartment, and now here she was, stuck in this dump.
“It’s not much,” Jake said, “but…”
“Where’s your room?” she asked.
He looked around, avoiding her eyes. “I’m going to be bunking on the couch for now, just until —”
“No way,” she interrupted again, grabbing her bag up off the bed. “First your folks take me in, now I’m taking your room? No way, Jake.”
“Yes way, Tank.” His voice was surprisingly firm. “Trust me, it’s better this way. I help Dad set up his shots on Wednesday and Thursday, and we stay up pretty late, so if you were on the couch you’d just get in the way. And on the weekends, we all work like crazy on the show and barely sleep, so…it’s better if you sleep in here.”
Tank still had her bag slung over one arm, but he could see her thinking. “Well, why can’t I work on the show?”
Jake’s eyes bugged out. “You? You always made fun of the show!”
“No I didn’t,” Tank lied.
“Yes you did. You said your Dad’s car commercials were filmed better!”
“That was before I was part of the family,” she murmured.
Just then, there was a brief knock on the door and Mr. Weir shoved it open.
Jake sighed. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mom and Dad knock on the door just to warn you before they open it.”
Tank managed a smile. “Good to know.”
“So, you two getting settled in?” asked Jake’s Dad. “Dinner’s ready, unless you want to unpack first.”
Tank dumped her bag on the bed. “I really wish you’d talk Jake into taking his room back, Mr. Weir,” she said, following Jake’s Dad out of the bedroom.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Weir. “Just wait ’till Jake tells you about our crazy working hours.”
With that unconscious confirmation, the matter was settled. It was to be Tank’s bedroom from now on.
Down the hall from the bedroom, the dinner table was set with a steaming bowl of spaghetti, an even bigger bowl of salad, and a basket overflowing with garlic bread slices. Jake’s Mom was bringing in a pitcher of lemonade as they started to sit.
“Can I help you?” Tank asked, halfway to her seat but looking ready to move the table across the room if need be.
“Sure,” said Mrs. Weir. “You can clean your plate for me.”
They dug in, all of them starving. It had been a long week for the entire family, and Jake looked across the table at his friend, hardly believing it was real: Tank was living with them.
He wasn’t used to her being polite. At all those convenience store stops, she always ate with her fingers, snatched his food, burped often and loudly, and generally behaved like an untrained bear. It was all entertaining, really. But here, she folded her napkin against her thigh, used her fork and knife, and even passed the garlic bread around the table without picking out a slice with her teeth first.
“Speaking of frantic work schedules,” Tank said after wiping turkey burger off her lips. “I meant to tell Jake, but…Dad has a whole warehouse of camera equipment he used for his commercials. I guess that’s all mine now, so…after dinner, if you want to head over there and see if you can use any of it, that’d be cool.”
Jake watched his mother and father share wide-eyed, “are you hearing what I’m hearing?” looks.
“Didn’t your father hire someone to handle all the equipment for him?” Jake’s Mom asked.
Tank shrugged. “He tried a few times, but no one ever got him what he wanted, so he just bought the gear and did it mostly himself.”
“Bought?” said Mr. Weir. “He didn’t rent
those things?”
“Dad didn’t believe in renting stuff,” Tank said quietly. “And I know he wouldn’t want all of it to go to waste…”
Jake bit into a piece of garlic bread as Mr. Weir closely interrogated Tank about exactly what kind of tools were in her Dad’s warehouse. He smiled as his own father brought a notepad from out of nowhere and wrote a few things down. He was in a business mode now, and Jake was already quite certain they’d all be taking a field trip to the warehouse as soon as the dinner table was cleared – if not sooner.
He was kind of looking forward to it: their first family outing. From the look on Tank’s face, she was kind of looking forward to it as well.
Chapter 12
“And how, exactly, are you two related to Mr. Vitelli?”
The nurse at the Dusk Memorial Hospital was a head taller than Tank and a foot wider on each side. Jake stared up at her moon-shaped face and, for the life of him, could not form an excuse.
Tank nudged him with one sharp elbow and said, “We’re his grandkids, of course!”
Frank looked at Jake and shook his head, face drawn with disappointment. “Smooth move, Ace.”
Jake shrugged.
Tank beamed.
The nurse wasn’t having any of it. “We’ll see about that,” she said, slumping down into an oversized desk chair and rattling the keyboard with her thick fingers. Jake didn’t know what she was typing on the other side of the lobby reception desk, but to him it sounded like the world’s longest novel.
“Uh oh,” Tank said under her breath.
She’s looking us up, Jake thought frantically. They were already far too nervous, Jake particularly so. They were running out of clues and names to interview. If they didn’t get answers soon, Jake may never find out who killed Frank.
“Names?” asked the nurse, smiling proudly as if she already knew the answer.
“Vanessa Vitelli,” Tank beamed, as if she actually were Gino Vitelli’s granddaughter. “And this is my brother, Vito Vitelli.”
Jake nudged her back when the nurse rolled her calculating eyes and began tapping the next chapter of her “novel” onto her abused keyboard.
Frank groaned. “Let me take care of this,” he said. Jake watched him walk behind the hospital’s reception desk, find a stack of paperwork and casually dump it onto the floor.
“My heavens!” gasped the nurse, fleeing from her keyboard and kneeling to pick up her documents. “How on earth did that happen?”
Frank tipped his hat to her. She couldn’t see him despite practically scraping his thick, leather shoes with her fluttering forms and worksheets, and it all looked pretty silly to Jake.
Tank smirked, getting the hint. “Ma’am?” she insisted, tapping her finger on the countertop. “Ma’am? About our grandfather?”
Jake felt bad for the woman, who was clearly flustered, not used to being flustered and did not enjoy it one bit.
“Yes, dear?” she asked, as if she’d forgotten who Tank was or why she was there.
“Our grandfather,” Jake chimed in. “You were going to tell us what room he’s in?”
The woman’s face was pink by now, and her forehead was dotted with perspiration.
“I certainly was not!” she blustered, using her hands to push herself up and sink back into her computer chair. “I was going to— now…what was your grandfather’s name again?”
Tank sighed like a girl with much better places to be. “Gino Vitelli,” she said. “V-I-T-E—”
“Yes, yes,” said the nurse, straightening her white bonnet around her thick red hair. “Now, you were related to him how?”
Frank sighed theatrically and dumped the files the woman had just straightened back onto the floor.
“My word!” she cried.
Before she could turn to fix them, Tank grabbed her arm and asked, “Ma’am, our grandfather?”
There was a moment there, with the woman’s face beet red and Tank’s frown firm, where Jake thought it was over. He pictured the nurse yanking back her hand, pushing a big red button under her desk, and the lobby immediately filling with a dozen security guards who would not-so-politely escort them off the premises via the toes of their boots.
But then, it shifted. Frank knocked a houseplant over; the woman flinched, gasped, and turned back to Tank. “Room 4311,” she barked, more concerned with righting her plant and filing her paperwork than stopping two children from visiting an old man.
Tank thanked her, and off they went to the elevators before she could change her mind.
“You want me to stick around and spill her cup of coffee?” Frank asked.
Jake grabbed his sleeve and said, “You’ve done enough damage!”
“Who, me?” Tank asked, already pressing the elevator button around the corner. Then she saw Jake’s hand outstretched, clutched to Frank’s invisible suit. “Oh, you’re talking to him again.”
Frank leered as they walked into the elevators. “I’ve never met a girl who wasn’t afraid of ghosts before.”
“What about my Mom?” Jake asked.
“What about her?” Tank asked, and then noticed him looking up at the elevator wall. She made a face. “Oh, sorry. We need some sign, or code, or something to figure out who you’re talking to.”
“Just imagine how hard that would be,” said Jake. The elevator chimed as the door opened on the fourth floor.
She chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
There was a nurse at a counter at the head of the hallway facing the elevator. She eyed them severely, pulling the sweater around her uniform tighter.
Jake slowed down, trying to buy time. He hadn’t planned on there being anyone around. Frank brushed against his shoulder and said, “Let me take care of this, kid.”
Tank looked at Jake uncertainly as the nurse addressed them. “How did you two get up here?”
“Uh…” Jake began, going silent.
Tank, seeing that her friend wasn’t rising to the occasion, pitched in. “We’re here to see our—”
Just then, a blue light started blinking on the wall next to the nurse. She dropped her pen and bolted in the opposite direction. “Stay here!” she ordered over her shoulder. As she passed, Jake saw Frank standing near a button marked “For emergencies only.”
“Hurry,” said Jake, tugging Tank along. “I don’t think we have much time.”
Room 4311 was full of old men; four of them, to be exact. The room was bright and airy, with two beds on either side of the room. It was a shame that the inhabitants weren’t so bright and airy themselves.
“Do you remember what he looked like?” Jake asked, and for once, Tank knew he wasn’t talking to her. She picked a metal clipboard from the end of one bed, read the name, and then moved on to the other.
“Yeah, sixty years ago,” Frank said, still wavering by the door.
Jake wanted to urge him in, but something made him stop. “More spirits?” he asked, wondering how many would-be ghosts were lingering in the hospital hallways, roaming around, searching for closure.
Frank nodded, leaning nervously against the door. “And not happy ones,” he explained. Jake could only nod in attempted understanding.
“Here he is,” said Tank, holding up a clipboard at the bed closest to the window.
Jake walked over, leaving Frank in the doorway.
“Is your friend here?” Tank whispered.
“No, and he could hear you if he was.”
She grunted and looked closely at the chart in her hands. Jake examined the man in the bed instead. He seemed ancient. They’d met some old folks lately, but Gino Vitelli looked the oldest of them all.
He couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. His arms were sticks, his head closely shaved, and his lips thin and papery, just like his skin.
“Tank,” Jake said, but he wasn’t sure why.
She didn’t respond anyway. Maybe she could sense it, his hurt.
A machine to the right of his bed breathed for Gi
no Vitelli the same as Mr. Barton’s had. It was about as big as a popcorn machine at the movie theater and, at the bottom, a small black tube moved up and down, up and down. It hissed, like air going in and out of his lungs. Jake guessed that was what all that extra space inside the glass box was for: air going in, or out.
“What now?” Tank asked, slipping a small sheet of paper into her pocket.
“I—I—” Jake stuttered, trying to find the answer. Gino Vitelli was their last hope. Everyone else in the picture he’d taken from the Lido Lounge wall was either dead or had already been spoken to. Gino was their last — their only — lead.
“He’s in a coma, Jake,” Frank said from the doorway. “They all are.”
Frank pointed to a sign on the door that said, “Comatose Ward.”
Tank followed Jake’s eyes to the sign and sighed.
They stood by Mr. Vitelli’s side for a few more moments in heavy silence. “What about Frank?” Tank finally asked, reaching out a hand to gently touch the old man’s shoulder. Jake wondered if she was thinking about her own Dad, and he stepped around the bed.
“He’ll be fine,” Jake lied, taking Tank’s other hand. “Come on; you’ve seen enough hospital rooms this month.”
Tank nodded, following him from the room. The nurse was still chasing down Frank’s phantom “alarm,” but there was no telling when she might come back.
“Well, it wasn’t an entire loss,” Tank added as they stepped quickly into the elevator.
“How’s that?” Jake asked, pushing the button marked “Lobby.”
She held up a piece of notepaper that said, “From the Desk of Dr. Clark.” Beneath those professionally printed words was a line printed in Tank’s own fat, loopy script. “Because I got Gino Vitelli’s address, that’s why.”
Jake was stumped. “But…why?” Not to mention, how?
Tank shrugged, though she looked very pleased with herself. “Maybe there will be something there we can use, you know? A scrapbook? A confession? Who knows?”
Jake nodded, still not sure if that was a good idea or not.
Frank leaned over, read the street number on the slip of paper, and smiled. “I know where that is,” he said, dismantling into mist. There came his disembodied voice, “I’ll meet you there.”
