“Uneventful, especially compared to yours.”
“Your mother was very helpful. I should do something nice for her. Maybe I’ll bake her a cake.”
“She’s diabetic.”
“Oh, that’s right. Maybe I’ll just give her a key to my house. Oh, wait. She already has one.”
“I hear that turned out to be a good thing.”
Evelyn must have called him. Screw the salad. I took an extra piece of garlic bread.
“Couldn’t you have just left a spare with Pete and Livvy?”
“Abby wanted me to leave it with her grandmother. It’s Abby’s key.”
I reached for Abby’s uneaten dinner. No sense letting it go to waste.
“I need to take care of my car problem.”
“Tomorrow, if you can make up your mind what you want.”
“To grandmother’s house we go.” Abby sang in the shower, tuneless but loud.
The next morning, we went car shopping.
[21]
Carole
SOMEONE WATCHES. I CAN’T FIND HIM, but he is here. His stare burns holes in my skin.
Abby is almost to the bus.
Hurry. Hurry.
She runs down the sidewalk, and the bus driver opens the doors.
Abby disappears.
She doesn’t get on the bus. She is just—gone.
Blevins grins at me from the driver’s seat. “Hey! Good trick! Where’d she go?”
I try to scream and run but can’t move. Cold. Wet. Whimpering.
Abby’s crying. Where is she. . .
I woke up. Sami nuzzled my hand with her cold nose. The insistent whine came from her.
Abby was awake too. She sat up and stared at me.
“Time to read.” Other than her flat speech, all evidence of the meltdown was gone.
I scratched Sami’s chin and whispered, “Thanks, pup.” I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, but it was good to know she was on sentry duty. She quit whimpering, but remained tense and ready to pounce. “Relax,” I told her. “No squirrels here unless you count Abby and me.”
We read until Abby fell back to sleep. I managed to stay awake for the rest of the night, with Sami curled up at—or on—my feet. By morning, my head ached, but I drove Abby to school. If she wouldn’t let me walk her to the bus, she wasn’t getting on it.
She sulked. She loved the school bus. When she was younger, her favorite toys were yellow school buses. She still had a dozen in different sizes and styles and refused to give them up. They lined a shelf in her room, and she counted them every night before bed.
I tried to convince her I wanted to take my new Jeep for a spin.
“It’s my new toy,” I said. “I want to play with it.”
She didn’t buy it.
I chatted and made small talk for the entire drive. All I got in return was a string of Idunno’s.
At the school, the drop-off line was long, but I refused to let her out until we were as close to the entrance as I could get.
“Have a good day,” I said.
“Are you and Sami going for a walk?” Her first complete sentence since we left the house.
“Maybe.” If my head quit hurting.
“Stay away from the forest.”
“What forest?”
“Idunno.”
The car behind us honked, and she jumped out. I watched her all the way to the door. She opened it and disappeared inside. I sat there until the driver behind me laid on his horn.
A walk was a good idea. Fresh air. Exercise. First, I needed sleep—and for the blasted headache to go away.
• • •
EVEN WITHOUT OPENING my eyes, I knew sunshine flooded the room. The warm glow through my eyelids made me appreciate Abby’s new dislike for red. I peeked at the clock. Afternoon sunshine. Late afternoon. I forgot to set the alarm.
Something was missing. My headache was gone, even the nagging bit around the edges that had plagued me for days. I felt good. Chipper. No need to see the doctor. My efforts to eat better and get a little exercise paid off.
Although I’d slept longer than I meant to—good thing it wasn’t a cloudy day—I had just enough time to walk Sami before I picked up Abby. She wasn’t riding the bus in the afternoon anymore than she was in the morning.
Sami didn’t fight the leash. She trotted by my side out the driveway and down the sidewalk like the well-trained dog she was. We made it around the corner, down another block, and turned onto Acorn Avenue.
Stay away from the forest.
Port Massasauga retained bits of its farm-land origins. Small stands of trees dotted residential areas. Hardly forests, but one of my favorite things about the city. On Acorn Avenue, rather than oaks, the copse was filled with pines and stayed green and lush throughout the winter. It was beautiful.
Stay away from the forest. It was just another random Abby-ism, but my heart beat faster as we neared the trees. By my side, Sami growled and went to alert. We drew even with the trees, and she burst into her deep warning bark. I stopped, and she leapt, nearly jerking the leash from my hand. Squirrels. The pines must have held legions of squirrels.
“Sami, sit.” The well-trained dog was gone. She jumped and strained at the leash. She’d pull my arm off, or at the very least dislocate my shoulder.
Stay away from the forest. Abby’s voice, dead serious, filled my head as if she was standing next to me.
“Get a grip.” I spoke to both myself and the dog.
«Okay.»
I didn’t expect an answer and couldn’t tell where it came from. Sami and I were alone, except for the one grey squirrel that shot from the pines and raced across the street. Sami paid no attention and continued barking at the trees.
“Sami—” Nausea hit. Bright lights danced behind my dark sunglasses, half-blinding me. “—Heel.” I turned toward home and lost my balance but caught myself before I fell. Sami quit barking and went back to growling.
“Go away. You’re impossible.” The spots didn’t listen, but Sami answered with a clipped bark. Agonizing pain shot through my temples. Home seemed very far away.
“I hope you have a hidden talent as a seeing-eye dog.” More like a four-legged homing pigeon, but she got me home. By the time I unlocked the back door, the spots were gone, but not the sick stomach or the full-force headache. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t go back to bed. School let out in fifteen minutes.
I didn’t trust myself behind the wheel. I called Ms. Colley and told her to put Abby on the bus.
Cold and miserable, I stood at the curb and waited. I wore the giant wrap-around post-cataract surgery sunglasses Evelyn had given Abby, but the frozen afternoon sunshine still burned my eyes. When the bus arrived, both my head and stomach protested the smell of exhaust.
The driver opened the doors and grinned at me from his perch. “Nice sunglasses,” he said.
I heard good trick.
Abby brushed past me without a word.
• • •
ABBY DIDN’T SPEAK to me the rest of the day, but her body language told me how much she loathed my over-protective mom-at-the-curb act. When I asked about her day, she grunted. When I told her not to grunt at me, she looked a hair’s breadth away from sticking her tongue out. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to laugh or smack her, but both were bad ideas and took too much effort.
Every time I thought I felt better, another wave of pain and nausea engulfed me. I considered asking Jim to take shifts on nighttime Abby duty but was afraid to ask. He’d dropped heavy hints the night watches were unnecessary, and I was in no shape to tackle that discussion. Or set off an argument.
Didn’t matter. He called and said he was working over and didn’t know when he’d be home.
“Did something happen?” I asked. The fear I’d kept buried since Abby’s meltdown bubbled to the surface.
“Nah. Not much. Some guy hasn’t shown up for work for a while, and his mother and sister filed a missing persons report.”
It sou
nded like much to me. “When did he disappear?” Not last Friday. Please, not last Friday. Not while Abby rocked.
“Week, week and a half ago. His car’s gone. He just took off, but we have to ask questions. And do paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork.”
Jim hated paperwork, but his nonchalance about the missing man meant he wasn’t telling me the whole story. I wished him luck with the paperwork and hung up without interrogating him. Maybe it was my imagination, or the headache. There was no connection between the meltdown and the missing man. No connection between a stranger’s disappearance and blankets and ceilings.
“Daddy will be late tonight. We’re on our own for dinner.” My stomach heaved at the thought of food. Abby was on her own.
“We should have mac and cheese,” she said.
“Not tonight. It’s a cereal night. I don’t feel like cooking.” She could have cereal. I didn’t plan to eat.
“I will make the mac and cheese myself.”
“I said no. Get yourself a bowl of cereal or make a sandwich. I think there’s sliced cheese in the fridge.”
“I’ll make tuna sandwiches.” Her version of compromise—she didn’t do exactly what I told her to do, but offered something close.
“Clean up after yourself.” She always made a mess, and I wasn’t up to cleaning the kitchen anymore than cooking. “I’ll wait and eat with Daddy.” A lie, but a good excuse for not eating with her. Abby didn’t do well around illness. If Jim or I had the slightest cold, she went into high-stress mode until we stopped coughing and blowing our noses. If I told her I didn’t want dinner, she’d think I was ready for hospitalization.
The stink of tuna drifted in from the kitchen. I gagged. Abby made as much noise as she could, banging bowls and slamming the fridge door. I pulled my afghan over my head and took shallow breaths. It helped a little with the lights and the smell, but not the noise. I never dreamt plastic bowls could be so loud.
“Here you go.” Abby pulled the blanket off my head, dropped it on the floor, and held out a tuna-on-toast sandwich like a peace offering.
I retched, but swallowed the rising bile and thanked her. She was back with her own sandwich before I could force myself to take a bite.
“What is wrong?”
“I’m not very hungry. I’ll eat later.”
“Are you sick?”
“Just tired.”
“Eat your sandwich. It will make you feel better.” Her words came fast, not meltdown level, but on their way.
“I’ll taste it, but I’m really not hungry. I’ll wait for your dad and eat with him.” I took a tiny bite, which I’m sure was delicious. All I tasted was vomit.
“You are sick. I told you to stay away from the forest.”
Fireworks shot off in my head.
“Abby, tell me about the forest.” Acorn Avenue. The headache started at the forest.
“You should listen. You should not go there.” She shouted, and her anger was contagious.
“Tell me what you are talking about.” My screech was a sledgehammer to the side of my head.
“I tell you to stay away from the forest. You do not listen.”
“Abby, please—”
“I should take my shower now.” She stomped away.
“Abby!” My rage was out of proportion to the situation, but I couldn’t control it. Fighting it hurt worse than letting it out.
“Be sure to set your timer.” Cold and mean, I was the Wicked Witch of the West.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I like Ms. Colley better. You should listen.” On her way up, she hit every stair as hard as she could.
The slam of the bathroom door was excruciating.
The Ms. Colley comment was typical upset-Abby and didn’t bother me. The forest comments haunted me, but I couldn’t think about them. The roar of the shower sounded like Niagara Falls, and even looking at the sandwich sickened me. I could get rid of the sandwich and tell Abby I ate it.
The whine of the garbage disposal and the reek of tuna were too much. I finally vomited. I swayed and grabbed the edge of the sink. The room darkened and spun, and the sledgehammer turned to a jackhammer. I need to sit down before I fall down.
The living room was a million miles away. So was the kitchen table. I lowered myself to the floor. Breathe. Breathe.
Abby shouldn’t see me like this. If Jim walked in and found me on the floor, it wouldn’t do him any good either. Or me.
My mother suffered from migraines. A bad one took her down for a week, sometimes more. At her worst, she couldn’t stand light, sound, or smell. Often, she threw up. Sick headaches, my grandmother called them. I’d never had one, but if this was a migraine, my grandmother nailed it.
The shower stopped. Blissful silence, until Abby stomped to her room. It sounded like she was bowling right above my head.
As bad as my mother’s migraines were, I never found her curled up on the kitchen floor. I pressed my fingers into my temples as hard as I could stand, something I’d seen her do. When I was an obnoxious teen, I saw the gesture as an over-dramatic bid for sympathy, but it worked. The pounding dulled. I owed my mother an apology.
Abby was still upstairs. She was either really pissed or didn’t want anything to do with me, but I couldn’t leave her alone. I grabbed the counter and pulled myself up. Quick moves were bad. I clung to the counter and gasped for air. The room steadied. When I could move without falling over, I made my way upstairs one slow step at a time.
Abby lay in bed, her back to the open door.
“Hey,” I said.
She was either already asleep or ignoring me.
The bathroom light made me long for my sunglasses. I searched for something stronger than Tylenol and found a bottle of Vicodin. Jim’s, from the dentist. Mr. Stoic had barely touched them, if he’d taken any.
I swallowed two and hoped they’d stay down long enough to help. Just in case they didn’t, I grabbed the wastebasket on the way out. I wasn’t cleaning up any messes, not even my own.
Sami sprawled at Abby’s feet. She wasn’t allowed on the bed but didn’t bother to jump off when she saw me. I didn’t bother to scold her.
Abby’s new clock projected the time on the ceiling. When I bought it, I thought she’d love it. All she said was “Blue is better than red.”
Only six. Too early for her to be in bed. Too early for me to be in the chair. I settled in and pulled a blanket over my head, glad Jim wasn’t around to see us. My cocoon and the pills helped. My headache receded, and as long as I didn’t move, my stomach behaved.
I don’t know how, but I was awake when Jim got home. The numbers on the ceiling said 11:58. Six hours was a long stretch of sleep for Abby, but deep, steady breathing, both hers and Sami’s, reassured me.
Jim stuck his head into the room.
“Abby made sandwiches. There’s tuna salad in the fridge,” I said.
“Already ate. You sound terrible.”
“Long day.”
“Come to bed. Abby will be fine.”
“I’m good here.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound it.”
“Headache. I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you should see the doctor.”
“Shhhh. You’ll wake Abby.”
“We need to talk about this. It’s getting ridiculous.”
“Not tonight.”
“The situation is out of hand. You’re a mess.”
“We’ll talk soon. I promise.” Under the blanket, I crossed my fingers.
He went to bed, and my headache returned. It had a sound track. A laugh track. It sounded like Blevins.
[22]
Abby
DADDY IS HOME, AND I AM GLAD. Daddy is a policeman. Policemen keep people safe. He talks to my mom, and I think he is angry but will still keep us safe. My mom’s head is angry. Everyone is angry, and I should be asleep.
“Is my Little Bunny upset?” the Ceiling Man says.
I pretend to be asleep. I
do not answer him. I am not a bunny.
“Tell your mom hello for me. Maybe I should tell her myself,” the Ceiling Man says.
I ignore him.
“Oh, Mommy. . .”
I cannot pretend. I do not want him to hurt my mom. I open my eyes.
My mom sits in her chair. Her eyes are closed and she rubs her head and rocks. Temples. She rubs her temples. Temples are on the side of your head, and temples are churches. I hate slippery words.
Gramma says, “Hate is a very strong word.”
I do not like slippery words.
I think maybe the Ceiling Man hurts my mom’s head, but I do not ask him. Maybe if I do not talk to him he will go away.
“Little Bunny Foo Foo. . .”
My mom should listen to me. She should stay away from the forest. I do not think she knows she is rocking. Sometimes, I do not know I am rocking.
“Hopping through the forest. . .”
Bunnies do not talk except in stories. I do not talk, but I am not a bunny and I do not think I am in a story.
If my mom hears the Ceiling Man, I do not think she will like him and I think she will be angry. Everyone is angry tonight.
“I’m your mom’s new best friend,” the Ceiling Man says.
Aunt Nancy is my mom’s friend. Twyla is my best friend. I do not think the Ceiling Man is anybody’s friend. Maybe the man in the box, but I do not think he is a nice friend.
My mom does not know I am awake. Her head hurts. I do not think she should read. I get my music and put my earphones on. No more listening to the Ceiling Man. No more Bunny Foo Foo.
When I listen to my music, I sing and I am happy. When I sing, my mom puts her hands over her ears and laughs and says oh Abby my ears, but I think she is happy too.
My mom puts her hands over her ears but she does not laugh. I do not sing. I am quiet.
“Quiet like a mouse,” the Ceiling Man says, but I ignore him.
“Go downstairs,” he says. “Let me in. I’ll make Mommy feel better.”
The Ceiling Man does not make me feel good. I think he is a liar. Liars are bad.
“Go away,” I whisper. My mom’s head hurts and I must be quiet.
“Help me out, my Little Bunny Foo Foo.”
The Ceiling Man Page 11
