Flesh

by Laura Bickle

  “You don’t think there’s any possibility of this being a dream? You did sleepwalk a good deal as a child. And in a quite complex fashion, from what your father says.”

  “About finding all the Easter eggs that one year? Yeah, but this wasn’t that.”

  “Is it possible, then, that you saw something traumatic and your mind is attempting to cover it up by reinterpreting it in this way? That perhaps you walked in on the body snatcher?”

  I look at her with narrowed eyes. “If so, what I came up with to make myself feel better was pretty gruesome, don’t you think?”

  Dr. Katz cocks her head, seeming deep in thought. “I’m only asking you to be open to the possibility. The brain can do strange things when it’s under stress. And it’s not your fault if it does.”

  My hands have balled into fists. “My mom’s going to try to home-school me, isn’t she?”

  “She did mention that was a possibility.”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No.”

  “Let’s not rule anything out. Why don’t we see how you feel over the next few weeks, okay?”

  A beep sounds from Dr. Katz’s computer, indicating that our session is over. She turns to make some notes in her file and to scribble something on a prescription pad.

  “I’m going to write you a prescription for a slightly stronger anti-anxiety medication. You should begin to feel the full effects in about six weeks. In the meantime, if you feel under special stress, I’m going to write you a prescription for a sleeping pill, to be taken as needed…”

  I grit my teeth, say nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. Now everyone thinks I’m crazy, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to erase that.

  Unless I can prove it’s true.

  *

  Act normal, and everything will be normal.

  I was pretty darn good at playing pretend when I was a little girl. I had a whole bunch of dolls and action figures, and I could be anything I wanted with them: an astronaut, the queen of the fairies, a superhero. I had a bunch of imaginary friends, a supporting cast of characters who helped me fly to the moon, harvest milkweed, and save the world. It was apparently cute when I was five and running around with a pink beach towel tied around my neck. But as I got older, my imaginary friends made my parents more and more uneasy. So I just quit talking about them. They were still there, but I understood pretty damn quickly that the less I said, the better. After a couple of years of not being listened to, they eventually faded away.

  Be normal.

  Otherwise, pills and homeschooling are in my future.

  If they hadn’t canceled school, I’m pretty sure that I would have been able to slip away into normalcy. As it is, I can’t stand my mother’s guilty looks around the house. I know that she thinks she pushed me over the edge when she let me help with Amanda’s exam. She thinks she’s really screwed up by putting her faith in me to do a task like that. She thinks I’m weak and unhinged. She’s always thought that, even when I was still sneaking conversations with my imaginary friends when I thought no one was looking.

  So I appeal to my father.

  “Dad, I took an internship with the museum.”

  He looks over his newspaper at me as I hand him my paperwork. “You’ve always been great with history,” he says. “And Bob Haskins is a nice guy. I’m sure he’s happy to have the help.”

  “He seems nice. Today is supposed to be my first day of work.” I lean forward and backward on the balls and heels of my feet.

  “I can call him. I’m sure he’s seen the news and will understand if you need some time…”

  “No,” I say, too quickly. “I want to go to work. It’s my first day, and…I don’t want to disappoint.”

  I want the hell out of the house.

  I think my dad can tell. He looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “Well, I can’t think of a safer, quieter place for you than the museum. It would probably do you some good to have the distraction.”

  I nod vigorously as he gives in.

  He drives me to the museum and drops me off. I breathe a sigh of relief as I pass through the doors, clutching my notebook and feeling the catfish charm burning a hole in my pocket.

  It’s hot and stuffy here, with the late-afternoon sunshine soaking into the walls.

  Mr. Haskins greets me. He’s wiping something that looks like engine grease off his hands. “Charlie! You came.”

  “I hope this is okay.” I glance at my watch. I intended to be early, but I’m two minutes late.

  “No, no. You’re fine. I expected that you wouldn’t be coming in with the, ah, tragedy and all.” He fidgets. A lot of people are uncomfortable talking about the dead.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m happy to come, really.”

  “Were you close to that girl who died?” He’s trying to be respectful, I know.

  “No,” I confirm. It’s the truth. “I didn’t know her well at all.” Changing the subject, I glance at the rag in his hands. “What happened?”

  Mr. Haskins rolls his eyes. “One of the air conditioners broke. I was hoping to limp it along until next spring, but with this unseasonable heat, it just seems to have given out. Don’t worry, though. You can work in the basement. It’s still really cool down there.”

  “No worries,” I say, following him down the steps.

  I give Mr. Haskins the work permission slip signed by my father and he gives me some forms to use to describe each item that comes out of the boxes. Once the forms are filled out, I’m supposed to use his computer to enter the data into an Excel program. I reassure him that I know how to use Excel. He hands me a box of latex gloves, a box cutter, leather gardener’s gloves (“You never know what you’ll find in there! Use the gardening gloves to open the boxes.”) and goes back upstairs to fuss with the air conditioner. In moments, I hear banging and muttering.

  I reach into my pocket, and once more contemplate leaving the catfish charm here, where I found it. I could kick it into a dark corner, and then it’s simply been misplaced. Not stolen.

  But I don’t. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. This thing hasn’t seen the light of day in years. Another day or three won’t make a difference.

  Instead, I spread the forms out in front of me and read them through. They’re straightforward enough. I’m to record the boxes and items inside them with a brief description about their condition and the date. It vaguely reminds me of a time that an elderly widow died in town, and she had no family to dispose of her estate. My father somehow volunteered to get the property together for the auctioneers, as the proceeds were to go to the local humane society. I remember peering through boxes with him, trying to help him group pots and pans and dresses and costume jewelry into auction lots that made sense. Each box only garnered a dollar or two, but the total amount was enough to make the county humane society very happy.

  I put on the gardening gloves. They’re two sizes too big, but I’m determined to play by the rules. For this part, anyway. I take the top box off the shelf. In black Magic Marker, it’s been labeled ANONYMOUS DONATION. The box is a bit wet, and I imagine that someone left it on the front step and fled.

  It’s unexpectedly heavy. I drop it on the sturdy table, open the flaps. I peer inside and grimace as the smell of mildew wafts up.

  I gingerly pull out layers and layers of dingy yellow fabric. A wedding dress, I’m guessing. It’s spotted with black and green marks. I hold it up at arm’s length. The person who wore it must have been tiny. The shape of it is vaguely Victorian, but the lace is in tatters. I can’t imagine anyone really wanting it or being able to restore it. But I scribble the condition down as “poor—tattered and mildewed” and fold it very carefully into a paper bag that reminds me too much of my mother’s evidence bags.

  I peer into the bottom of the box. There are a bunch of damp magazines that I immediately dump into a wheeled trash can. As I do so, I disturb the layer of sediment at the bottom. An army of cockroaches skitters up, surging toward the lip of the
box.

  “Gah!”

  I stuff the box into the large trash can, fumbling to get the flaps of the black garbage bag tied around it before the roaches get away. One escapee slips over the edge and runs over my knuckles before it drops to the floor.

  “Come here, you!”

  I chase after the roach, stomping after him. But he’s fast. He scuttles underneath a set of steel shelves, and I crash into them. I land on my backside, swearing under my breath.

  “Everything okay down there?” Mr. Haskins shouts down.

  “It’s all good!” At eye-level, I notice a carton marked CATTELL ESTATE, PROCESSED. I lift myself to a crouch and take off the lid.

  A sheaf of paper forms lies on the top, describing the contents. I pick them up and look in the bottom of the box. I see a leather-bound book and fragile documents placed in plastic sleeves.

  I let the lid drop, breathing quickly. I glance back at the black trash bag. Bugs are moving inside, and I grudgingly tear myself away to take the bag to the Dumpster.

  I return, eager to pick through the box. I lift the lid again and gently pull out the leather-bound book. I open it, scarcely daring to hope that this is the fur trapper’s diary that inspired the theory that the settlement was abandoned before the flood. I gingerly open the cover to thumb through the interior pages. They’re covered in ink as purple as gooseberries, the writing splotchy.

  I open a page at random and read:

  October 14, 1840

  Snared a bobcat in hills west of Sunday Creek. Very nice pelt. Bobcat solitary, so there will be no more in this area for the time being.

  The journal writer is terse. But there’s an elaborate map drawn below it of a stream and an x, where the bobcat was presumably trapped. Beside it, there’s a very pretty portrait of a bobcat.

  This is true for the journal in general. Few words, usually describing the weather and day’s catch. Mostly pictures, drawn maps and sketches of animals. The writer clearly bought the adage that pictures were worth more than words.

  I skim through drawings of rivers, fish, trees, beaver dams. There are pictures of leaves, traced carefully, with occasional sketches of people. Toward the middle, there’s a sketch of a man in a fur hat and full beard. I wonder if this is the author or his partner. His face is deeply lined and rough, as if he has seen much summer and even more winter.

  I flip to the last pages.

  March 14, 1841

  Ice has finally broken, and we tried to bring our kill to Mooresville. But there is no one here.

  The text is interrupted with a sketch, the reproduction of which is framed at the front of the museum. It’s a desolate, abandoned village.

  The following text is not included in the display out front, however:

  We went from house to house to see if anyone was there. We found no one. Dishes were still in cupboards, clothes in wardrobes. Roofs have been ruined with ice dams, and cows in the field had foundered and died. No one seems to have taken any thing with them. The people are long gone.

  There are bones here, bits and pieces in fires. It appears that the people who lived here found something to eat…but I shudder to imagine what that was.

  It is cold, and some shelter is still good. We will spend the night and move on in the morning.

  That is the last page in the journal. The author has written all the way down to the bottom margin and stopped when he ran out of space.

  At least, I hope that he just ran out of space…and not out of life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Gramma, do you know anything about the Cattells?”

  Gramma is in the kitchen, pounding the hell out of an unhappy ball of bread dough. Her cheeks are pink with exertion, and the scar peeking out of the neckline of her blouse is an angry red. She blows back a piece of blond hair from her face. “Where did you hear that name, sweetie?”

  I hunch over my notebook on the kitchen table. “At the museum. I’m going through some boxes from the Cattell Estate. I was just wondering.”

  “They were one of the first families that settled around Mooresville,” Gramma says. “They had money, though they were pretty unlucky in all other respects.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, trying to act casual.

  “I went to school with one of the girls, Nora. She was smart, funny, and a beautiful singer. She was going to go to Nashville and become a star. We were all sure she’d do it, too. But she drowned on the night of our senior prom.”

  I gasp. “What happened?”

  “No one really knew for sure. She went for a walk”—Gramma lifts her flour-covered fingers to make air quotes—“along the river with her boyfriend. She disappeared, and the boyfriend was found, raving mad, on the bank of the river. Frank was committed to an insane asylum, where he hanged himself afterward.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Did he kill her?”

  “The cops assumed he did. Her body was never found, though they did find one of her shoes caught in some brush downriver. They guessed that she and Frank had an argument, and that Frank drowned her. He had a very strict religious upbringing, and the guilt was what they thought drove him batty. He was raving about devils coming up from the river and attacking him and his sweetheart. No one thought he could really take responsibility for the crime, so he cast all the blame on the Devil.”

  “And he hanged himself?”

  “Yes. A few months afterward, if I recall. The whole thing was a damn shame.” Gramma punches the dough a few more times. “The Cattells kept to themselves after that. And now they’ve all died.”

  I open my mouth. I want to tell her about Amanda and the flesh-eating ghouls.

  But my gaze snags on the scar above her heart. I remember coming home from school and finding her slumped in a kitchen chair, her hand pressed to her chest. I remember calling 911 and how the EMTs took her to the hospital where they immediately performed open-heart surgery. I remember how small and frail she looked in her hospital bed.

  I close my mouth. I want to tell her. But I am afraid that even though I know her mind and spirit can take it, her heart can’t.

  *

  I am ready for school to be back in session. And it seems that school is more than ready for me.

  The atmosphere is somber, both on the bus and in the halls. But there’s also a deep sense of curiosity, the kind of morbid curiosity and boldness that only kids can work up.

  Kaitlyn draws me away after English class. “Did you see Amanda’s body?” she whispers to me.

  I nod slowly, but I definitely don’t want to talk about this.

  Kaitlyn presses close, putting her hand on my shoulder. “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. My mom…my mom handles that stuff.”

  “You ought to know that there’s a rumor going around that you guys lost the body of the Beer Float guy…”

  “That’s not true,” I snap.

  Kaitlyn blinks at me with bright blue eyes. “Then what is the truth? Set the record straight.”

  “Look, I, uh…I’m just not involved in that part of the business, okay? I just…I just fluff the flowers and hand out the tissues.” I’m doing what I always do…I’m falling back on incompetence as an escape strategy. I would love to talk with Kaitlyn, but not at the price of making my family out to be a bunch of morons.

  Kaitlyn’s gaze bores into me. She knows I’m lying. And that’s no way to build a friendship, on lies. But I don’t have anything else to offer her but empty words and empty breath. She finally turns away, and I feel a palpable sense of relief when she does.

  “The Ghoul Girl isn’t talking,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

  The bell rings, and an announcement comes over the PA system:

  “All students please report to the gym.”

  I’m grateful to have the chance to meld into the large, chattering group as we ooze into the auditorium. I try to ignore the whispers behind me. The lights are on, but the area still feels dim. I clamber up
the creaky bleachers and sit on the end next to Jenn from cross-country. She focuses on her smart phone. I am grateful that she asks no questions, absorbed in her text convo. I hope it’s not about me.

  The principal and the school guidance counselor stand alone on the floor. The principal has the microphone and taps it.

  “Settle down, folks.”

  The background buzz fades.

  “As many of you have heard,” the principal continues, “one of our students, Amanda Simms, has passed away. Amanda was an honor roll student and blue-ribbon finalist in the school art show last year. She was a fine young woman, and she will be missed.” He hands the microphone to the guidance counselor, looking relieved to do so. I don’t think that he’s ever had to do this before. It’s awkward, speaking of the dead, when one is surrounded by such teeming life as there is here in the gym.

  The school guidance counselor is a tiny woman with curly hair. She clears her throat before taking the mike. “Principal Hill, your teachers, and I understand that this is a very sad and sudden event. It may raise questions and uncomfortable feelings, and we want you to know that our doors are open to talk at any time.”

  I inwardly roll my eyes at that. I don’t think I could trust any of them to keep quiet. Especially not about Amanda getting up off the slab and walking away. I stare down at the knee of my jeans and pick at a frayed thread. This whole thing is uncomfortable as hell.

  A guy in the audience raises a hand.

  “Yes?” the principal calls, pointing at him.

  “When will the funeral be held?”

  I can feel so many gazes on me, and someone behind taps me with their foot. I don’t turn around, focusing on that loose thread on my jeans.

  “We don’t have details on that, yet,” Principal Hill says. “But we’ll keep you posted.”

  “What happened to her?” another kid asks.