By day three, I’m desperate enough for company that I attempt small talk with the doctor. “So, how long have you lived in Mitte? Your whole life?”
Doc finishes securing the ACE bandage protecting my ribs. “Not my whole life, no. You know, I don’t rightly recall how long I’ve been here. Could be a year, could be twenty or more. I don’t keep track.”
His reply strikes me as odd, but I brush it away because I honestly don’t care about the question or his answer. I just want him to stay with me. Instead of feeling guilty about my lack of interest in Doc’s history, I skip directly to a topic I find more riveting. “What about Oliver? What’s his story?”
Doc’s eyes hide behind his wrinkled lids as he grins. “Oliver’s a good kid. Showed me around when I first got here.”
“So he’s, like, the Mitte Welcoming Committee or something?”
“Nah. Nothing like that. We don’t see a whole lot of new faces, that’s all. We’re all drawn to him, one way or another. I think it’s because he has something most of us have lost somewhere along the way.”
“What’s that?”
“Hope.”
I snort but it comes out a shaky exhale instead. “Hope? For what?”
Doc smiles down at me, but the smile doesn’t disguise his melancholy. “Don’t you worry about that, young lady.”
I try to push up to sitting so I can fire off more questions, but the stabbing pain in my chest sucks the air right from my lungs. Tears spring to my eyes and I sink back into my pillow.
Doc pats my hand. “There, there. You’ve been through quite a shock.” With a groan and sharp pop of his joints, he rises to his feet.
That’s an understatement. Yes, I’d been through a shock, though I can’t quite remember what it was. Doc doesn’t seem to notice my confusion as I watch him fumble around in his black leather doctor’s bag. To everyone else in this Godforsaken town, this mysterious life is normal. They know the rules to get along here, while I stir up trouble every time I do anything. I really need a Mitte handbook or something.
As soon as the black and silver stethoscope is secure with the rest of his things, Doc shuts the bag and turns toward the door.
My pulse picks up pace. He’s planning on leaving me alone again. I’d been alone for days, ever since I’d regained consciousness and upset Oliver. In the hospital, the nurses had milled about and asked me questions even if they never expected me to respond. Here I have nothing but blinding white walls and the sound of the wind brushing the shrubs against my window. There’s not even the hypnotic tick-tock of a clock to lull me to sleep.
Alone is what I thought I wanted to be, but I’m so lonely I’d even welcome a visit from Aunt Perdita.
Doc strides to the door.
“Don’t,” I rasp. My eyes shine wide and wild.
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “What is it, child?”
“Can’t you stay a little while?”
Doc shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, Lucy. I’ve still got another patient to see.”
A surge of panic races through my veins, and my body betrays me by trembling. A few days ago, I wanted nothing more than to fade into the background, anonymous and boring, so I wouldn’t have to talk about my past or myself. I guess I should be careful what I wish for.
The older man approaches the side of my bed and grazes my upper arm with his fingertips, preparing to abandon me in the madness of the black hole of this room. I flinch at his touch on my bare skin.
“It’s getting late, but I’ll tell Oliver you’d like some company tomorrow. How ‘bout that?”
Yes! “No!”
Doc puts his hand up in surrender. “Fine. I think you could do each other some good. But that’s an old man’s opinion, and it’s worth about as much as you paid for it.”
I turn my head away. He’s going to leave, and I don’t want to watch it happen because I don’t know if I’ll see another person again until he checks on me next, whenever that is. In the hospital, I’d spent entire days trying to wish away the nurses as they fiddled with machines and tubes. I hated them when they forced me to limp to the bathroom or down the hall, smiling and cheering me on the whole time. Like I’d done any of it because I’d had any kind of choice. When I found out I was moving in with my aunt, I had pictured hours of sleep uninterrupted by beeping monitors or slamming doors at 3 a.m. I dreamed of a world where I didn’t have to talk to other people because, clearly, God wanted me to be by myself. But then I set foot in this dumb town and the whole place has turned out to be so unspeakably creepy. The worst thing I can imagine is being alone in Mitte.
The doctor’s steps fall away from me as he retreats toward my door. The groan of the hinges causes me to shudder under my blankets, but pride keeps me from begging Doc to stay.
The door doesn’t shut right away, and Doc sighs after a couple of seconds. “I’ll keep you company a little bit longer, just this once, if you promise me you’ll go to sleep.”
I don’t turn toward him, but he must see my shoulders droop in relief. He shuffles back to my bedside and settles in the chair there.
“Lucy, you should get used to being by yourself. We all have to, you know.”
Chapter 7
Sunlight streams through my curtains, blazing a path right through my eyelids. Whoever decided see-through curtains were the way to go on home décor needs a slap upside their head. I can’t even change clothes in my own room for fear of omnipresent Oliver, or Norman, the groundskeeper, seeing something they can’t unsee. Stupid curtains. Stupid Oliver nosing around in places he doesn’t belong so I can’t walk around my room in my underwear. Lounging in my skivvies rates near the very bottom of things I normally care about, but, darnit, I find it annoying that he took the option right off the table.
I turn from the blinding light and stare at the door, willing Oliver to walk through with a breakfast-laden tray, an apology for being so infuriating. After what seems like hours of staring, I blow out a breath. There will be no bacon-scented apologies today, not that I want that.
Okay, I sort of want that, because bacon.
But mostly, I want company.
Doc had been good company. I surprise myself by feeling sad when I wake up to the empty chair next to my bed. He had slipped out of my room sometime after I drifted off, lulled asleep by his stories of growing up on the golden shores of California.
I dream of water lapping against the sand and a bonfire flickering in the night. Familiar faces surround me—Mom, Dad, Nonna, my best friend Tanya, my track coach Ms. Byers, and even Oliver. Sparks fly up from the smoldering embers, fading into the canopy of stars as we laugh together. My mother holds my father’s hand as they look at each other with smiling eyes. Nonna sits next to me on our driftwood bench, her gray head bent over her knitting, a pair of petal pink booties for a baby I’ve never met. Tanya and Ms. Byers joke around, probably about something that had happened during practice. When I turn my focus to Oliver, he meets my gaze across the flames. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, stirring something unfamiliar in the pit of my stomach. My cheeks burn, and I’m thankful to be able to blame their glow on the heat of the fire.
As I glance from face to face, a long-absent warmth fills my chest until I feel like I might explode from it all. This is the most complete I’ve been in months. I feel comfortable. I feel happy. I feel loved. I feel hope.
And then, just as it had in real life, reality pushes its way back into my brain. Alone and hopeless again, all I can do is accept it and wake up.
My stomach growls, and I try to remember what I’d eaten the day before. It hadn’t been much, only enough to settle my stomach so I could take something for the pain. Last time, Doc brought me a fresh loaf of cinnamon bread, still moist within its paper sack. He offered me two slices before handing me a couple of white pills and paper cup full of water. I would have eaten the whole loaf if he’d left it there with me, but he didn’t. Maybe he thinks someone takes care of me when he’s away. If that’s t
he case, he thinks wrong.
Aunt Perdita hasn’t bothered to check in on me, not even once. At least not when I’m awake. I would have known, too, because this house looks new and fancy but something within the walls groans, settling against the changes in temperature or the switchback of the breeze. Every noise sends my eyes to the door, expecting it to creak open slowly, revealing my grizzly fate. If a dude in a hockey mask holding a machete plans to sneak up on me, I hope he at least offers me a sandwich first.
Thinking about food makes my stomach rumble again and I sigh, knowing there’s no other choice but to pull myself together and make the trek down to the kitchen. It’s easier said than done. Besides my usual hobble, now a handful of purple bruises and a few broken ribs join the mix. Doc said I’d suffered another concussion, too, but he didn’t seem real concerned about keeping me awake. What was it to anyone if I slipped away into a coma, never to be heard from again? It would make things easier for my aunt, I bet. Then she wouldn’t be annoyed by the sight of me, and I wouldn’t be blamed for sending away her precious hired help.
Millie wouldn’t have let me go a day on only bread and water. The Millie I met would have cooked me one of everything in the kitchen, stuffing me until I couldn’t hold another bite. Now that I think about it, I can’t really blame Aunt Perdita for being upset that she’s gone. Oh, Millie. I barely met you, and I miss you, too.
The walk down to the kitchen is more like an expedition. Each step shoots pain through me in a hundred frantic directions, and it’s all I can do to keep from cursing as I make my way down the hall. I strain to look ahead of me as I shift my weight from my bad right hip to my tender left ankle, all while keeping an arm wrapped around my ribcage for protection. My free hand slides against the wall, ready to steady myself should one of my legs give out. This is ridiculous. I should just let myself starve.
When I finally reach the kitchen, I discover my efforts are in vain. The refrigerator houses one-quarter of a gallon of spoiled 2% milk, a package of grey bacon, a mushy kiwi fruit, and two bottles of salad dressing. In the cupboard, I unearth the heel from a loaf of wheat bread in an open plastic sack. Oh, and I can’t forget about the box of stale corn flakes. Tears form in my eyes, and I collapse onto a stool next to the counter. Every fiber of my soul wants to throw things at my aunt for not taking care of me, for not being the kind of nurturing person her sister had been. Mom would have made sure I had food. She would have sat next to my bed and wiped my forehead with a cool cloth. She would have done anything and everything for me. I growl, the sound muffled by my hands as I bury my face in them. I don’t know my aunt at all, but she’s given me one more reason to hate her.
Obviously unable to scrape together anything safe enough to eat, I set off on the journey back to my room to change. Not that I care if anyone sees me in my dad’s ratty Tigers t-shirt and cut-off sweats, but yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt do a better job of hiding my new bruises. I’m an expert at hiding bruises. Even if no one else notices, masking my injuries is important to me. I don’t want sympathy and I don’t want anyone to fix me, because they can’t fix what’s truly broken.
With one more tug on the knot securing my periwinkle scarf, I pull open the front door and step outside into the day. A man in faded overalls hunches over a massive flowerbed on the other side of the drive. He’s turned away from me, and I watch the muscles of his back flex beneath his red-and-white plaid shirt as he pulls weeds free from the soil. A thatched straw hat hides the top of his head so I can’t immediately identify him, but I pray it’s Oliver.
Stop it! I slam a wall down against my own thoughts. He almost got me killed with his dumb, paranoid idea. There was nothing to be afraid of after all, unless you count his homicidal horse.
There’s nothing to be afraid of? Keep telling yourself that. Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I remember it all.
Shut up! I screech back. I will not argue with myself. There’s enough wrong with me! I’m not adding voices in my head to the list!
Whatever. I saw what I saw. He saved you.
I told you, SHUT UP!
The man turns around. Though the brim of his hat shrouds his face in shadows, Norman’s widened eyes still glow within their sockets. A trowel jitters in his trembling hand.
I make my way down the front steps, wincing the whole way. “Norman. That’s your name, right?” I ask him, even though I know very well who he is. Even when he isn’t this close to chopping off my head with a pair of garden shears, Norman strikes me as the kind of guy who makes an impression on people.
Norman stutters a step backward. His heels clip the first row of flowers, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I take another step. “I don’t bite, promise.”
My words don’t put Norman at ease. If not for his shaking hands and the dip of his Adam’s apple when he swallows, he appears petrified, frozen in place. Norman frightens me because of his overall size, all-around flightiness, and access to potential weapons. I must frighten him, too, because people disappear when I’m around.
Nonna’s words echo back to me. “Lucy, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.” She had been talking about bees at the time, but I pretend she’d meant startled black men like Norman, here. I bump up my smile another notch and take yet another step in his direction. His nostrils flare like a spooked horse—he’s ready to bolt. Or attack. Or both. I clear my throat and Norman flinches.
“Look, I’m super hungry and I don’t know if I can make it all the way into town for a bite to eat,” I explain, wrapping my arms around myself. “Do you know of anyone around here who wouldn’t mind making me a PB&J or something?”
He ignores my question. “Who—what—are you?” he demands. The whites of his eyes grow, and I wonder if it’s possible for eyes to pop out like they do in the cartoons.
“Huh?” My smile falters. “I’m not a what. My name is Lucy.” Feeling bold, I stick out my hand.
Norman retreats another step and crushes a pale yellow petunia plant under his work boot. “Don’t you touch me, you hear? I don’t want none of your trouble.” His empty hand balls up at his side.
“Suit yourself,” I say, pulling my hand back and then sidling out of his reach. His shoulders droop as I give him space. Still, he keeps his eyes on me until I step onto the street.
Oliver must have told Norman about Perdita’s crazy niece and our argument over talking animals and lost scarves or whatever had finally pushed him away. I’m not the crazy one—at least, I don’t think so—but everyone here trusts Oliver, including Norman. To the people of Mitte, I’m a threat.
I make it about three blocks before a cat darts between my feet and I crash to my hands and knees on the pavement. Gravel from the road beds into my palms and stings, but it’s nothing compared to the lightning engulfing my chest. Gasping for air, I crumple onto my back in the middle of the empty street. I dare a car to run over me and finish the job. Bring it on.
A spotted face—the cat—bends over mine, studying me. She did this to me, clipping my already unsteady feet so I would fall. I don’t know how I know this only by looking in her tawny eyes, but I know. Then she licks me on the nose with her sandpaper tongue; an apology. I ease myself up to sitting, biting the inside of my mouth at the jab of my crooked ribs. The cat slinks several paces away then sinks to her haunches. She watches me with expectation.
“Hi kitty-kitty,” I say. “What do you want?”
The cat continues to stare.
“Do you want me to pet you?” I stretch my hand in her direction. She blinks in a show of feline indifference.
“Are you hungry, too?”
I’d made fun of Oliver for claiming to have conversations with his horse. Now here I am, sitting in the middle of the road, talking to a cat. Maybe I really have lost it.
My new friend yawns and arches her rear end to the sky, then pads off to my left. She winds her way around the mailbox post in front of one of the cookie-cutter houses on this block, then stops. When I
don’t respond, she reaches up the wooden post and drags her nails down. More rubbing up against the mailbox post. More blank stares from me. She’s trying to convey some kind of message, but I suck at riddles and charades—especially with animals.
I scan our surroundings—houses, parked cars, cats, suburbia— and end up back at the mailbox. She meows and reaches up again to dig her claws into the post. Is she trying to tell me something about the mailbox? It’s a mailbox, black plastic and ordinary, with the house number and name plastered on the side in metallic stickers. 5250 Orphanage.
Orphanage. Those still exist?
My eyes drift from the mailbox to the front of the house. My heart leaps when I notice a girl peering out at me from behind the cloudy picture window. So many of the scary movies I watched with Tanya included a pale orphan girl, usually possessed by a spirit bent on carrying out an unspeakably bloody plan. Ignoring my bones as they scream at me, I rocket to my feet, anxious to get away from evil wrapped up in the body of a precocious girl. My legs can only carry me so fast, but I push them to their limits. This body won’t help my chances for survival against the kidpocalypse.
“Wait,” a quiet voice chimes behind me. In a normal neighborhood, the buzz of a lawnmower or the stutter of a sprinkler might have drowned her out completely. But everything’s too still.
I don’t want to turn and move headlong into her trap, but I do anyway.
A girl who can’t be more than six or seven stands on the sidewalk, in a pair of pink shorts and a plain white tank top that scrunches up a little bit around her belly. Her blonde hair frames the curve of her small face and eyes so blue they’re almost fluorescent.
“I’m Magnolia,” she offers, as if I’d asked.
“Hi, Magnolia.” I search for an appropriate response while I decide if she’s plotting to eat my soul or something. “That’s a pretty name.”
In the Middle Page 5
