All The Pretty Dead Girls

by John Manning

  23

  While the Church still has not accepted the Medjugorje sightings as “official,” thousands of the faithful continue to flock there. Business is thriving in the once-remote and unknown little town, renting rooms and serving food to the pilgrims, as well as selling them religious souvenirs and trinkets.

  Ginny frowned at her computer screen. She’d written that paragraph over three weeks earlier, and every time she tried to think of a way to continue from there, nothing would come.

  I’ve got to get this book done, she thought, rubbing her eyes. She swore under her breath and reached for the thick file with all of her notes on Medjugorje. She started flipping through the pages, looking for anything that would trigger an idea in her mind, some way to finish the chapter on Medjugorje.

  The book was now two years overdue, and while neither her publisher nor her agent was putting any pressure on her, she knew that wouldn’t last forever. Every time her phone rang, she feared it was one or the other, calling to let her know that their patience had finally run out and she was going to have to pay the advance money back. Maybe I should be preemptive and give the money back before they ask, she thought, discouraged, as she closed the file.

  She’d learned early that writing wasn’t something that could be forced or pushed out. It either came or it didn’t. She closed the computer file and sat there for a moment, tapping her pencil on the top of her desk.

  It’s been a rough week, she thought to herself in justification. I mean, it’s not every week one of your students disappears without a trace and you have to be interviewed by the cops and the FBI. Poor Bonnie.

  There had been no news. Bonnie was still missing. And Ginny still felt some guilt about it. If only I’d insisted she ride home with me…

  Stop it, she scolded herself. Bonnie was a big girl. She was used to making her own decisions.

  She was just like me, Ginny thought, remembering herself as an ambitious college student, working her way through her studies, determined to make the most of them, to one day be a famous scholar—convinced that was the most important thing in the world.

  She’d really believed that. Until she’d given birth—and watched in agony as her beloved son died in her arms. That’s when she knew what was really important in life.

  She knew on some level that her anguish and guilt over Bonnie was just another manifestation of her grief over Eric—and using it to explain her procrastination was just another excuse. She’d been procrastinating on this book ever since Eric died.

  I’ll try to work on it tomorrow, she finally decided, reaching for the syllabus for her Women and the Bible class. She had a lecture in a few hours, and she needed to refresh her memory.

  There was a light rap at her door.

  It was probably Dean Gregory. He’d sent an e-mail this morning saying they still needed to discuss the night she’d seen Bonnie, and she’d replied she was available anytime and by the way, there were a few other things she wanted to discuss. Like his offensive behavior to her in front of Joyce Davenport.

  “Come in,” she called, steadying herself for a confrontation.

  But it wasn’t Gregory. Ginny glanced up and scowled as she recognized the woman entering her office. Gayle Honeycutt—that treacherous local reporter who’d made her first days in Lebanon so miserable.

  “What are you doing here?” Ginny asked.

  Gayle smiled. “Obviously, I want to talk to you.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Ginny waved her hand absently. “And I’m busy, so if you don’t mind—”

  “Look, Dr. Marshall, I don’t blame you for being pissed at me.” Gayle stood over her, implacable. “But you have to understand—you’re a writer after all, and so you should get it. You write for your audience. I write for mine. The people who read the Lebanon Observer don’t care about your theories or what your research has found. These people go to church every Sunday. They believe every word in the Bible came from God and is literal truth.”

  “So you wrote down to them,” Ginny said. “That’s brave of you.”

  Gayle sighed. “Okay, that headline was bad. It wasn’t my idea, nor would I have agreed to it—but surely you know how a newspaper works, and how little control a reporter has over things like that.” She took a seat beside Ginny’s desk. “I’m also very sorry about what happened after the article came out.” She tried a smile. “I’ve since read your books, and for what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

  “Spare me your apologies and excuses.” Ginny glared at her. “What did you come here for?”

  “When I interviewed you, you mentioned you were working on a big book about the Virgin Mary. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Ginny leaned back in her chair. “Sightings of the Virgin Mary, miracles, the cult of the Virgin. Why?”

  Gayle smiled. “What would you say if I told you, right here in Lebanon, there is a thirteen-year-old girl who claims she saw the Virgin Mary?”

  “I’d say most religious girls see her every night in their prayers.”

  Gayle’s smile widened. “But what if I also told you that girl had stigmata? That she’s in the hospital right now, and doctors can’t explain her condition?”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Bernadette deSalis.” Gayle leaned in toward her. “You’re the local expert. This is a big story—but I have to be careful.”

  “Since when do you care about being careful in your reporting?”

  “Nobody knows about it yet, but when they find out, this community will really get riled up.” Gayle shivered. “The girl is the sister of my son’s best friend. Monday morning, she was taken away to St. Agatha’s Hospital up in Senandaga around eight in the morning. Obviously, I’ve known the family for a long time, but they aren’t returning my calls. But I’ve confirmed, through sources, that the girl is under observation at the psych ward at Senandaga.”

  Ginny bit her lip. “You’re certain about this? She’s really manifested stigmata?”

  “Hands and feet. The whole bit. The girl says the Virgin gave it to her to make people believe.”

  “Well,” Ginny said, “if she’s really got stigmata, then I’d be interested to speak with her.”

  “Exactly. If I can get you to confirm it, there’s a story. If not—then my editors wouldn’t run this.”

  Ginny smiled. “So in other words, you need me.”

  “Well, I thought you might be interested since you’re working on a book.” Gayle’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  “Why would they want to talk to me?” Ginny asked. “Thanks to you, I already have a reputation as an unbeliever in this town.”

  “Well, they’re very confused. The family. The father especially. The mother is a devout Catholic and thinks it’s a miracle. You should try to talk to the father. His name is Pierre deSalis.” She spelled it for Ginny. “They’re listed in the phone book.”

  “I might try to contact him,” Ginny said. “But that doesn’t mean I’d tell you anything he might share with me in confidence.”

  Gayle pouted. “But I gave you the tip.”

  “Scholars don’t work like journalists,” Ginny told her. “And we can all be grateful for that.”

  “But if I call you for a quote, you get publicity for your book.” She smiled mischieviously. “And maybe I can work into the story how respectful of religion you are, and make up for all that bad press before.”

  “You can call,” Ginny said. “Maybe I’ll have been to see the deSalis family, maybe not. And maybe I’ll be able to tell you what I’ve learned, and maybe I’ll just say, ‘No comment.’”

  “Come on, Dr. Marshall. I know you’ll be a sport.” Gayle stood. “I’m a working mom, after all, just trying to make a living to keep food on the table for my kids.”

  “I really am busy,” Ginny told her. “I have a lecture to prepare for.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your time. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  Ginn
y just nodded as Gayle let herself out, closing the door behind her.

  A Virgin sighting right here in Lebanon, she thought, chewing on her pencil. Complete with stigmata.

  Ginny smiled to herself.

  Maybe I’ll get the damned book done after all.

  24

  “So, it went well?” Malika was asking. “This seems to be turning serious.”

  Sue rubbed cold cream into her face and looked over her shoulder at Malika standing in the doorway to their bathroom. “Well,” she said, “we’ll see if he asks me out again.”

  “Why would he not?” Malika laughed, leaning on the door frame, her voice teasing. “Is it not every high school boy’s dream to date a college girl?” She sighed. “Do I get to meet this boy someday? Or does he have two heads or something?”

  Sue looked back into the mirror. Tonight had been her third date with Billy. They’d gone, as they always did, to Senandaga to see a movie. The movies playing at the twin cinema in Lebanon hadn’t interested either of them for the third week in a row. They were second-run films, and somehow it seemed more exciting to get away to the “big” city. Tonight, as they’d done both other times, they’d eaten dinner at a small Italian place near the megaplex, and once again failed to convince the waiter they were old enough to order a bottle of wine.

  It didn’t matter. Sue really liked being with Billy. They’d held hands during the movie, and he’d bought her popcorn, and he’d jumped as much as she did during the scary parts. It was really very sweet. So this is what dating is like, Sue thought.

  She realized pretty quickly that, for all Billy’s jock arrogance, he was still a country hick—which only endeared him to her more. He opened the door of his mother’s car for her. (Sue had tried to get him to agree to let her drive her own car, but he’d insisted he pick her up.) If he caught himself about to say “shit” or “fuck,” he stopped and apologized to her. It was all, well, quite chivalrous.

  Becca Stansfield would probably call Billy boring. He hadn’t so much as made a pass at Sue yet. Billy wasn’t anything like she thought a guy would be—what she’d been led to expect by her friends back in high school. Three dates, and he hadn’t once tried to put a hand up her sweater or down her pants. Every time he’d drop her off in front of Bentley Hall, he’d kiss her—but with his hands on her shoulders.

  Who’d have thought that she’d meet her first boyfriend in the little town of Lebanon?

  Once, when she’d complained about her awkwardness with boys to her grandmother, Sue had merely gotten a smile and a pat on the head as response. “There’s plenty of time for that later,” her grandmother had said, “after you get your education. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

  They had been sitting in the living room, her grandmother next to her on the couch. Gran was embroidering a tablecloth for some charity or another, her needle flashing in the sunlight as it went in and out of the linen, pulling golden thread behind it. “The last thing you want is to fall in love too young,” she told Sue, “and throw the rest of your life away.”

  “But didn’t you get married at eighteen?” Sue asked.

  The love story of her grandparents was something she’d heard so often she could practically repeat it word for word. They’d been from rural northeast Alabama, “waaaaaay back in the hills,” and had met when they were in grade school. They’d started going steady when they were in the seventh grade, and were married right after graduating from high school. They’d moved down to Tuscaloosa, where Granpa had gone to the University of Alabama and Gran had worked to support them both while he studied and went to class.

  “Look how wonderful that turned out!” Sue reminded her grandmother. “I mean, neither one of you even had electricity or indoor plumbing when you were growing up, and now look where you both are! A gorgeous apartment on Central Park, and servants, and Granpa is one of the top men in his field, and the two of you have always been so happy together.”

  The needle stopped moving. “We all make choices,” Gran said.

  Her voice—Sue would never forget it—was dull and lifeless. She saw that her grandmother was looking across the room at the shrine to her daughter. “Sometimes, the choices you make seem like the right ones at the time.”

  For the first time, Sue had wondered if maybe not everything between Gran and Granpa had always been so rosy.

  Gran took Sue’s hand. “Yes, we have come a long way…but you have to remember, those years in Tuscaloosa were very hard ones for both of us. We made some decisions…” The old woman’s voice trailed off, and then she shook her head. “No, Sue, dear, trust me. There’s plenty of time for that later.”

  She started working with the needle again. Sue studied her.

  “Do you mean that maybe you wish you had made some other decisions along the way?” she asked her grandmother softly.

  “Regret is a pointless exercise.” Gran was sewing faster now. “Trust me, Sue. There will be time for you to think about boys later.”

  “Well?” Malika was asking. “Do I get to meet him?”

  “Of course. Next time. Billy’s very sweet. You’ll like him.”

  Sue washed her face and turned off the water, grabbing a towel and walking back into the bedroom.

  “I wouldn’t mind meeting a man myself,” Malika moaned, flopping down on her bed. “Damn girls’ school!”

  “Come on.” Sue laughed, sitting opposite her and brushing her hair. “There are plenty of boys in Lebanon—and there’s a rumor there are even some male grad students here, though I’ve never seen one of them. Where are they hiding?”

  “No offense, Sue, but I do not want a boy,” Malika sniffed, “I want a man—a man who knows what he’s doing. Last summer, I met this man in Rome, Leonardo…” Malika smiled and closed her eyes. “I just hope my parents are still stationed in Rome this next summer.” She winked. “Italian men know how to treat a woman—not like clumsy boys.”

  “Billy’s just fine for me right now,” Sue replied. She pulled her laptop across the bed toward her and clicked on her e-mail program. Nothing. Still no response from Joyce Davenport. Nearly three weeks and no reply. She’s a busy woman, Sue told herself. She’ll answer when she gets a chance.

  Both girls were exhausted. School was finally starting to feel like school. They’d both had tests today, and both were a little unsure about how they’d done. The work was getting more difficult. Both had early classes the next day, too, so the lights went out and both tried to get to sleep. Within moments, Malika was breathing in the steady cadence of sleep. But not Sue.

  Sue stared up at the ceiling. After she finished reading Joyce’s book, she’d e-mailed her to thank her. I’d really like to talk to you about my mother, she’d typed at the bottom before signing her name. She’d stared at the computer screen for a minute or two before clicking SEND.

  Had she really thought Joyce would respond right away? She probably gets hundred of e-mails a day. Maybe she hasn’t even read it yet. Maybe an assistant got the e-mail and hasn’t passed it on to her.

  Maybe I should try calling her. She gave me her cell phone number. But if she did get my e-mail and simply hasn’t had time to respond, I’ll seem like a pest.

  But she had made such a point of meeting me. Why have me come backstage to meet her if she didn’t really want to get to know me?

  When she’d mentioned to Malika that she was still waiting on an e-mail response from Joyce, all she’d gotten in response was a snort. “I told you, she is a mean-spirited bitch. I would think reading her book would have made you aware of that.”

  Yes, she had seen a meanness to Joyce in her book. A small-mindedness. But she’d also seen a strong, independent woman who wasn’t afraid of speaking her mind. Who, like Gran, may have made some decisions she regretted—but for whom regret was a pointless waste of time.

  Despite everything else, Sue liked that about Joyce Davenport.

  The wind was howling outside. A major thunderstorm was rolling in from the north,
and according to the weather report, was supposed to last all night. Sue heard the rain come, slamming against the windows, which rattled in their frames. Malika stirred, but didn’t awaken. Malika almost always fell instantly asleep the second her head hit the pillow. Sue admired—even envied—her peace of mind.

  In the past three weeks, much of Sue’s fear about the room upstairs had eased—at least until recently. It had begun to seem like a silly obsession—a misplacement of anxiety and fear about being away from home for the first time. Girls laughed and gossiped about the “haunted” room. They weren’t really frightened by it. As Bonnie’s disappearance faded from the news, the girls on campus stopped talking about it—and her empty room no longer seemed so fascinating. It was just a room.

  And not since that day she’d gone upstairs had Sue seen a face at the window. All of this served to make her feel she’d been silly for being so afraid.

  But yesterday a twinge of the old fear came back. It was nothing, Sue tried to tell herself. She was sure it was just a coincidence. But yesterday Malika mentioned something she’d forgotten to tell her—that three weeks ago, Joelle Bartlett had come looking for her.

  “I’m sorry,” Malika said. “It totally slipped my mind. But what made me remember was someone mentioned to me today that she’d left school.”

  “Left school?” Sue asked. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s odd, because this was her senior year.”

  “Well, her roommate must know the reason.”

  Malika shook her head. “You haven’t heard? Tish was expelled.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. No one had seen her around either for days, and finally, one of the teachers said she’d been kicked out for signing Bonnie Warner into the welcome ceremony.”

  Sue had been stunned, unable to respond.

  So both girls who’d lived across from Room 323—both girls with whom Sue had shared her story about seeing the face—were now gone.