by Katrina Leno
Jane felt that same absence now, that same familiar ache in the pit of her stomach.
But it wasn’t sadness.
It was anger.
A comforting, all-encompassing anger.
It wasn’t fair, that he’d left them. It wasn’t fair that he’d lost all their money. It wasn’t fair that they’d had to move here, to this terrible house. None of it was fair.
She pushed herself up from the bed and went to her own bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her fingers were tingling as she sat on the floor and pulled The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe from the bottom shelf of her bookcase.
She opened the book and tore out a single page.
The house creaked around her. The house was always creaking. It was a living thing, the house. It was just as alive as anyone.
She ripped a corner from the page and put it into her mouth.
The house creaked again.
She imagined the paper re-forming in her belly. She imagined the words dissolving off the paper and sinking into her bloodstream. She imagined her body filled with words. Made up of them. Words instead of blood, words instead of organs.
And the creak grew louder, and Jane put another piece of paper into her mouth, and the creak grew louder, and Jane looked up suddenly and there was Ruth, standing in the doorway, her hand over her mouth, and the creaking had been the creaking of the door, and Jane had been too distracted to even notice.
She swallowed before the paper was really soft enough. It stuck on the way down, it scratched her throat and made her cough.
“What are you doing?” Ruth asked, her voice strangely quiet, strangely even.
“We knock, Mom,” Jane said.
“What are you doing?”
“You need to knock!”
“You don’t tell me what to do; I’m the grown-up here, I tell you what to do. Now, answer me. What were you doing?”
Jane looked down at the book in her hands. No one had ever known. No one had ever seen her. The book, half-eaten, was also alive. It trembled in her hands.
Ruth took a step toward her. “Give that to me,” she said.
“No…”
“Jane, hand me that book.”
And something in Ruth’s voice made Jane do it, even though everything in her body was screaming no no no no no—
She held it out, and Ruth took it.
“This whole thing?” Ruth whispered.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You did this? You…”
She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ate.
Jane still held the page in her hand, just one little corner ripped off and eaten. She could feel it worming around in her belly. It didn’t feel comforting, for once. It felt strange and sour.
“It’s not a big deal,” Jane repeated. “It’s just a thing… It’s just, I don’t know. It’s just a thing I do sometimes.”
“You do… sometimes?” Ruth said, and her eyes moved from the book she was holding to the books on Jane’s bookshelf, to the row of journals all made from other books.
Made from other books Jane had consumed.
“Mom…”
“You can’t do this,” Ruth said, and Jane looked up at her, because it was both Ruth’s and not Ruth’s voice that came out of her mother now. It was Ruth but it was also a sadder, younger Ruth, like her words were drifting through time and space, like she’d somehow said them before. “You can’t eat things that aren’t food,” she continued, and her eyes were unfocused and glazed over, and she held the book in her hand like it was something much more fragile than it was.
Something like a flower.
Something like a rose.
“You can’t put things into your mouth that aren’t food,” she whispered, and then she stepped backward until her legs hit the edge of the mattress and she sat down, heavy, on top of the bed.
She started to sob.
Jane held the page in her hands and watched her, unable to move, unable to speak. Her whole body was frozen, because when Ruth had sat down, a dozen rose petals had lifted from the bed and floated up around her and then dissolved in the air into nothing.…
“Mom?”
Ruth covered her face with her hands, and she sobbed loudly and frantically, and Jane just sat there and stared at her; and even if she had wanted to get up and do something, get up and comfort her, she couldn’t make herself move.
Finally, Ruth stood up and left the bedroom quickly, taking the book with her, and Jane heard her walk into her own bedroom and shut the door and still Jane didn’t move, and still her hands shook a little and her throat itched, and she tried to stand up but couldn’t, and she tried to uncross her legs but couldn’t, and she tried to do anything but couldn’t, couldn’t…
Ruth couldn’t have that book. She couldn’t take that book. That wasn’t okay; that wasn’t okay.
Jane was still on the floor; she crumpled into a ball and tucked her head in between her knees, breathing heavily. She couldn’t get mad. The book was gone. But she couldn’t get mad, because the book was gone. And if the book was gone, she couldn’t get mad, because there would be no way for her to combat her anger.
She started to cry. She let her body fall sideways until she was lying on the plush carpet. She kept both her hands pressed against her face, blocking out the light.
She felt like her hands didn’t belong to her, like her skin didn’t belong to her. Like the only thing real and true in her body was the anger that Greer had so methodically taught her to overcome.
But it was the only thing she had left now. She leaned into it gratefully, letting it fill her, letting it wash over her in a warm embrace.
With it, she was not alone. She was never alone.
She let it carry her into darkness.
Hours later, days later, years later, she opened her eyes.
The light in her bedroom had changed, gotten darker. Her arm was asleep where she’d lain on it. Her head was pounding and her body was cold.
She pushed herself to a seat.
She was still holding the page she’d had in her hand when Ruth took the book. It was ruined now, damp and wrinkled. She crumpled it into a ball and let it drop on the floor.
She put a hand to her forehead. The fever hadn’t come back. She was hungry and sore. She found her phone and checked the time—almost midnight.
She got up quietly, avoiding the spots on the floor she’d come to know as the creaky ones, opening her bedroom door and peeking out into the hallway.
Ruth’s bedroom light was off; Jane could see only darkness coming from the crack underneath the door.
She went downstairs.
It looked like Ruth hadn’t made it downstairs to cook, so Jane got herself a bowl of leftover soup from yesterday and warmed it up in the microwave.
She ate it standing up, methodically taking bite after bite, then put the empty bowl into the sink and paused, her eyes trained on the back door of the kitchen, the one that led to Chester’s study.
She walked over to it.
There was her grandfather’s closed study door. In the darkness she could see only the doorknob, flashing in the tiny bit of moonlight that made it here from the mudroom entrance.
She knew it was locked, and she knew Ruth had probably taken the key with her.
What was the truth behind that greeting card? What other secrets would Jane find, if she were able to get behind that door?
She turned and took one step back into the kitchen, then froze as she heard it—
A surprisingly loud click.
Like the turning of a lock.
And another noise, like the turning of a doorknob.
And another noise, like the opening of a door.
The house was suddenly so dark and so narrow and so twisting that it felt like it was moving around her. Was she standing on the floor or the ceiling? Was the floor pulsating beneath her feet?
She reached out her free hand and pressed it against the wall to steady herself, but
the wall was moving, too, and she lurched forward, almost falling, barely catching herself.
Silence.
She counted ten breaths, twenty breaths, and there was no sound.
It felt terrible, having her back to the door. It felt like having her back to a monster that was just waiting to swallow her whole.
She turned around.
The study door was open just a few inches. A crack of blackness—like a doorway to another world. A world that was darker than this one could ever be. So dark it looked wrong.
She moved toward the blackness before she could really decide if it was a good idea. She wouldn’t let herself think about anything—why had the door opened? How had the door opened?—she just made her legs move until she was close enough to the door that she could slip a hand inside, feel against the wall until her fingers found the light switch.
She flicked it on, then pushed the door open another few inches, enough so that she could stick her head into the room and see that it was empty.
It is amazing how quickly fears will quiet in the light. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, holding the doorknob open so it wouldn’t make a sound. Already her heart was beating slower. Already she felt foolish for how scared she had been. Already she felt herself not caring how the door had opened. It was open now, wasn’t that all that mattered?
She crept around to the front of her grandfather’s desk and lowered herself into the oversize chair. The old leather was soft and quiet as she sank into it.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she pulled open the drawer she’d found the card in and stared at the mess of papers it contained. She removed a bill for a piano tuning, then a dozen others like it, twice a year every December and June first. She piled them on the desk. Underneath them, she found a neat stack of oil-change receipts, held together by an old paper clip. Underneath them, a yellow legal pad filled with her grandfather’s cramped, barely legible writing.
She replaced everything in the drawer, closed it, and opened the next one down. This one was entirely filled with office supplies: rolls of tape, a decades-old stapler that probably belonged in a museum, a pair of scissors with one handle broken off. She closed the drawer and moved on to the next one, the bottom drawer on the left side of the desk. When she went to pull it open, it stuck, and looking closer, she realized it was the only drawer in the desk with a keyhole in it. Locked.
She sat back in the chair for a moment, disheartened but not giving up. She knew, somehow, that whatever it was she was looking for had to be in that drawer. She had to get in there.
She opened the drawer of office supplies and fished around in the bottom until she found a paper clip. She uncurled it so it was a wobbly line of metal, then inserted it in the keyhole, wiggling it around until she found purchase, trying different angles when nothing happened.
After a few minutes of digging around, just seconds away from giving up, she felt something give, and the drawer opened about an inch. She withdrew the paper clip, set it on the desk, and took just a moment to be surprised that it had actually worked.
She opened the drawer.
It was stuffed with hanging files, each with a little label at the upper corner, things like HOUSE and CARS and DOCTORS and MISC.
And near the back was one labeled RUTHELLEN.
Jane slid this one out and laid it on the desk, then opened it carefully. The first few pages were childhood art projects. A smudgy pastel still life of a bowl of fruit. A charcoal hand. A crayon self-portrait that actually wasn’t half-bad. It showed Ruth with long, messy, curly blond hair. Jane smiled; Ruth had always had short hair, dyed dark. Jane hadn’t known it used to be longer.
Some of the pictures were signed: Ruthellen, age 8. Ruthellen, age 10. The back of the self-portrait had a crayon written message:
happy birthday daddy
I love you
love Ruthie
Jane had never heard anyone call her mother Ruthie before. She doubted her grandmother would have approved; it must have just been between Ruth and Chester.
After the artwork, there was a report card from kindergarten. The teacher had handwritten a paragraph at the bottom of a row of stickers meant to denote how Ruth had done in various subjects like Listening and Story Time.
Ruthellen remains a bright and shining spot among our class. She is always volunteering to help with cleanup, she is an excellent listener during free play, and she is almost always in a happy mood. Still having some issues with her temper, however, as we’ve previously discussed. When she feels like she’s been “wronged” in some way, it is very hard to calm her down and get her back to that happy Ruthellen we all know and love. Please continue to speak to her over the break about managing these mood swings!
Jane smirked. It was funny to picture her mother as a moody kindergartner. She let the report card fall to the desk and picked up the next paper, another report card, this one from the end of first grade. It was similar in structure to the kindergarten one, with bright, happy stickers next to categories such as Counting and Spelling. Ruth had gotten happy faces and stars for almost every category. Next to Listening and Cooperation, however, there were small frowny-face stickers. The note at the bottom of the page was written in black ink:
Ruthellen is such a strong-headed little girl. We loved having her in class. We had many conversations, as you know, about the importance of being kind to our classmates. Please continue to talk to Ruthellen about the importance of keeping her hands to herself, and not touching other people without their permission. We need to get that little temper under control before we enter the second grade! We are also still trying to break Ruthellen’s pesky habit of chewing on the ends of her hair. Such beautiful, healthy hair she might have if she would just stop putting it into her mouth!
Jane frowned.
What a weird thing to put in a report card, that Ruth chewed her hair.
Jane felt a little uneasy, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint why.
The next paper she picked up was a memo from a teacher at Ruth’s school.
Mr. and Mrs. North,
Forgive the note, but you have proven quite difficult to get in touch with over the last several months. I understand you are both very busy individuals, but having rescheduled our meeting now for the fourth time, I find it necessary to reach you in other ways. I would have much preferred discussing this in person, but here we are.
Your daughter’s behavior in school has become unwieldy. She does not respond to any normal means of punishment for her actions, nor does she seem to care much about positive reinforcement, either. She is instead an island, operating according to some internal set of guidelines I cannot begin to understand.
I implore you to escalate this matter with the highest level of urgency. I have included the business card of a child psychiatrist, a personal friend of mine and someone I trust implicitly in these matters.
Yours,
M. Quatrano
Nothing on the paper gave any indication of how old Ruth might have been when it was written, and it left Jane with an unsettled feeling in her stomach, like she’d stood up too quickly.
What had her mother done to warrant such a serious note? From the sound of it, it was multiple events, but Jane had never known Ruth to be anything but levelheaded and calm. But clearly, something in the note had struck a nerve with Chester, because the very next piece of paper was another note, this one from a psychiatrist:
Mr. North,
At your somewhat unorthodox request, I agree to see your daughter, Ruthellen, without the knowledge or support of her mother. I have to tell you, what you’ve shared with me about Ruthellen troubles me greatly, which is the reason I’ll keep our arrangement quiet, for now. You may bring her by next Thursday the 10th at 4 p.m.
Yours,
Lyle Graves
Why would Chester have wanted to keep something like this from Emilia? Jane flipped through the next few papers quickly, finding nothing of interest unti
l her hand landed on a note from Bells Hollow High School. It was a notice of a five-day suspension. Jane skimmed the page until she found a description of the incident.
Ruthellen North and Elizabeth Brooks were witnessed engaging in physical violence by member of faculty J. Knowles. Knowles attempted to intervene in the altercation between the two individuals; Ms. Brooks immediately desisted while Ms. North struck Knowles in the face, causing Knowles to suffer a bloody nose and bruising.
Jane’s hand shook slightly as she lowered the paper to the desk.
The rest of the papers were more of the same. Notes from the psychiatrist, Graves. Notes from the school. Two more suspensions. Countless detentions. And then, at the very bottom of the stack, an ultrasound. Ruth must have sent it to her father when she was pregnant with Jane. Why he would have kept it in this drawer, with all these much-older papers, she couldn’t understand.
She put everything back in the drawer. Her eyes burned and she felt suddenly exhausted, like the very bones in her body had turned to lead. She couldn’t look any further tonight. She had to get some sleep.
She made sure everything was back in its proper place, then she slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. There was no way to lock it without the key, so she left it open, and walked into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. She’d just taken the glass from the cabinet and set it next to the fridge when the house settled. A long, slow creak.
And then something else.
Not the house.
A small thing, dropping and rolling.
A marble making its way across a bedroom floor.
And before she could really think about it, before she had a chance to change her mind, she walked toward the front of the house.
She climbed the stairs slowly, stepping lightly, so she wouldn’t make any noise.
The hallway was dark except for the room that wasn’t a storage room. The dollhouse room’s light flickered on and off as she watched, on and off and then stayed off.
