by Katrina Leno
Jane lowered herself to a seat, pressing her body against the railing, trying to make herself as small as possible.
“Jemima?” she whispered. “Melanie?”
There was no answer.
The silence of the house stretched out in every direction, it became an alive thing, an entity that wrapped itself around Jane’s body and squeezed her too tight.
But then something else, a muffled vibrating—her phone buzzing in the pocket of her dress. She fished around in the fabric until she found it, then she pulled it out.
A FaceTime from Salinger. She pressed Ignore.
The home screen lit up with twenty-seven missed text messages. From Sal, from Will, from Susie and Alana.
She opened the one from Will. He’d finally responded to her last message, but he hadn’t answered the question. It was from just a few minutes ago, and it said: Are you home yet? I’m coming over I can’t talk about this over text.
As if on cue, the beam of headlights sliced through the foyer, passing over Jane like a lighthouse’s reassuring glow. Will, turning into the driveway. Jane felt numb as she waited for the car to park, for the engine to die, for the headlights to go off. She waited until the doorbell rang. It cut through the silence of the house like an ax.
The silence of the house—where had Melanie gone? And where was Jemima? And why wasn’t Ruth waking up?
Jane placed her hand carefully on the banister and pulled herself to standing again. She felt shaky and strange as she made her way down the sweeping staircase. She felt like she was just slightly out of her body. She wasn’t exactly watching herself from above, but she was an inch or two off, like something had gone wrong, just a little off center.
Will rang the bell again; she was walking too slowly. She could see the outline of his body through the stained-glass cutout of the door. She had the sudden thought—I don’t want him to see me in my costume—but it was too late, and her hand reached out and gripped the doorknob and turned and pulled it open and there he was, Will, and he tried to step into the house, but she blocked him.
“Can I come in?” he tried again, confused.
“It’s not a great time.”
“Jane, I just want to talk to you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t let you in right now.”
“Is it because of my text? Was I right?”
“Did I not know?” she said. “No. I didn’t.”
“But you know now?”
“I know now.”
“Jane, I’m so, so sorry. Will you let me come in?”
“I can’t.”
“I want to talk about this.”
“It’s been a long night,” she said, and it was the truth, of course, but it was also the biggest understatement of the truth, and Jane almost laughed out loud when she heard herself say it.
“I can’t even imagine,” he said.
“Some other time.”
“Are you sure you want to be alone?”
“I’m not alone,” she said.
“Your mom is home?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t want to go somewhere? We could go to Sam’s, we could get pancakes or milkshakes or… whatever you wanted.”
“I’m okay, really. Thanks, Will.” She tried to make herself smile. She thought she mostly failed. “Did you like the book?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
“How about that ending? The secret de Polichinelle? Maybe I sort of knew all along,” she admitted. “Well—not what happened. But that something had happened.”
Will took her hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
And for a moment, a flash, she saw herself leaving with him, getting into his truck, letting him drive her away from this house. Maybe they would go to the diner, sit and eat fries and drink milkshakes and talk and laugh and have a normal evening. Maybe when he brought her back, Ruth would be awake, and Melanie and Jemima would be gone, and this house would be just a normal house, just a too-big, drafty house with no weird noises and no weird dead girls haunting the corners and hallways.
But that couldn’t happen.
She pulled away her hand and cleared her throat, and she said, firmly but not unkindly, “Thanks for stopping by. I think I just need some sleep tonight. I’ll see you later?”
He made a face. “You’re sure, Jane? You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “Have a good night, Will.”
“Okay. You too. If you need anything…”
“I’ll call you.”
He walked back to his truck and she shut the front door.
And locked it.
The click of the lock sounded like the loudest echoing crash.
She turned around to face the foyer.
The house was both quiet—
And not quiet. She cocked her head a tiny bit, listening.
A buzzing sound.
Her phone again.
She was still holding it in her hand but she hadn’t even felt it vibrate. She looked at it and saw she’d gotten another message from Salinger.
It was hard to imagine that just a month ago, she had told Salinger everything. Just a month ago, she would be calling Sal at this very moment, crying or screaming into the phone. Sal would be cool and collected. Sal would have an explanation for everything. Jane would hang up feeling better.
But there had been an almost palpable snap as Jane and her mother had driven out of California, past a great big sign that said WELCOME TO NEVADA. And with each state line they’d crossed—Arizona, Utah, Colorado—the snap had gotten louder and louder, until they’d pulled off the highway right in front of a large blue sign that said, in three-foot-high letters, WELCOME TO MAINE. At the time, she’d thought she felt nothing, but looking back, how had she missed it? The great, final snap that fully severed her from the life she used to have. From Greer. From California. From Sal.
She had lost Greer, but she had also lost Sal.
She had lost Greer, but she had also lost everything.
There was nothing she could say to Sal now, nothing Sal could say to her that would repair what had happened between them. The distance, the snap, the ending, so abrupt and unexpected that Jane hadn’t even noticed it at the time.
She scrolled down in her phone until she reached the last message she’d gotten from Greer.
Outside!
In the real world, in this world, Will was backing slowly out of the driveway. The headlights landed on Jane’s face for a moment and anyone watching would have seen how the glow made her skin look sickly and strange, too bright and waxy. There were bags under her eyes. How long had those been there? When was the last time she had really slept, an entire night’s worth of rest, a night uninterrupted by strange dreams and strange noises?
But if she pretended, the headlights were made by her father’s truck, and if she closed her eyes, she was back in California, before he died. If she closed her eyes, she was a child again, five or six or seven years old, and Greer was sitting on the edge of her bed, reading her a story. He always said the same thing, no matter what book they were reading. He always opened it and brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply and said, “Ugh. I love this book.”
“You say that about every book,” Jane would say, giggling.
“Because I love every book! Don’t you just love books, Janie? I love books so much I could eat them.”
“You can’t eat books,” Jane would reply, still giggling, not knowing then that there would be a day when Greer was gone, when all she would want in the entire world was one last story from him, because when Greer was reading her a story, she felt truly safe, truly brave, truly okay. Like the words were sinking into her very body, becoming a part of her, making her better than she actually was.
And Greer would pretend to bite the book, and Jane would pretend to shriek in fear, and Ruth would poke her head into the room and jokingly scold them both to keep it down.
Jane opened her eyes. And Greer was
gone and she was alone and Ruth had lied to her. For Jane’s entire life, her mother had lied to her. She’d had a sister. And Ruth had had long, curly hair just like Jane’s. And she had eaten it. Just like Jane ate her books, just like Jemima had eaten the roses.
Three little girls all eating things they weren’t supposed to eat.
Three little girls all eating things in order to fill their bodies with something other than the anger, the rage, that would otherwise consume them.
Jane hugged her arms around her stomach.
But Ruth had changed. Ruth had kept her hair short and moved across the country. Ruth was even-tempered and calm, rarely ever angry. She had designed a new life. She had left when Jemima died and gotten away from her father, her controlling mother.
Had Emilia been like the rest of the North women?
Like her daughter and her granddaughters?
Had she managed to get it under control, transforming herself, instead, into the buttoned-up version of herself Jane had always been a little frightened of?
Would Jemima have gotten it under control, had she lived a little longer?
Did Jane have it under control now?
Do you think you do?
And there she was—a little girl ghost. Sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, her hands folded neatly on top of her knees, looking like something out of the 1800s, not like a girl who had lived just twenty years ago. That really wasn’t that long at all.
Grandma Emilia dressed me like this, Jemima explained, although Jane hadn’t spoken aloud. She used to call me her little doll.
“Is it true, what Melanie said?” Jane asked.
That I was mean to Annie? Jemima considered. Yes, I was.
“How mean?”
She started it. She made fun of me for my dresses. She made fun of me for my hair. I don’t like being made fun of. I get so angry when people make fun of me.
“Where’s Melanie?” Jane whispered, and the ghost faded. Or it wasn’t a ghost at all. Jane rubbed at her eyes. They felt tired, dry. And her hands ached suddenly. She looked down at them now. Was there dirt underneath her fingernails? Were there sores on her palms?
She wiped her hands on her dress. She closed her eyes again.
“Where’s Melanie?” she repeated, even though it felt like she already knew.
She took a little walk.
“A walk where?”
In the backyard. I think she went to see the rosebushes. Our rosebushes are famous, you know. Have you ever tasted a rose petal, Jane?
Jane opened her eyes but nobody was there. She was alone in the entranceway, and her hands hurt, and her eyes hurt, and she was so tired, a deep, aching tired that she felt in every inch of her body.
She wanted to go upstairs. She wanted to go to sleep. She wanted to walk out of this house and never come back.
There was something wrong about this house; she knew that now. She’d known it the second she first stepped through the front door, but it had taken her this long to finally understand it.
Melanie went to see the rosebushes. Why had Melanie gone to see the rosebushes?
Jane started toward the back of the house. She reached the mudroom and opened the door, not bothering to close it behind her. The night was mild and pitch-black, and for once she didn’t shiver as she stepped out into it. Maybe she was finally getting used to the cold.
She could see the rosebushes at the far end of the lawn; they almost glowed in the moonlight, bright spots of color against the blackness of the night.
There was a numbness that had spread across her chest, perhaps out of some sort of survival necessity, like if she stopped and thought about what was really happening, it would be too much for her, she would just break altogether.
But then she heard the first cry for help, and she was brought suddenly back to herself, and she took off at a run toward the rosebushes, toward the shouting.
She was running so fast that she tripped, landing with a jolt on the cold ground, hitting her head so hard she saw bright spots of light dance across her vision.
She waited a moment before she pushed herself up.
Her head swam. She felt a rush of nausea. She took a deep breath, then another.
Are you okay?
Jemima was sitting on a wooden swing that hung from a cherry tree just before the rose arbors started. Had that swing been there before? And had that tree? It was hard to focus. Had she hit her head hard enough to give herself a concussion?
You don’t look so good.
“What did you do to her?”
We’re just having a little fun.
Another wave of nausea. Jane folded her arms across her stomach. She was still on the ground, kneeling back on her calves. She took a breath and let it out slowly.
“You can’t hurt her.”
You’re my sister, and sisters have to be there for each other.
“Jemima, please…”
Go back inside, Jane. You don’t have to do anything else.
Jane tried to stand but her head spun too much to find the ground, to even tell which way was up or down. “Where is she?”
She isn’t nice, Jane! She’s mean, just like her sister was mean to me! She isn’t nice and PEOPLE SHOULD JUST BE NICE!
Her last few words were a scream, so loud they felt like a knife in Jane’s head. She was going to throw up. She was throwing up. No, she was dry heaving.
Go inside, Jane. You hit your head.
Jane dug her hands into the ground and breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, deep purposeful breaths that cleared her head enough so that she could finally bring herself to stand.
Another scream, this one choked and painful.
She made herself start walking, pushing herself forward, toward the rosebushes, past the not-real wooden swing and the not-real cherry tree and the not-real ghost.
She stopped when she reached the edge of the rosebushes. Her foot caught on something, and she almost fell again, but she managed to stop herself, grabbing on to a rose arbor for support.
She looked down for what she’d tripped on.
A shovel.
Ruth must have left it there.
Her hands ached again.
And then she saw, just past the first rose arbor, a circle of disturbed dirt. The top of someone’s head, just barely above the surface.
And as she watched, Melanie was sucked underneath the ground.
And the soil buttoned itself back up, closing on top of her.
So you couldn’t see anything of Melanie at all.
Just a hand reaching up through the dirt.
A hand that was even now sinking, sinking…
Jane took a step toward her.
She stole your journal!
Jane paused. “What?”
When she was in your room. She gave it to the boy. I saw her.
The nausea in Jane’s stomach was replaced with cold. A heavy block of ice.
Here, take this, Melanie had said.
It was your last journal. The journal where your dad is alive. I told you. She isn’t a nice girl.
The ice warmed, warmed, and Jane’s stomach was on fire suddenly, the heat was coursing through her body, filling every inch of her with rage.
“I have to get it back,” Jane said.
By your feet.
Jane looked down. Melanie’s phone was on the grass; she bent down to pick it up.
If Melanie asks nicely, I’m sure he’ll come back for her. He’ll bring it back to you.
“I have to help her…,” Jane said, but her voice was uncertain, wavering. “If I help her, she’ll give me the journal back.”
Or she won’t, because she’s not nice.
“I have to help her…,” Jane repeated. She could still see Melanie’s hand, opening and closing weakly, grabbing at nothing but air.
Or you could not. You could go and meet your friends. You could go and meet Will. You could go inside and go to sleep.
“Just because somebody isn�
�t nice, doesn’t mean they deserve this,” Jane said.
Greer’s voice: You can’t go around punching all the punks in the world.
Jemima’s voice: But you can. That’s the thing, Jane. You can.
And why should she help Melanie, anyway?
Melanie hadn’t been nice; she’d been mean to Jane since the beginning. Maybe Jemima was right; maybe this was what happened to people who weren’t nice. Maybe this was what they deserved.
But still, Jane couldn’t just leave her.…
She dropped Melanie’s phone on the ground.
She took a step into the rose arbor.
And another.
She was close enough to reach out and touch one of the thorns.
She was close enough to pluck a tiny, perfect petal off its blossom.
She let it lie in her hand.
The scent of the rosebushes was overwhelming, and for the first time it brought a comfort with it. It felt like it was enfolding her, wrapping itself around her. Keeping her safe.
She closed her hand around the rose petal.
No, no—the scent of roses was too much. It was like a drug. It forced its way into her brain and made everything cloudy and fuzzy and hard to understand. Why did her hands hurt? Why was there dirt underneath her fingernails? Why had she come outside to the rosebushes in the first place? Where was her mother? She needed to wake her up. Ruth would know what to do. Ruth would help her.
She turned, and there was her sister, blocking her way, brighter now than she had ever been, as bright as a real live girl.
It’s fair, Jemima said. It’s only fair.
Jane closed her eyes. She was so tired. So, so tired. Jemima’s voice was all around her, just like the smell of the roses.
“I can’t let her die,” Jane said, weakly now, so weakly that her words were barely a whisper, barely audible over the howl of the wind.
They let me die.
“That doesn’t make it right.…”
You’re my sister. You’re supposed to protect me. You’re supposed to hurt the people who hurt me.
So tired. So cold.
This is where I died, Jane.
And Jane could feel it in the back of her throat, the dirt Jemima had drowned in. She was covered up in it, inhaling mouthfuls of it until her lungs had turned brown and gritty.
This was where Annie had let her die.
