by Susan Vaught
“I’m not sure what the truth is,” I admitted, “but—”
“Then you better go back to your room,” Dad said, still too quiet, talking way too slow. “Get a good night’s sleep, and think very, very hard. I want you to consider if what you’re telling me is real.”
Tears slid from my eyes, and I wiped them away with the backs of my hands. “Okay, but—”
“Footer, this is serious. Do you understand me?”
I had to look away from him, or I would have cried more. “Yes, sir.”
“If it’s like your walruses and serial killers and brain tumors and that shoe—knock it off before you really hurt your mother and this family.”
“Yes, sir.”
I got up from his bed and ran out of his room, back to the hall, and away from his frown and sad eyes. Some part of my mind knew I had left his lights on, but I didn’t care very much.
For some reason I didn’t even understand, I ran straight to the kitchen and pulled open the pantry. I let the tears wash down my cheeks, and I kept breathing so fast, it made me dizzy, but I couldn’t stop as I pulled out a bunch of my lunch drinks and the new jar of peanut butter and the fresh loaf of bread Ms. Jones had brought from the store. I had been eating myself silly in my sleep, right? So maybe it helped me somehow. Maybe it kept the bad dreams away. Maybe it filled up the great big empty I felt with Mom gone, and it was so much bigger now that Dad had sort of left me too.
He didn’t believe me. He thinks I’m crazy.
I stared at the sandwich stuff on the counter. This was totally stupid. I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself. If I stopped, I might see Dad’s mad face, or Mom lying in her hospital chair babbling about mice and playing the piano she thought she had inside her wrist, or Mr. Abrams blowing into pieces, spraying dark spots all over Cissy and Doc and me and Mom.
Stupid seemed better than any of that.
I went to the fridge and got the jar of grape jelly Mrs. Jones had left us. I got knives and forks and spoons out of the silverware drawer, and paper plates and napkins off the top of the microwave, where Mom kept them. Judging by the messes I made when I sleep-ate, this had to be how I did it—just grab everything and go downstairs and stuff it all down.
Fine. I could do that awake, too. I crammed so much stuff in my arms, I had to use my foot to push down the handle of the basement door and shove it open.
When it banged against the wall, I jumped at the sound. I thought I heard scurrying, scuttling sounds from down in the blackness, but that was just my baby-scared-of-the-dark mind playing goofs on me. I used my shoulder to flip the light switch and chase all the noises away.
I went down one step at a time, like a little kid, so I didn’t lose my balance, and I carried all the food to the pool table and spread it out better than a picnic. Then I went back upstairs and got the brownies and cupcakes meant for my lunches, and I took them to the pool table too. I unwrapped enough to fill up three or four plates and then made five peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.
Maybe when I was asleep, I didn’t go to this much trouble, but who knew? Might as well make it as fun as possible, since everything else so completely and totally sucked right now. After I got everything arranged, I ate a brownie, stuffing each bite in my mouth and forcing myself to chew it and swallow it, ignoring how much it tasted like sugar-coated cardboard. I choked down one of the sandwiches, but I couldn’t face a second one.
Great.
Just great.
Nothing. No help at all. My stomach already hurt. Awake, I couldn’t seem to put away as much food as I did in my sleep. I couldn’t even make as spectacular a mess. It was kind of disappointing.
And it was time to face the fact that I was losing it, just like Mom.
“Losing it, lost it—not much difference, right?” My voice sounded like a ghost whisper in the silent basement.
I glanced around at the weights, and the shadows they made on the floor. For a time I studied the closed bedroom door and imagined the bed and the little bathroom. I wished I could pretend Mom was in there, just taking a little vacation from the world. Then I could wake her up and ask her if she felt this way when she started going crazy, all confused and empty and sad. Did she think she was letting Dad down, and her friends and me and everybody? Did she try to stop it?
I had wondered those things before, lots of times. I had asked myself if she tried not to get sick, and now I knew. She tried with every bit of strength she had, but it just didn’t matter. When sick came, it did what it wanted to do.
That felt like too big a thing to know, so I got under the pool table and curled up, resting my head on the cool wooden pedestal. For the first time ever in my life, I didn’t care if the darkness snuck up on me after I fell asleep and covered me like a big blanket full of black, scary nothingness.
I wasn’t even sure I wanted to wake up.
CHAPTER
14
Fourteen Days After the Fire
I managed to get back in my own bed before morning. Sometime in the night, I must have eaten the rest of what I had taken down to the pool table, or the dinosaur mice got it, because it was gone. I was surprised I didn’t blow up like a beach ball.
School—now, that concept seemed worse than turning into a pool toy, so I told Dad I felt sick. He did the usual stuff, looking in my throat (could he see five peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches trying to urp back up?), taking my temperature (can you get a fever from half a box of brownies?), and checking my pulse (maybe juice drinks cause a racing heartbeat?).
“Well,” he said after he mashed on the glands in my throat until I gagged, “You don’t seem like you’re dying, and I don’t see any spots or rashes, but you do look pale.”
I pulled away from Dad’s hands, settled back on my pillow, and shut my eyes, wishing he’d just go away. I didn’t want to talk to him, and I didn’t want him to sit there looking worried, and I didn’t want him to decide he needed to go to the basement before I cleaned up the nasty mess of crumbs and wrappers I had left down there.
“Footer, if I upset you last night, I didn’t mean to.” Dad sounded worried enough that I almost opened my eyes, but I knew if I did, I’d probably hug him and tell him I didn’t mean any of the stuff I said.
I kept my eyes closed.
Dad kissed my forehead. “I love you very much. I just want you to take this stuff about your mom and the fire seriously, okay?”
“Okay,” I said back, feeling nothing much but numbness, and like I wanted to burp peanut butter.
“If you have something to tell me now, I’ll listen.”
Just make sure it’s the truth, right? The problem was, I didn’t want to lie, and I really, really didn’t know what truth I needed to tell. Whatever truth it was, Dad probably didn’t want to hear it, no matter what he said.
He waited, like he might be hoping I would say something else. When I didn’t, he patted my sheet-covered shoulder. “All right, then. I’ll see what I can do about getting somebody to stay with you.”
When he got up, I turned over and stared at my white wall.
A few minutes later, Dad came back to my room and said, “Ms. Jones is coming over in five or ten minutes. Will you be okay if I head out so I can stop by the post office on my way to work?”
“I’ll be fine,” I told the wall.
I felt Dad lay something on the bed beside me. “There’s your phone. Call me right away if you need something before she gets here.”
I heard my door close. Then I heard the front door close, and the sound of a car engine.
My phone chirped with Peavine’s tone. I turned over and picked it up.
R U OK?
Pukey, I texted back, because that was truth enough.
Ew. Feel Betr.
Thks.
Call u latr.
K.
The landline rang. I sat up and got my feet on the floor, dropped my cell on the bed, then shuffled over to my desk. Morning sunlight tried to slice around my blinds, but it b
arely got in, leaving the room gray and sleepy just like me. The phone rang again, and I picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
A woman said, “May I speak to Adele Davis, please?” She sounded all official and business-like, probably not one of Mom’s support-group people.
I fiddled with the receiver charger. “She’s not here. May I take a message?”
“Is Fontana Davis there?”
That made me open my eyes wider. “Um, I’m Fontana.”
“Oh, good. You missed your appointment with Dr. Zephram yesterday at three. Do you know if your mother plans to reschedule?”
“Who is this again?”
“Dr. Zephram’s office.”
“But my doctor is Dr. Ellsworthy.”
“Oh, he’s a primary care physician. This is a counseling office. Different kind of doctor.”
Counseling office? What? I pulled the receiver away and stared at it, then had enough presence of mind to put it back to my ear and say, “Sorry, I don’t know anything about Dr. Zephram or what Mom wanted, and I don’t know when she’ll be back. I’m sure she’ll call if she wants to set up another appointment.”
“Thank you,” the woman was saying as I hung up.
Okay, that was weird. Who were those people? I opened my laptop to look them up online, but my Really Probably Crazy List caught my attention
I stared at it, my fingers hovering above the mouse pad. I knew a lot more now. At least I thought I did. What’s the truth, Footer? Dad’s voice echoed around in my head, pushing tears into my eyes. What’s the truth?
With a quick click, I closed the document. I didn’t know anything. That’s what Dad believed. He was probably right. When I tried to take a breath, it came out all shaky, and I really did feel sick. That’s what I got for faking, right?
I thought about closing the laptop, but instead I opened my music and played my favorite song. It didn’t make my tears go away. I wanted to call Dad’s cell phone and tell him he was a great big huge jerk and he hurt my feelings. Or maybe I just wanted to cry, but if I cried, I’d probably get sick for real.
“I know a lot more now,” I said out loud, like Dad could hear me. I imagined him buying stamps as my voice rattled through his ears. I could almost see the way he’d freeze, staring up at the ceiling in shock.
“I do,” I whispered.
Then I opened up my Really Probably Crazy List again, and typed fast, banging my fingers on the keys as I changed everything around.
1. Old Mr. Abrams got shot, and nobody knows who shot him. MOM OR CISSY SHOT HIM WITH A SHOTGUN. WHY? CISSY SHOT OLD MR. ABRAMS WITH A SHOTGUN BECAUSE HE WAS HITTING DOC.
2. The Abrams farm got burned to the ground, and nobody knows who set the fire. MOM OR CISSY SET THE FIRE. WHY? MOM PROBABLY SET THE FIRE, MAYBE TO COVER UP WHAT CISSY DID.
3. Cissy and Doc might be dead or alive, and nobody knows where they are. BUT THEY MIGHT HAVE DIED IN THE FIRE BY ACCIDENT.
4. Mom might have been WAS MOST DEFINITELY there.
5 I might have been WAS MOST DEFINITELY there.
6. Somebody might have been watching us while we searched. THE SOMEBODY HAD SHOES LIKE CAPTAIN ARMSTRONG. CAPTAIN ARMSTRONG WAS WATCHING US BECAUSE HE TOLD MOM HE WOULD.
7. I might be PROBABLY AM crazy. I MIGHT BE CRAZY, BUT I SAW ALMOST EVERYTHING.
It was hard to look at the items now, because I was pretty sure I was right about all of them, and I was pretty sure Dad would never believe me. I hit save before I could chicken out and delete everything. I’d come back later and clean it up and explain stuff better. Then I’d send a copy to Peavine. He’d believe me. Peavine would never call me a liar or treat me like I was crazy. After everything went so wrong with Dad and Mom, too, that felt really, really important.
Somebody knocked on the front door.
Perfect.
Was this my punishment for staying home when I didn’t have the runs or a bad one-hundred-and-three fever? I rubbed one eye, then the other. I really didn’t feel like talking to missionaries or answering a survey. It might be the postman or the UPS woman or the FedEx guy. Whatever it was, they could leave it on the porch.
I decided not to answer the knock and stared at my list some more. Then I started feeling cold, and I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder, out into the hall.
What if somebody important had been at the door?
What if a serial killer had been at the door?
Okay, that was stupid.
But . . .
I got up and went to the front door, stood on my tiptoes, and peeked outside. Nobody was there. After a few seconds I turned all the locks and put on the chain. Then I stared at the closed door for a long time, worrying. Blood rushed in my ears, making it hard to think. Was the basement door locked? I couldn’t remember.
Stop scaring yourself.
But I couldn’t help it. Where was my phone? I ran my hands up and down my sleeping shirt even though I knew it didn’t have pockets. On my bed. I left it in my room.
This was completely idiotic. I had nothing to be scared of. Stuff like this—it was why Dad didn’t trust me. Because I could act like such a baby.
Something thumped in the basement.
I let out a squeak and ran to my room and grabbed my phone off the bed, barely breathing as I unlocked its screen. The house had gone tomb quiet.
My fingers pushed 9-1-1, but I hesitated before I pressed send. If I called the dispatch center, they’d send a bunch of people, and Dad would know, and he’d be so pissed with me. He might even get in trouble for leaving me alone while Peavine’s mom drove over here.
I inched over to my window, pried loose one blind, and peeked out. Still nobody out there. I held my breath and counted to five, and I didn’t hear any noises, either.
My gaze shifted back to the numbers I had dialed, and I heard Dad’s voice in my head, sounding sad and angry. What’s the truth, Footer? Do you even know anymore?
I bit my bottom lip. Then I deleted the 9-1-1 and picked Captain Armstrong from my contact list instead.
He sounded asleep when he answered, but when I told him I was home sick and waiting for Ms. Jones and somebody knocked on the front door and scared me, I saw him come straight out his front door wearing a bathrobe, phone to his ear. He held his free hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun, and he stared down our road.
He studied the scene, and then he said, “It was church people, Footer. I see them on down the road, putting pamphlets in people’s mailboxes. Now they’re knocking on somebody else’s door.”
“Okay.” I relaxed a fraction. “Thanks.”
“I’ll keep a watch until Ms. Jones gets here. You don’t have to worry.”
“Thanks, Captain Armstrong.” I started to tell him good-bye, then hesitated, feeling the bloom of all that hot guilt in my stomach. Here he was being nice to me, and I hadn’t been good to him at all, treating him like a real suspect and giving his name to the MBI, and acting like some people in town did, like he was all dangerous and mean, when he wasn’t.
My fingers gripped the phone, then relaxed, gripped and relaxed. I tried to get my breath and find the right words.
“You okay there, kid?” Captain Armstrong asked.
“I—yes. Thank you. I’m just . . . it’s . . . I’m sorry I asked you stuff about the war and took a picture of your shoe. I know the rumors around town aren’t true, about you and the fire. I always knew that.”
There was a long pause, and the heat in my stomach got ten times worse. I felt it moving up into my chest, my throat, my face.
“I don’t know what else to say,” I whispered. “I don’t know what to do, except be sorry, even if it’s not enough.”
“It’s enough,” he said, and he didn’t sound cold or angry like I thought he would. “Sometimes when you really slip up in this world, sorry’s all you’ve got. It has to be enough. I’m not mad at you, Footer. I never was.”
“Okay,” I said. I thanked him again and hung up, but I sto
od there awhile, watching the captain through my window, hoping he really meant what he said about not being mad at me.
He had believed me about somebody knocking on the door, at least. He had believed what I told him, even though my own father didn’t.
Why did that make me sad instead of happy?
CHAPTER
15
Still Fourteen Days After the Fire
Once I was pretty sure no serial killer was trying to break into my house, I changed into shorts and a shirt, crammed my phone in my pocket, and sat on my bed. My heart wasn’t beating fast anymore, and my breathing sounded like a person now instead of a half-strangled chicken, and I wasn’t feeling as guilty about sort of being mean to Captain Armstrong.
As for Dad . . .
My chin dropped toward my chest and I sat there staring at nothing, feeling really sad and completely alone. It was like being in the dark with all the lights on. “Alone” dug at me just like “scared” did, when the lights were off and I couldn’t see anything at all.
I wasn’t a baby. I wasn’t.
But I wanted my mother.
Great, big empty “alone” swelled around me like some awful balloon, taking all the air. I wanted to see Mom, but not sick, staring, crazy Mom. I wanted smiling Mom, happy Mom, with-me Mom. Crying was stupid, but I did it anyway, letting the tears roll down my face and not even wiping them off. Wiping tears was what moms did, and right now I didn’t have mine.
My eyes moved to my bedroom door and into the hall, and I looked at my parents’ bedroom door. I wasn’t supposed to go in there without them, or unless they asked me to, or unless I asked. Privacy and respect and all that stuff.
But it was Mom’s room. If I opened the door and went inside, I might smell her or grab some bit of her and be able to hold on to it until she got better and came home.
