by Foxglove Lee
“It makes sense,” Aunt Libby said, as though she could intuit my incredulity. “Rebecca, your room is closest to the fire pit, and your window was open. A crackling ember must have floated through the screen and started a slow burn on the curtains or the dresser.”
“I still think it’s strange that nothing else caught fire,” my uncle said. “How could the curtains burn and not the wall? It’s really weird.”
I knew why. I knew why, and nobody else would ever believe it.
“God only knows what was in that paint mom and dad used,” Aunt Libby reasoned. “It’s probably half lead, half asbestos.”
“What’s an ass-pesto?” Mikey asked, and laughed, but my aunt and uncle weren’t paying him any attention.
I turned in my sleeping bag to look at my uncle, but I couldn’t see him over my aunt’s poufy hair. “Uncle Flip, why didn’t you call 9-1-1?”
He laughed. “Hey, city slicker, there is no 9-1-1 up here. There’s a fire department in town, but Mikey and I could have doused those flames ten times over by the time they got all the way out here.”
“Plus,” my aunt said, lowering her voice. “This cottage isn’t exactly up to code. The minute a fire inspector walked through that door, he’d probably order the place demolished. And then where would you spend your summer, eh, kids?”
“Somewhere nice!” Mikey hollered, and my uncle laughed along with him.
“Yeah, this place isn’t exactly the Ritz,” Uncle Flip said. “But, remember, your grandparents built it from the ground up. It might not be as nice as other people’s cottages, but it’s special because it’s ours.”
“Oh, Clarence, you’re so sappy,” my aunt said, and I heard her kiss his cheek.
“Eww, you guys, get a room!” Mikey teased.
I smiled, staring up at the top of the tepee where all the big branches met in the middle. After a while, the night didn’t seem too dark. Even when the fire’s embers burned deep red and then extinguished altogether, the moon gave off enough light to see by.
When my brother and my aunt and my uncle were all breathing deep and steady, I inched my way out of my sleeping bag. I had to go slow, because if I leaned too far to my left, I’d jab Mikey with my elbow. Same with my aunt on the other side. Thank goodness nobody in my family was a particularly light sleeper. Mikey didn’t even wake up when I stepped over him, casting a dark shadow across his face.
I had no shoes on, so I had to step delicately across the pine needles and underbrush that made up the backyard of our cottage. The fire pit was easy enough to avoid, but there were big rocks here and there that unexpectedly jabbed my toes. My aunt’s long white nightgown covered over my fingers and toes, and it made me feel like a ghost in the night, one of those diaphanous ladies that haunted castles in Europe.
Though the tall dresser was black, I could see every inch of it clearly. The dull bronze knobs glinted like gold, and the whole thing seemed to be moving, or breathing, like a big charcoal dog. I couldn’t tell just yet whether it was gearing up to lick me or bite me.
“Yvette?” I said in my mind. “I know you’re in there.”
I waited, but she made no response.
“Give me a clue,” I asked. “Which drawer are you in?”
Nothing. Not a word.
The top. Had to the top drawer. I rolled up the sleeves of Aunt Libby’s white gown and took hold of the knobs, but they slid right out of the wood almost before I’d pulled on them. My heart was getting louder by the moment, hammering in my chest. I scraped at the top of the drawer. My nails weren’t long enough to make a dent. All I could think to do was stick my little fingers in the holes where the handle pulls used to be.
My whole body felt funny, like my skin was bee-stung and buzzing. My knees were like custard, and yet I stood up straight, like some unseen force held me in place. With my fingers lodged in the sockets, I pulled back and the drawer came with me. The noise it made was like chalk on chalk, a subdued sort of screech that made my bones rattle. I was sure it must have woken my family, but I was too scared to look. I just stared down at the drawer, down into blackness.
Yvette wasn’t there.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember her face. It was pale, I knew that much. Pale skin with a peachy blush and brilliant lips. Hair like the devil—red and curly, big and bold. Her dress and her apron I could remember better than her features. Those blurred, faded, and then returned as Tiffany’s ski-jump nose, Tiffany’s barely-there eyebrows, her high cheekbones and pointed chin.
“Nooo!” Yvette cried, like a howl in the night. The top drawer pulled closed while the bottom one swung open. It whacked me in the shins so hard I fell to the ground, landing on a hard stretch of rock. I had to bite my tongue to keep from whimpering.
My brain just about exploded. I could see little bursts of light behind my eyes. My hands were all pins and needles. I shook my head to rid myself of the pain, but it swirled in me like a tornado.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Yvette said. “It was only a little bump. You’re not hurt.”
I crawled toward the charred dresser and braced myself before looking inside. Nothing in the bottom drawer was burnt, not even a little bit. Extra sheets had been stored in there, simple cotton ones with dainty blue flowers. Sheets. Just sheets!
My head pounded. Everything in that top drawer had been incinerated. The bottom drawer looked equally charred, so why were its contents pristine? It didn’t make any sense.
“Don’t be stupid,” the voice called out. Her voice. Yvette’s. “You know why.”
Of course I did, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. I didn’t want to be there. My heart pumped so hard I could hear every thud like a jackhammer. I wanted to be back in my sleeping bag, surrounded by my family. Safe.
Or maybe at the Jones’s cottage, staying up all night with Tiffany.
“Noooo!”
The sheets unfolded before my eyes. I swear I didn’t lay a finger on them. They came apart all on their own, opening to reveal the secret inside.
I gasped, even though I knew in my heart she was there. “Yvette!”
Her face was different now, her porcelain brow furrowed in anger. I fully expected her little lips to move. In my head, I heard the words, “You don’t love me anymore.”
“After you burned down my cottage? I guess not!” I bit my lip to keep myself from saying the words out loud.
“Don’t exaggerate,” she said. “The cottage is in perfect shape.”
“My things!” I cried. The voice in my head was so loud it made my skull buzz. She knew what I meant. “You destroyed everything that was mine!”
“Not everything,” Yvette shot back. Her creamy skin turned crimson. “I’m yours and I’m still here.”
“Forget it, Yvette. I don’t want you anymore.”
“But you need me.” Her voice was changing, now. Somewhere between anger and desperation, like she was trying to convince me.
“What do I need a little pyromaniac for? I’ve already got Mikey.”
“To talk to!” Her brow seemed to have changed again, up in the middle like a pleading puppy dog. “You need somebody to love, to be with, someone who will listen.”
I knew how to deal a knock-out blow, and I said the words stiffly. “I have Tiffany for that.”
Picking her up by her little leather boots, I pulled Yvette from the drawer and carried her upside-down across the lawn. The night was dark, but I was guided by moonlight. I knew just what to do.
I could feel her kicking and heaving her little body at my legs as I walked, but I didn’t look down. I wouldn’t acknowledge her anger, because it didn’t matter. She could be as angry as she pleased and she was still going down.
The septic tank gave off a stink like nothing else in this world. It was deep like a well, and when I lifted the lid I couldn’t see the bottom. Not that I spent much time looking. The reek that came off our fermenting toilet sludge made my eyes water.
“No,” Yvette begged. She
was flailing in my hand, tossing about so hard I could barely keep a hold on her. “No, you can’t do this, Becca. Remember all our good years, when you were so alone, no one but me for company? It could be like that again. Give me one more chance. I’ll show you. You don’t need anyone but me!”
If I’d listened any longer, her pleas might have swayed me.
But I didn’t.
I held her over the deep, dark sewage tank and let go. She barely made a plunk when she hit the bottom.
Chapter 14
“It’s funny the way people think girls won’t be bad together.”
Tiffany looked up from the tattered copy of Sisters in Sin that got us banned from the used bookstore in town. I could feel her staring at me, waiting for a response, but I pretended to be engrossed in Prison Girls. It was written like a Tennessee Williams play. Titillating, but I couldn’t see much of myself in those downtrodden girls who only slept with each other because there were no men around.
“Did you hear me, Bec?” Tiffany set down her book and grabbed another egg salad sandwich. For a skinny girl, she ate like a mutant. “Like, if we were a boy and a girl, my grandparents would never let us sleep in the same house, much less the same room. But us? I bet they wouldn’t even care if we slept in the same bed. We’re just two nice, innocent, sweet little girls, right?”
“Right.” I chuckled half-heartedly.
Tiffany crunched all-dressed chips. One of the best things about living above a store was that snack food was only a few steps away, and we didn’t have to pay for anything.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Tiffany asked. “Sick of being my roomie already? We’ve only spent three nights together.”
“I’m always cranky when I have my period.” I didn’t look up from my book. It still wasn’t easy for me to talk about personal things, especially “girl stuff,” as Aunt Libby called it.
“It’s more than that,” Tiffany said. “I can tell. I’m really attuned to other people’s emotions when I want to be. Sometimes I can see auras.”
I rolled my eyes. “No you can’t.”
She inhaled sharply, and when I still didn’t look up she wolfed down handful after handful of potato chips.
“Sorry,” I said, and finally put my stupid book down. “I’m just in a bad mood. It’s not you.”
Her eyes had filled with tears, and the sight of her so distraught tore my heart in two. “Well, I’m trying to cheer you up. I’ve tried everything. What else can I do?”
“Nothing. All my stuff is gone. Wouldn’t you be upset?”
“I gave you clothes.” Tiffany wrapped her hand around the turquoise slouch socks I was wearing over her lime green spandex leggings.
“But they’re not my clothes,” I said, meaning they weren’t my style. I’d rather have worn one of her grandfather’s plaid shirts than her super-expensive T-shirts, though there was an Australian top with a koala on that I found kind of cute. I was biding my time before asking if I could wear it.
“This obviously isn’t about clothes.” Tiffany stuffed her face with egg salad, which was just as well. The sulphur stench turned my stomach. “You don’t care about clothes. I may not have known you long, but I do know that for sure. There’s something else. Why won’t you tell me?”
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I climbed from the floor onto one of the twin beds, the one that was mine. Their cottage was at the top of a hill, and through the window you could see all the way to the lake. “I told you, I’m just cranky.”
For a while, she didn’t say anything. I looked at the ticking alarm clock on the table between our two beds. Our “lunch hour” was almost up. Because the Joneses had been kind enough to take me in, I was helping out in the shop. Mainly, it was to be near Tiffany. Also, I had nothing better to do.
“Well, don’t you worry,” Tiffany snapped. “The community swap meet’s on Saturday, and I’m sure there’ll be furniture galore to fill your room. You’ll be back at your aunt and uncle’s crappy little shower-less cottage in no time.”
“I don’t want to go back there,” I said, even though a part of me really missed it. “I want to stay here with you, Tiffany. Why can’t you just accept that I’m in a bad mood and leave me alone?”
“Because I want to know why!”
“You want to know why?” Something burbled up inside me, like a hot pot overflowing. It wasn’t pretty. “Maybe I’m in a bad mood because I miss my mom, okay? Maybe I’m in a bad mood because everyone at school calls me Martina, and the closest thing I had to a friend before meeting you was my little brother, and even he started calling me Martina. Maybe it’s because I haven’t watched TV in I don’t know how long, or because my uncle seems to think I’m some kind of mental patient. Or maybe it’s because I have no idea where my father is and everybody’s acting weird about it. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because my bedroom was burned down by a doll that was jealous of you and now I have to wear my aunt’s underwear, which is like a zillion sizes too big!”
Tiffany stared at me, dumbfounded, holding a forgotten potato chip an inch away from her mouth.
I glanced at the clock, then slid off the bed. “Come on, it’s time to get back to work.”
“Wait a sec.” Tiffany dropped her chip on the floor without seeming to notice. “Did you say your room was burned by a doll?”
A strange chill flooded my veins. “Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Hold up, hold up.” She launched herself up from the blanket she’d been curled up on and grabbed me by the arm. I barely felt it. “What do you mean a doll? You mean, like, another girl? Like, an ex?”
I said no, but it came out sounding like a grumble.
“Do you know who set the fire, Becca? Why don’t you tell your aunt and uncle? She can pay to replace all the stuff she destroyed, and if she doesn’t I’ll punch her in the neck.” Tiffany tightened her grip on me. “I’ll probably punch her anyway. Who is she?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I opened the bedroom door, but didn’t step outside. “I handled it, okay?”
“How did you handle it? Who is she?”
“She’s not a…” How on earth was I going to explain what had happened? “She wasn’t a real person, okay? My uncle gave me a doll when I was thirteen, and she was my only friend for a long time, and I guess… I don’t know, I guess all the attention made her real or something, because she started doing stuff, like she’d mess up my room when I wasn’t in it. I know she set that fire.”
“A doll?” Tiffany released her hold on my arm and stared at me blank in the face. “Like, a doll doll?”
“A porcelain doll, yeah.” I knew it was crazy, but I also knew it was true. “She was jealous of you, so I threw her in the sewage pit.”
“Oh, Rebecca.” Tiffany looked all around me. “Oh, Bec, you should see your aura right now. It’s not pretty.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder, but I slid away from her and started down the stairs. “I don’t care about my stupid aura, okay?”
“It’s not stupid,” she called after me. “I’m really concerned about you, Bec. Maybe you should talk to someone. I had a few sessions with a Zurich-trained Jungian analyst, and they did me a world of good.”
“Like hell you did,” I muttered as I got to the bottom of the stairs.
I was starting to think my aunt was right—maybe Tiffany did stretch the truth sometimes.
“There’s my granddaughter-in-training!” Mrs. Jones called as I trudged into the shop. Tiffany was never rude in front of her grandparents, so I was safe. “How did you enjoy your lunch?”
“It was great,” I said, even though I hadn’t eaten anything but chips. “Thank you so much. I can’t believe how nice you’ve been. I really don’t deserve it.”
“Oh, don’t think that, my girl.” Mrs Jones, in her old-lady housedress, wrapped me in her arms and pulled me to her pillowy chest. She seemed weirdly emotional, always hugging and kissing me. It was strange, because she wasn’t
like that with any of the other cottage kids, or even with Tiffany.
“You can’t pay attention to what the others say—sins of the father, and all that. You are your own person, dear, and you’re a good girl. You’re a very good girl, and you deserve nothing but the best, you and that brother of yours. And your mother, God bless her! She deserves a medal.”
“Yeah, my mom’s a real saint.” I squirmed away, because her old-lady ramblings were making me uncomfortable.
“Bless your heart!” Mrs. Jones kissed my forehead before I could get far enough away, and I had to force myself not to shudder. There was nothing grosser than being kissed by an old lady.
“Nana,” Tiffany called from the stairs. “I brought our dishes down. Do you want me to wash them, or…”
“No, no.” Mrs. Jones took the tray while Tiffany met my gaze from the stairs. “I’ll wash up. Your grandfather’s just having a nap. Could you two stock the shelves? We’re low on matches, mosquito coils, and canned fruit.”
I was happy to have something to do, since I didn’t feel like talking to Tiffany, and I went right at the canned goods while she rearranged the penny candy. It wasn’t until Mrs. Jones had left the store that I realized she’d left the radio on her AM talk station. I was about to asked Tiffany to flip it over to FM when a familiar name caught my ear.
“We’re taking your calls about the verdict that came in this morning in the Crown versus Robert Warren—a case that’s been very much in the news the past few weeks, especially in light of Bill C-19, which cracks down on those charged with impaired driving.”
“Boring,” Tiffany groaned, reaching for the radio.
“Don’t touch it!” I shrieked, making her jump. She started to say something, but I shouted, “Zip it!” and she stared at me, flabbergasted.
“As you probably heard during the news at noon, Robert Warren—convicted in the impaired driving death of six-year-old Natalie Spanner—has been sentenced to fourteen years in prison.”
