by Foxglove Lee
“Bad.” I was too embarrassed to tell her I’d possibly poisoned my blood by leaving a tampon in too long. When I opened the door, she was right there, wearing the worried smile parents all seemed to know.
“I need to lie down for a bit.”
“Your uncle thinks guilt is eating away at you.” Aunt Libby helped me to bed. “But I think something isn’t sitting well. What did you have for dinner last night?”
I don’t know if my aunt was trying to make me laugh, but it worked. “Let’s see… black olives, sardines, mixed nuts, dried figs…”
“That’ll do it every time,” my aunt said with a chuckle. Her expression of concern faded when I settled into the spare bed in Tiffany’s room. I felt a lot better just getting off my feet.
Aunt Libby sat quietly beside me for so long I started feeling anxious. She was going to say something, wasn’t she? Something that would make me uncomfortable. That’s what followed awkward silences, in my family: words you didn’t want to hear, and then the itchiest discomfort imaginable.
“Where’s Tiffany?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.
Aunt Libby’s expression turned balmy and she reached for my hand. “You really like this girl, don’t you Rebecca?”
My brain started buzzing, and I would have kicked myself if my feet didn’t feel like cement blocks under crisp white sheets.
“It’s okay.” My aunt squeezed my hand. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t ever let anybody tell you there is.”
“I know. I won’t.” Tears welled in my eyes, but I didn’t want to cry. I’d shown enough emotion for one day. Time to change the subject. “I tried to call my mom last night. I tried a few times, but the line was busy.”
Aunt Libby nodded. “She’s had to take the phone off the hook just for now.”
“Why?” I asked, and as soon as the question left my mouth I realized how stupid I was. Why hadn’t I thought of it last night? I’d seen this sort of thing in enough movies and TV shows, back when I was allowed to watch TV. “People are calling the house, aren’t they? Like those people on the radio who say my dad’s a murderer? Are they threatening my mom? Is she okay?”
If I’d been a few years younger, my aunt would have told me everything was fine. But everything wasn’t fine, and I knew it. No more pretending.
With a heavy sigh, my aunt said, “Your mom is coping. Things aren’t easy for her just now.”
“I should be home. I should be helping.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” My aunt kissed my forehead. “Your Aunt Margo’s at the house with her, keeping an eye on things. They’ve got the number for a nice police officer who wants to keep your family safe, kiddo. Everything’s under control.”
An image flashed across my mind, of the officer with the moustache who’d been so nice to me. Hard to believe how much had happened in just one day.
Curling up, I wrapped my arms around my aunt. It reminded me of hugging my uncle three years ago, when he got so mad at me for flushing the finicky cottage toilet. That was the day he’d pulled Yvette off the shelf and given her to me as a “period gift.”
A grim smile spread across my lips, but tears came as soon as I uttered the words, “I don’t want to go to jail.”
“Oh, Rebecca Jane.” Aunt Libby rubbed my back, like she knew nothing she said could possibly console me. “Sweetheart, you’re not going to jail—not if you quit breaking into houses. That, and stealing books in town! What, are you training to be a cat burglar?”
I knew my aunt was trying to cheer me up, and I tried to resist. There was a big part of me that still wanted to be mad at her, but I was just too tired. “Why didn’t you tell me about my dad?”
Aunt Libby held me, rocked me side to side. “You know why, kiddo.”
“But tell me again.”
She sighed, and before she could answer I saw Tiffany standing in the doorway. I straightened up. I felt like such a baby, and I didn’t want Tiffany to see me that way, even though I was sure she’d understand.
Aunt Libby turned too, and when she caught sight of Tiffany, she asked, “Everything all right?”
“How’s the patient feeling?” She smiled sweetly at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I lied. I was sweating and freezing, both at once.
“Grandma made you soup. It’s chicken noodle.”
I hadn’t even noticed the tray in Tiffany’s hands. “Thanks. Smells good.”
She shrugged. “It’s from a can.”
“That’s okay.” I glanced swiftly from my aunt to Tiffany. “I don’t think I’ve ever had chicken noodle soup that wasn’t from a can.”
Tiffany didn’t move. She seemed to be waiting for my aunt to leave, but Aunt Libby wasn’t taking the hint.
“Is it okay if I stay here a few more days?” I asked.
Aunt Libby looked confused, because it was a question she’d answered ages ago. “Yes, of course.” After a long stretch of time, she finally stood up. “I think I’ll go downstairs and thank Mr. and Mrs. Jones. It really is kind of them to take you in until we get you some new furniture. And, Rebecca, do come home for dinner if you’re feeling up to it. We’ve got quite a lot to discuss as a family.”
I slumped back in bed, under the weight of everything my aunt and uncle thought about me: I was crazy, I was a criminal, I needed therapy, I needed help.
When Aunt Libby was gone, Tiffany came to my bedside and set the lunch tray on the table. “Want me to feed you?”
I laughed. “I’m not a baby. I can hold a spoon by myself.”
She wrapped the steaming bowl of soup in a tea towel and held it in my lap. My brain felt so muddled, but once I sipped a spoonful of soup I started feeling a bit more myself.
“You scared me,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged, making the soup surge in the bowl. “It’s not your fault.”
For a while, I didn’t say anything. I just slurped my soup and watched Tiffany’s sad blue eyes follow the motion of my spoon from the bowl to my lips.
“I don’t like the police either,” Tiffany said.
I wasn’t sure what she meant. “They were actually pretty nice to me.”
“Not to me,” she said, gazing into my soup. “Not even when I was little. I think they figured I was a rich brat. Maybe I was. Maybe I am.”
When she didn’t say anything more, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
She glanced at the open door. “There’s a reason my parents sent me here.”
“Because they didn’t want you around, you said.”
Tiffany nodded. “Yeah, because I was always getting in trouble.”
“You were?” I took the soup bowl from her and held it against my chest. “What kind of trouble?”
“Stealing stuff.” Tiffany stood from my bed and sat on her own. “Shoplifting.”
“But I thought you had lots of money,” I said without thinking. “What were you stealing?”
“Stupid stuff. Anything. Makeup and jewellery, at first, but I never got caught for that, so I started stealing clothes and big things. It’s not that I couldn’t afford it. I didn’t even want most of it, I just…”
I slurped soup noodles, waiting for more.
“Dr. Woodman says I wanted to get caught. She says I was shoplifting to get my parents’ attention, because I felt like they didn’t care about me. Which is true. I’ve felt that way all my life. It’s like I was born and then they forgot I existed.”
“Who’s Dr. Woodman?”
“My shrink.” Tiffany took a soda cracker from my lunch tray and crushed it in her palm. Little cracker flakes fell into the pile of dirty clothes beside her bed. “She’s written, like, fourteen books. She’s really famous, actually.”
“Isn’t it weird, lying on a couch, telling some stranger your innermost thoughts?” The idea of being analysed by anyone, famous or not, put me on edge.
“When I tried to steal an eight-thousand dollar engagem
ent ring, the police wanted to send me to, like, some juvenile detention centre or whatever. They were such jerks about it. My parents hired a good lawyer, though. He argued that I was a kleptomaniac and all I needed was a good therapist.”
“What did you want an engagement ring for?” Again, not the point of what she was saying. I don’t know why, but that’s all I wanted to know.
When Tiffany didn’t answer, I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me. “Why did you steal an engagement ring?”
“I didn’t get away with it,” she snapped. “I got caught, so who cares? Maybe I just steal because I’m bad.”
A chill shivered my bones, and I shook hard enough that chicken noodle soup splashed across my T-shirt.
“Oh, shoot.” Tiffany took the bowl from my hands. “Here, let me get you something else to wear.”
“Do you have pyjamas or something? I don’t know why, but I’m super-super-tired.”
Tiffany pulled a long sleep shirt from the dresser. It was bright blue with tropical fish silkscreened across the front. “Is this okay?”
“Sure.”
Since I’d come to stay with the Joneses, I’d always changed in the bathroom. I never felt comfortable taking off my clothes in front of other people—especially other girls. Even for gym class, I always changed with my back to them.
“Take your top off,” Tiffany said. Her tone was casual, but I saw the gleam in her eye and I wished so much that I didn’t feel sick.
The soup had soaked through Tiffany’s T-shirt and my bra, so I took them both off. I did it fast, before I could second-guess myself, and then I sat in bed with the covers down at my waist.
Tiffany stood there, just staring at me, and I sat there, just letting her. In front of anyone else, I’d have felt ashamed of my body. With Tiffany, I felt proud. I wanted her to touch me, but when I leaned forward a chill danced across my skin.
“Sorry,” Tiffany said, and slipped the sleep top over my head. I pushed off my spandex pants but kept on my socks and underwear as I pulled the covers all the way up to my neck. “Look, I haven’t helped my grandparents all day.”
“Go,” I said, though I was still shivering. “I’m fine. Really.”
“I’ll be right downstairs. Holler if you need anything, and if you’re feeling really crappy I’ll run and get your aunt. Sound good?”
I nodded, trying to look as convincing as possible.
When she’d gone downstairs, I felt a weird warmth around my wrist. It took a second before I remembered the tiger’s eye bracelet Tiffany had made for me. It was supposed to offer me protection.
The image of Mikey playing with Yvette flashed across my mind, and I heard those words: “She talks.”
Another shiver ran through me, but this chill wasn’t from fever or shock. Yvette had come back. I thought I’d gotten rid of her, but she’d found her way home.
I was going to need all the protection I could get.
Chapter 18
“Oh.” My aunt’s smile fell. “You brought her.”
Tiffany stood outside our cottage even after I’d walked through the door. “Am I not invited?”
“Of course you are,” my uncle said. He and Mikey were setting the table. “We’re happy to have you, Tiffany. The more the merrier.”
“Well…” My aunt turned to look at Uncle Flip and they had one of those married couple psychic conversations I couldn’t understand. Finally, Aunt Libby gave in and said, “It’s nothing fancy, tonight. Just fish.”
“I like fish,” Tiffany said. “As long as it’s not too fishy.”
Aunt Libby stared at my uncle, like she was chastising him for letting Tiffany stay, and that made me uncomfortable. I could smell dinner on the air, and it did seem pretty fishy.
“So, how’s the patient?” Uncle Flip asked, ignoring my aunt’s glare.
“A lot better,” Tiffany said, answering for me as I plopped down on the couch. “A couple days of bed rest was all she needed. She even felt good enough to work in the store with me this afternoon.”
“Glad to hear you’re on the mend,” my aunt said without looking at me.
“Your brother sure missed having you around,” Uncle Flip said.
Mikey didn’t waste a moment before answering back. “No I didn’t. I have a new sister now.”
I hadn’t noticed before that moment, but he was holding a doll in one hand while he set the table with the other.
He was holding Yvette.
My heart fluttered fast and then stopped all at once. Her hair was a mess but her eyes were blank. There was a crack across one cheek, and she was now missing a shoe in addition to a finger. Her clothes were stained from more than just the lake. I could smell her. She was rancid.
“Eww, Mikey.” I held my nose, and not just for effect. “How can you stand the stink of that thing?”
“You’re just jealous because she likes me now and she doesn’t like you.”
“Don’t you smell it?” I asked my uncle.
He shrugged. “Just let your brother—”
“What do you mean she doesn’t like Rebecca?” Tiffany asked. She sat in Uncle Flip’s chair in the living room and beckoned Mikey to her side. “Has the doll been talking to you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She talks all the time. She talks so much she wakes me up sometimes.”
Aunt Libby and Uncle Flip didn’t seem to be listening, or they didn’t seem to care. Like this was a children’s game and it was cute. Why couldn’t they see that it wasn’t make-believe? Yvette was real, and she was dangerous.
“What does she say to you?” Tiffany asked.
Mikey looked at me like he didn’t want to answer. “She says she doesn’t like you. Both of you. She says she wishes you were dead.”
“Mikey!” my aunt hollered from the kitchen. “That’s a terrible thing to say. Play nice, will you?”
“It’s not me,” he told my aunt. “It’s Yvette. Get mad at her.”
But my aunt and uncle weren’t paying attention anymore. They were too busy stirring pots and flipping fish.
“What else does she say?” Tiffany probed, and I knew by her calm intensity that she was starting to believe everything I’d told her. “Did she tell you how she started the fire in Rebecca’s room?”
For a split second, Yvette’s beady eyes blazed. I jumped on the couch, and my throat made a gasping sound. Tiffany and Mikey both looked at me weird, but in that flash of a moment Yvette’s eyes returned to their normal glossy state.
Mikey called me a spaz, but Tiffany asked, “What’s wrong, Bec? You’re white as a sheet.”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. I didn’t want to say.
“Wash up, kids.” My aunt started heaping our plates with mashed potatoes. “Dinner’s ready. Mikey, leave your doll in the living room, please.”
Tiffany got up from her chair, leaving her white leather purse on the seat. When she stood up, Mikey set Yvette in her place, and I was glad I wouldn’t be able to see her from the dinner table.
“That doll totally gives me the creeps,” Tiffany said as we washed our hands.
Mikey only dunked his hands in the basin, and then sprinted out of the room.
I tried not to be embarrassed that the water was slick with soap. “And she stinks, right? Can you smell her?”
“I don’t know, Bec. Your whole cottage smells pretty grody, to me. Like a sewer.”
A deep shame knotted my stomach. I could tell that Tiffany thought she was just stating the obvious, but she was right and there was no denying it. What kind of people only flushed their toilet once a day? We were disgusting, living like this. My family was trash. There was no hiding it.
“And this water’s probably full of bacteria,” Tiffany said. “And when was the last time this towel got washed? Look, it’s brown on one side.”
“Shut up!”
Anger burned in my belly. I lunged at her right there in our smelly, dirty bathroom and kissed her hard enough the she whimpered. She started to pu
ll away, but she had nowhere to go. The counter was behind her and I was in front of her, trapping her there, holding her in my kiss.
She gave up fighting when I pressed my chest to hers. I’d worn my overalls, but I could feel the sweet softness of her breasts even through the hard denim. I wanted to strip her. I wanted her naked. I wanted her.
“Girls!” my aunt called. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
Tiffany pulled away from me, giggling impishly. “We’d better go.”
I nipped at her bottom lip, but she pushed me away, smiling. Her lips were red and raw. No question my aunt and uncle would know we’d been kissing.
The bathroom door wasn’t fully closed, of course, but when I pushed it all the way open I was surprised to find the living room littered with stuff.
“Aunt Libby, look what Mikey did! He dumped out Tiffany’s purse all over the floor!”
“No I didn’t.” My little brother stood beside the coffee table, holding Tiffany’s white leather purse in both hands, unzipped and empty. “Wasn’t me.”
Tiffany fell to her knees, picking up the tampons first. I was glad I wasn’t the only girl in the world who felt ashamed about her period. Grabbing the purse from Mikey, I got down on the carpet and filled the leather satchel with loose change while Tiffany picked up her Sony Walkman. The headphones were unplugged and the unit was open with her favourite Madonna cassette hanging out. The shiny black tape was pulled from the casing in streams across the living room. Tiffany wore a noticeable scowl, but she didn’t say anything—not to Mikey or to me.
“He’ll buy you a new one,” I said, glaring at my brother. “With his own money.”
“But I didn’t do it!”
“Mikey!” my aunt hollered, stomping to the living room. “You never touch a girl’s purse without permission. That’s private. You understand me?”
“I didn’t do it,” he said. “It was Yvette. She was mad because Rebecca kissed Tiffany in the bathroom.”
My heart clenched as I looked my aunt straight in the face. She must have read me like a book. My eyes were always way more honest than I wanted them to be. I couldn’t help it. Plus, my lips still felt plump from kissing, and they tasted like Tiffany’s strawberry lip gloss.
