The Evolution of Mara Dyer md-2

by Michelle Hodkin

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Mara—Mara?” His voice was brittle with worry. “Are you okay?”

  I must have looked awful, because my father’s expression morphed from fury to panic. I nodded. I didn’t know if I could speak.

  My father didn’t see him. He didn’t see Jude. I was the only one who had.

  “Let’s get you home,” he muttered to himself. He started the car and we crawled the rest of the way. Even the retirees in their powder blue Buicks honked at us. Dad couldn’t have cared less.

  We pulled into our empty driveway and he rushed to open my door, holding the umbrella above our heads. We hurried to the house, my father fumbling for his key before finally opening the front door.

  “I’ll make some hot chocolate. Rain check on the ice cream?” he said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was seriously worried.

  I forced myself to speak. “Hot chocolate, yeah.” I rubbed my arms as a shudder of rain lashed the giant living room window, startling me.

  “And I’ll turn off the air—it’s freezing in this house.”

  A fake smile. “Thanks.”

  He grabbed me then and hugged me so tightly I thought I might break. I managed to hug him back, and when we broke apart he headed for the kitchen and began to make a lot of noise.

  I didn’t go anywhere. I just stood there in the foyer, rigid. I glanced up at the gilt mirror that hung above the antique walnut console table by the front door. My chest rose and fell rapidly. My nostrils were flared, my lips pale and bloodless.

  I was seething. But not with fear.

  With fury.

  My father could’ve been hurt. Killed. And this time it wasn’t my fault.

  It was Jude’s.

  18

  MINUTES OR SECONDS LATER, I PEELED MYSELF away from the mirror and marched to my room. But when I opened my bedroom door, I was highly disturbed to find eyes staring back at me.

  A doll sat placidly on my desk, its cloth body leaning against a stack of my old schoolbooks. Her sewn-smile curved happily. Her black eyes were unseeing, but strangely focused in my direction.

  It was my grandmother’s doll, my mother had told me when I was little. She had left it to me when I was just a baby, but I never played with it. I never named it. I didn’t even like it; the doll took up residence beneath a rotating assortment of other toys and stuffed animals in my toy chest, and as I grew up, it moved from the toy chest to a neglected corner of my closet, to be obscured by shoes and out-of-season clothes.

  But now here she was, sitting on my desk. She didn’t move.

  I blinked. Of course she didn’t move. She was a doll. Dolls don’t move.

  But she had moved, though. Because the last time I saw her, she was packed away in a box, propped against stacks of old pictures and things from my room in Rhode Island. A box I hadn’t opened since—

  Since the costume party.

  I reached back to the memory of that night. I saw myself walk to my closet, preparing to slip off my grandmother’s emerald-green dress, only to find an opened cardboard box on my closet floor. I didn’t remember taking it down. I didn’t remember opening it up.

  I rewound the memory. Watched myself walk backward out of the closet, watched my mother’s heels fit themselves back on my feet. Watched the water in the bathtub flow backward into the faucet—

  The night I saw the doll was the night I was burned.

  The skin prickled on the back of my neck. It had been a bad night for me. I was stressed about Anna and felt humiliated by Noah and I raced back even earlier, to when I first arrived home. I saw myself reach out to unlock the front door but—

  It swung in before I touched it.

  I thought I was hallucinating that night—and I had. I imagined my grandmother’s earrings at the bottom of the bathtub when they were in my ears the whole time. I assumed I forgot taking the box down from my closet too.

  That was before I knew Jude was alive. If he was in my room last night, he could have been in my room that night.

  My hands curled into fists. He took the box down from my closet. He opened it up.

  And he wanted me to know it. That he was going through all my things. Watching me as I slept. Polluting my room. Polluting my house.

  And when I left it, he chased my father and me back.

  I was shivering before, but now I was feverishly hot. I felt out of control, and I couldn’t let my father see me like this—he was panicked enough. I bit back my anger and fear and shed my waterlogged clothes, then threw them in the sink. I turned on the shower and inhaled deeply as my bathroom filled with steam. I stepped into the hot water and let it course over my skin, willing my thoughts away with it.

  It didn’t work.

  I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t alone in this. That Noah believed me. That he was coming over later and when he did I would tell him everything.

  I repeated the words on a loop, hoping they would calm me. I stayed in the shower until it ran cold. But when I emerged, I looked at my desk to find that the doll was no longer smiling.

  It was leering.

  My skin crawled as I stood there, wrapped in nothing but a towel, facing off with her as my heart beat wildly in my chest.

  No, not her. It.

  I snatched the doll off my desk. I walked to my closet and stuffed it back in one of my boxes. I knew, I knew the doll’s expression had not changed. My mind was playing tricks on me because I was stressed and panicked and angry, which was what Jude wanted.

  I opened my desk drawer, ripped off a length of scotch tape, and taped the box shut, imprisoning the doll inside. No, not imprisoning. Packing. Packing the doll back inside. And then I dressed and made my way back to my father as if nothing had happened at all, because I had no other choice.

  Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but how could it when Jude kept picking the scab?

  It was early afternoon and Daniel, Joseph, and my mother had all come home. They talked loudly to one another as my father leaned against the pantry cabinets, holding a cracked mug with both hands.

  “Mara!” My mother rushed over and wrapped me in a hug the second she noticed me.

  Daniel set down his glass. Our eyes met over my mother’s shoulder.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” she whispered. “Thank God.”

  The hug lasted for an uncomfortably long time and when my mom released me, her eyes were wet. She quickly wiped the tears away and dove for the refrigerator. “What can I get you?”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “How about some toast?”

  “I’m not so hungry.”

  “Or cookies?” She held up a package of premade cookie dough.

  “Yeah, cookies!” Joseph said.

  Daniel made a face that I interpreted to mean: Say yes.

  I forced a smile. “Cookies would be great.”

  The second the words left my mouth, Joseph withdrew a cookie sheet from the drawer beneath the oven. Also the tinfoil. He grabbed the package of cookie dough from my mother and preheated the oven before she could get to it.

  “How about some tea?” my mother asked, grasping for something, anything to do.

  Daniel nodded his head yes, staring at me.

  “I would love some,” I said, following his cue.

  “I made hot chocolate,” my dad reminded her.

  My mom rubbed her forehead. “Right.” She pulled out a mug from the glass-front cabinet and poured the contents of a saucepan into it, then handed it to me.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She tucked a strand of her short, straight hair behind her ear. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  “Miami has the world’s worst drivers,” my father muttered.

  My mother’s lips formed a thin line as she busied herself by making a pot of coffee. My eyes flicked to the kitchen window and searched our backyard through the rain.

  I was searching for Jude, I realized with an accompanying sting of shame. He was making me paranoid
. And I didn’t want to be.

  “Hey, Mom?” I asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you take out my doll?” There was a chance that she, not Jude, had moved it, and I had to be sure.

  My mother looked up from the coffeepot, confused. “What doll?”

  I exhaled through my nose. “The one I’ve had since I was a baby.”

  “Oh, Grandma’s doll? No, honey. Haven’t seen it.”

  That’s not what I’d asked, but I had my answer. She didn’t touch it. I knew who did, and this could not go on.

  I glanced at the microwave clock, wondering when Noah would get here. I had to behave normally until he did.

  “So how was Day One of spring break?” I asked Daniel between sips of hot chocolate. The liquid was warm, but didn’t warm me through.

  “We went to the Miami Seaquarium.”

  I almost choked. “What?”

  Daniel shrugged a shoulder. “Joseph wanted to see the whale.”

  “Lolita,” I said, setting down my drink.

  My father shot my brother a look. “Wait, what?”

  “It’s the name of the killer whale,” Daniel explained.

  “How was it?” Mom asked.

  Joseph shrugged. “Kind of sad.”

  “How come?” Dad’s forehead creased.

  “I felt bad for the animals.”

  My turn. “Did Noah go with you?” I didn’t honestly care. I just wanted to know the answer to my real question without actually having to ask it or call him. Namely, where was he now, and was he coming back?

  “Nope, but he’ll be over in an hour,” Daniel said. “Mom, can he stay for dinner?” He winked at me behind my mother’s back.

  Thank you, Daniel.

  “How come you ask her and not me?” my dad asked.

  “Dad, can Noah stay for dinner?”

  He cleared his throat. “Doesn’t his own family want to spend some time with him?”

  Daniel made a face. “I don’t think so, actually.”

  “Who wants cookies?” Mom asked. I caught the look she exchanged with my father as she opened the oven and the smell of heaven filled the kitchen.

  My dad sighed. “It’s fine with me,” he said, and handed me his cell. “Go call him.”

  I backed slowly out of the kitchen, then raced to my bedroom. I dialed Noah’s number.

  “Hello?”

  His voice was warm and rich and home and my eyes closed in relief at the sound of it. “Hi,” I said. “I’m supposed to tell you that you’re invited for dinner.”

  “But . . .?”

  “Something happened.” I kept my voice low. “How soon can you get here?”

  “I’m getting in the car right now.”

  “Noah?”

  “Yes?”

  “Plan to spend the night.”

  19

  AN HOUR LATER, NOAH STILL HADN’T SHOWN. I was restless and didn’t want to be in my tainted room.

  Daniel caught me lurking in the living room, pretending to read one of my parents’ books from college I had found in the garage. I was waiting for Noah, but there was no need to be obvious.

  “What goes on, little sister?”

  “Nothing,” I said, staring at the yellowed page.

  Daniel walked over to me and took my book in his hands. Flipped it right side up.

  Damn.

  “You had one heck of a day,” he said softly.

  “I’ve had better,” I said. “And worse.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  I did, but I couldn’t. Not to him. I shook my head and clenched my teeth to hold back the ache in my throat.

  He sat in the squashy black-and-gold-patterned armchair opposite me. “Don’t worry about the key, by the way,” he said casually.

  I looked up from the book. “What key?”

  “My house key?” He raised an eyebrow. “The one that was on my key ring you took without permission? The one I asked you about when you were in the . . . while you were away?”

  “Your key was missing,” I said slowly.

  “That is what I’ve been attempting to communicate, yes. But Dad had it copied today, so no big. Why’d you take it off the ring, though?”

  But I wasn’t listening to him anymore. I was thinking about the pictures taken with my camera. The doll on my desk, taken from its box. The writing on my mirror.

  The doors locked from the inside.

  I didn’t take Daniel’s house key. Jude did. That was how he came and went without breaking in, and he could do it whenever he wanted now. The thought tore at my mind and the horror must have shown on my face because Daniel asked if I was okay.

  The way he asked, like all he wanted to do in the world was help me, nearly broke me down. He was my big brother; he helped me with everything, and I so wished I could have his help with this. Daniel was the smartest person I knew—if only I could have his brain on my side.

  But then this expression settled over his face. Tentative. Unsure. Like he didn’t know what to say to me. Like I was freaking him out.

  It snuffed out whatever spark of hope I might have had. “Yeah,” I said with a tiny smile. “I don’t remember about the key.” I shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  I hated lying to him, but after I did, Daniel visibly relaxed and that made me want to cry. Daniel cocked his head. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”

  No. “Yeah,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” he said lightly, and returned to his notebook. Then he began to write. Loudly.

  And started to hum. I snapped my book shut.

  “Am I bothering you?” he asked innocently.

  Yes. “Nope.”

  “Good.” He went back to his scribbling, scratching his pencil furiously against the paper, flipping pages of his book with an unparalleled level of noise.

  He was clearly not going to let me stew in solitude. I gave up. “What are you writing?”

  “A paper.”

  “About?”

  “The self-referential passages in Don Quixote.”

  “You’re on spring break.”

  “It’s due next week,” he said, then looked up. “And it amuses me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Only you would find homework amusing.”

  “Cervantes comments on the narrative within the narrative itself. I think it’s funny.”

  “Hmm,” I said, and reopened my book. Right side up, this time.

  “What are you not-reading?” he asked.

  I tossed my book over to him in answer.

  “The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner: Written by Himself, by James Hogg? Never heard of it.”

  “That’s not something I hear often.” And despite everything, it brought a smile to my lips.

  “Indeed,” he said, studying the book. He turned it over, then started reading the summary on the back. “‘Part gothic novel, part psychological mystery, part metafiction, part satire, part case study of totalitarian thought, Memoirs explores early psychological theories of double consciousness, blah blah blah, predestination theory, blah blah blah—James Hogg’s masterpiece is a psychological study of the power of evil, a terrifying picture of the devil’s subtle conquest of a self-righteous man.’” He made a face. “Where’d you find this?”

  “In the garage. It looked interesting.”

  “Yes, you’re clearly riveted.” He stood up and handed it back to me. “But that’s not what you should be reading.”

  “No?”

  “No. Don’t move.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a minute later, carrying a book. He handed it to me.

  I made a face as I read the title out loud. “One Thousand Obscure Words on the SAT?”

  “Better get cracking,” my brother said. “They’re only a couple of months away.”

  “Are you serious? I was just pulled out of school.”

  “Temporarily. For health reasons. Which, by the way, is how Dad got the principal to change your F in
Spanish to an Incomplete, so this Horizons thing is not a total loss. You can start your SAT prep now and take them in June, just in case you want to retake in October.”

  I said nothing. Things like grades and SATs seemed utterly alien compared to my current problems. And I hated that we could talk so easily—so normally—about books and school and anything but what was really going on with me. I watched my brother write, the words flowing from his pen without hesitation. Give Daniel an abstract problem, and he can solve it in seconds.

  Which gave me an idea.

  “You know,” I said slowly, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. Put his notebook down.

  “Don’t move,” I told him, then bolted to my room. I grabbed a notebook and a pen off of my desk and ran back to the living room. I couldn’t tell my brother about my real problems because my brother didn’t believe they were real.

  But if I told him they weren’t real, maybe he could actually help.

  20

  I WALKED BACK INTO THE LIVING ROOM AND GLANCED out the enormous picture window. Still no sign of Noah’s car. Good. He’d never go for this.

  I sat down on the couch and positioned the spiral notebook conspicuously on my lap. “So,” I said to my brother casually, “At Horizons, they gave us this assignment,” I started, my lie beginning to develop. “To, uh, fictionalize our . . . problems.” That sounded about right. “They said writing is cathartic.” Mom’s favorite word.

  My brother broke into a smile. “That sounds . . . fun?”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Okay, so maybe fun’s the wrong word.”

  “ ‘Stupid’ would be more appropriate,” I said, adding an eye roll. “They want us to work things out in a safe, creative space. I don’t know.”

  My brother nodded slowly. “It makes sense. Sort of like puppet therapy for little kids.”

  “I don’t know what that is, and I’m glad.”

  Daniel chuckled. “Mom told me about it once—the therapist uses a puppet to indirectly address the kid’s feelings in an impersonal way; the child transfers her feelings to the puppet. Your assignment sounds like the teen version.”

  Sure. “Exactly. So, now I have to write this story thing about me but not me, and I need help.”