Deadly Little Voices

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, once he’s within earshot. “At a bus stop in the next town over, when you have your own car?”

  He looks startled to see me as well, but as I get closer, his expression morphs into defensiveness: his lip twitches and his nostrils flare. “I could ask you the same,” he says, standing right in front of me now.

  “I was at Hayden, talking to my therapist. What’s your excuse?”

  He tugs nervously at his scarf. “I was trying to get away.”

  “Away from what? Does this have something to do with why I couldn’t reach you last night?”

  He swallows hard, then lets out a breath. His eyes are runny from the cold; at least, I think it’s the chill that’s making them tear up.

  “My dad’s pissed. Someone keyed my car, so he took it away.”

  “And that’s your fault?” I reach into my pocket for a tissue, suddenly realizing how distraught he is.

  “Everything’s my fault.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Well, it feels like it is.”

  I look toward the billboard poster that hangs over the bus stop—an ad for some dance club in the next town over—still wondering what he’s doing here, of all places, and not stewing over cappuccino at the Press & Grind, or taking photographs in the middle of nowhere (his new favorite pastime). “Was the keying really bad?”

  “Kind of. My dad’s having the entire car stripped and repainted as a result. Pink,” he adds. “That’s what color he thinks I should be driving.”

  “Wes, that’s crazy.”

  “I haven’t even told you the real crazy part: the keying was an actual message, rather than just scratch marks.”

  “And what did it say?” I ask, already sensing the worst.

  “It said, You’re out of your league.” His chin quivers, but he clears his throat, still trying to be strong.

  “Who would do that?” I ask, feeling my heart plummet. “Do you think it was that guy we followed?”

  I peer down the main boulevard, remembering having gone in that direction on our chase, and how Wes seemed to know the area well. “Maybe he got your license plate. Where was your car parked when the keying occurred?”

  “At home.” He shrugs. “But I’m not even sure if that’s the guy who did it.”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  He checks his watch, just as the Number 12 bus turns the corner, coming toward us.

  “This is my ride.”

  “You’re not going home?” I ask, feeling my face crumple up in confusion. The 12 goes in the opposite direction of Freetown.

  “Honestly, if you were me, would you want to go home?”

  “Come to my house, then,” I suggest. “Or better yet, let’s go grab a bite to eat. We need to talk about this, don’t you think?”

  “Can’t,” he says, looking toward the bus, now at the curb. “I’m actually going to see a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  Instead of answering, he gives my cheek a tiny smooch and turns toward the bus. The doors snap open and he climbs the steps, leaving me even further in the dark.

  STILL AT THE BUS STOP, I try calling Kimmie again, to see if she might have more insight into the whole keying incident with Wes’s car, but she’s not picking up. And so I decide to go to Knead, eager to sink my hands into a piece of clay.

  As soon as I get there, I see that Spencer is hard at work on his life-size ballerina, which reminds me of my work in progress as well. I remove the tarp from my vaselike bowl, and immediately my mind goes to Ben. I cover the bowl back up and then fetch myself a thick hunk of clay, ready to start something new.

  There’s a tiny piece of me that still feels intimidated by the process, but with each smack, plunk, and slam of clay against the board, I can’t help feeling empowered, because I’m facing my fears head-on.

  I close my eyes and press my fingers into the mound; the texture is soft and slick. After several seconds spent flattening the clay with both my palms, images of all sorts start fleeting through my brain. I concentrate hard, trying to focus on the strongest one, and then I start to sculpt.

  I move my fingers over the clay mound, picturing an ivy-covered building. I start to sculpt it, expecting the voices to come at any moment, but, surprisingly, they don’t. I continue to work for what must be at least another hour, forming double doors and shuttered windows.

  The image of a door knocker pops into my mind, and I want to sculpt it, too. I grab another hunk of clay and begin to replicate its shape; the knocker looks like an acorn. Smooth on the bottom and with a narrow tip, the cap has diamond-shaped grooves, formed in rows, for the necessary texture. I spend at least forty minutes working on the acorn knocker, about the size of my palm, getting all the details just right, and wondering about its significance.

  And then I feel someone tap my shoulder from behind.

  I turn to look, but no one’s there. And the studio lights have been dimmed. It appears that Spencer’s cleared out the aisles of greenware and replaced them with an L-shaped sofa and a wooden floor. How is it possible that I didn’t notice these changes on the way in?

  I open my mouth to try to call Spencer, but to my horror I discover there’s an object wedged inside my mouth, pressing against the back of my tongue, making it impossible to talk. I go to take a step—to see if Spencer’s still in his office—but I end up lurching forward and falling down hard on the floor.

  Someone’s bound my feet. And put a thick chain around my wrists.

  “What are you going to do now?” a male voice asks, clearly making fun of me; I can hear the sarcasm in his voice.

  I let out a muted cry, wondering where the voice is coming from—if maybe it’s coming from downstairs, from one of the heat vents in the floor.

  “You should’ve done what you were told,” he says.

  “Spencer?” I try again, harder this time, choking on his name. A trickle of wetness runs down my face—whether it’s sweat or tears, I’m not quite sure. I look to the right and left, but the sofa is all I can see—all that’s illuminated. I do my best to wriggle forward as best I can. My cheek scrapes against something sharp, and I feel my skin tear open—a burning, stinging sensation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a door that’s slightly ajar. It’s not the main entrance to the studio, but a different one, mahogany with brass fixtures.

  On the ground, using my elbows and knees, I struggle toward the door, unable to hear the voice now. Maybe it’s finally leaving me alone.

  My cheek feels seared. Blood drips onto my lip—I can tell it’s blood by the metallic taste—and my body is steeped in sweat.

  But still I can see the door; it’s just inches away now. I scrunch my knees up under me to sit up, and make an effort to raise my arms, but my fingers can’t quite reach the handle.

  Using all the strength in my legs, I try to stand without losing my balance.

  At the same moment, someone yanks my hair from behind, grabs my ear, and pulls me across the room. “You should’ve done what you were told,” he says, over and over again. “You should’ve listened, but you’re just so ungrateful.”

  He starts humming a familiar tune: “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” But instead of singing the words that go along with it, he uses the words to the “Jack and Jill” nursery rhyme, even adding in a few lines he’s made up himself—lines that include the words love, intervene, and die.

  He brings me to where it’s dark, drags me down so I’m on the floor again, and then closes the door.

  I pretend to be unconscious, as I have no idea on which side of the door he stands—if we’re in the same room, or if he’s locked me up on my own.

  And I’m terrified to find out.

  HE ROLLS ME OVER, slaps my face, checks my pulse.

  All the while, I hold my breath, still pretending to have passed out.

  When it seems he’s given up, I still remain there, hoping to hear him leave through the main door.

  Ins
tead, his breath is at my ear again. “Just relax,” he says, as if trying to soothe me, hoping maybe that I’ll cooperate more. He dislodges whatever’s wedged inside my mouth.

  And I hear myself scream. A ripping, searing, gouging wail. One that I don’t even recognize.

  I scream for him to leave me alone, to unchain my wrists, to unbind my feet. I scream until my throat burns and I let out a gasp.

  “Take it easy,” he insists. “Breathe.”

  Finally, he frees my legs. I know, because I can move them again. My eyes still closed, I thrust my hips from side to side, trying to gain leverage with my feet.

  “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says. “Please, just try to relax.”

  He unchains my wrists next and can finally move my hands again. I strike out, pounding the air with my fists, suddenly realizing that I’m still screaming, still writhing around, still trying to get up, to get out.

  “Camelia, open your eyes!” he shouts.

  I don’t. Because I don’t want to see him. Because I don’t want to be here. Because I don’t want to acknowledge this. Because salty droplets of sweat sting my eyes.

  “No other choice,” the voice says. At least I think that’s what he says. I’m screaming too hard to hear.

  The next thing I know, something sharp jabs into my thigh. And everything gets heavier.

  And everything gets lighter. And I’m able to open my eyes.

  And see.

  That the lights are all on.

  And a couple of uniformed men are squatting on either side of me. Spencer’s there, too.

  He paces back and forth in the background, chewing his fingernails, explaining to the men that he tried to rouse me—even though he could tell I wasn’t really asleep—but that I refused to

  respond.

  “It was like she couldn’t even hear me,” he says.

  I’m still in the studio.

  A sea sponge sits beside my head. It’s wet and stained with clay. Is that what was wedged inside my mouth? Did I cram it in there myself?

  “Camelia?” one of the uniformed men asks. An EMT guy. “Can you tell me where you are?”

  My lips move to form words, but everything feels foggy now. Foggy and clear at the same time. The fog moves in behind my eyes, and I allow myself to melt into it.

  “IT LOOKS LIKE SHE’S DREAMING,” I hear Mom whisper. “Her eyes…They’re moving beneath the lids.”

  Is this a dream? Should I wake up?

  My mother’s voice rises over other voices: pieces of the past swirl together forming a giant mosaic that I’m unable to interpret:

  You have choices, Dr. Tylyn says. Even in the face of tragedy, you can choose to overcome, to gain wisdom, to practice compassion. Don’t become a victim of someone else’s

  choices.

  “What happened here?” the EMT asks.

  Your aunt wasn’t able to handle all this psychometric stuff, Kimmie snaps at me. What makes you think that you can?

  “She was just doing her sculpture,” Spencer tries to explain. “I was out back, working on my own stuff, when I heard something hard hit the floor.”

  Soft, then hard, then soft again.

  My aunt is crouching down against the wall of her room, clutching Miss Dream Baby.

  My aunt rocks back and forth in the art therapy studio, telling me that I deserve to die.

  My aunt places her bloodstained palm against mine and tells me how alike we are. Like sisters, she whispers. Her wide green eyes stare back at me through a camera lens. Her star-shaped scar presses against my wrist.

  What will you choose? Dr. Tylyn asks.

  My mind tells my body to roll over, but my body isn’t listening. Ben reminds me how

  much he cares about me. Meanwhile, Adam tells me not to shut him out. I want to help you solve this thing, he reminds me.

  Men hold me down against my will, jab my thigh with a needle, and then carry me away.

  Exactly like what happened to my aunt. When I visited her at that mental hospital in Detroit.

  “Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened with Camelia,”

  Spencer tells them. “I wasn’t around that first time, but one of my employees was, and she saw the whole episode.”

  “I think she’s coming around,” Mom says. “See, there…her eyes. They’re moving again.”

  Only I don’t want to come around.

  I want to remain asleep.

  For how long, I’ve yet to decide.

  I WAKE UP. My head still feels fuzzy—fuzzy and thick, heavy and slow—as if someone had extracted all the blood from my veins and replaced it with cold maple syrup.

  “Hey, there, Pumpkin,” Dad says, just like he used to when I was five. “How are you feeling?”

  It takes me a moment to realize that I’m in a hospital, that Dad’s sitting beside me on the bed, that Mom’s standing in a faraway corner. And that this definitely isn’t normal.

  “Are you hungry?” Dad asks.

  I look down at myself, noticing that my clothes have been replaced with a hospital gown.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Just relax,” he says.

  “Who brought me here?” I sit up. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  Mom stares at the wall, her back toward me, apparently unwilling to answer. Meanwhile, Dad takes my hand and looks deeply into my eyes, perhaps hoping that I’ll put the pieces together.

  And I do.

  They come back to me like a bolt of lightning. I touch my cheek where it’s bandaged up, feeling a rush of heat charge across my face. “We’ve got to help her,” I say. “Someone’s taken her captive. They’ve put a chain around her wrists. Her feet are all bound up, and she can barely breathe.”

  “Relax,” Dad says again, as if my words have no relevance.

  “You don’t understand,” I insist. “If we don’t help her, she’ll be gone for good. He won’t let her get away.”

  “Who’ll be gone for good?” he asks. “Who are we talking about here?”

  “Danica.”

  “And how do you know her?”

  “She goes to my school,” I blurt out. “She used to be a skater, and I’ve been sensing stuff about her…whenever I do my pottery.”

  Mom remains with her back toward me. Her shoulders are shaking from crying, as if I’d suddenly died.

  “Mom?” I ask, wishing she’d look at me.

  But she shakes her head, blocking me out, all but covering her ears. “There’s going to be an evaluation,” she says; the words are muddled by tears.

  I have no idea if she’s talking to me, or trying to reassure herself, or if she’s just saying the words out of fear. “What kind of evaluation?” I ask.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Dad’s voice is like snow: soft and powdery. “One of the psychiatrists is going to ask you some questions. They have a really great mental health ward here. That’s where Aunt Alexia is.”

  “You think I’m just like her, don’t you?” I ask Mom.

  Still refusing to look at me, she moves to sit in the corner chair, curling up into a ball, her head resting on her knees.

  I try to edge myself off the side of the bed, but Dad forces me back on. “Your mother doesn’t think that at all,” he whispers purposely, so she can’t hear. I know he’s lying, that for Mom this is a fate far worse than death. “I’m not like Aunt Alexia!” I shout.

  “No one ever said you were,” he says, still trying to restrain me—to hold me in place on the bed.

  “I sense things,” I blurt out. “I hear voices. I have this gift that I never asked for, and I can’t return it, or exchange it, or throw it in the trash, or pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “No!” Mom wails, covering her ears for real now.

  “But it’s not going to make me crazy.” Tears course down the sides of my face, but Mom’s crying even harder. She looks so fragile, tucked up on the chair, like a little girl who needs her doll. I almost d
on’t even recognize her.

  At first, her behavior surprises me, but then I remind myself that I shouldn’t be surprised—that Mom’s behavior, ever since my aunt’s most recent suicide attempt, has foreshadowed this very moment.

  “Mom?” I ask. My throat is sore from screaming.

  A second later, a nurse comes in. Her badge reads EMERGENCY, so I know I haven’t been transferred anywhere yet. “Is everything okay in here?” she asks.

  No one speaks.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re awake,” she says, breaking the tension as she focuses on me. “You’ll be here for a little while longer, until we can secure you a bed in the other ward.”

  “What other ward?” I ask, assuming she’s talking about the psych unit.

  “It’s only for questioning,” Dad tells me. “Right?” he asks the nurse.

  She peeks inside the folder she’s carrying, but then closes it up just as soon as she has her

  answer. “I’ll have the doctor come down and explain things fully,” she says. “Now, Camelia, would you like me to get you something to drink?”

  “I would like you to get me Dr. Tylyn Oglesby,” I tell her, “as well as the police.”

  The nurse nods reluctantly, before leaving us alone again.

  “I want to talk to the police,” I tell Dad, in case he wasn’t listening.

  “Don’t do this!” Mom shrieks, still hysterical with tears. Finally, she lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are red. Her complexion is raw.

  “You just don’t get it,” I say, frustrated that she’s already made her decision about me, and that she isn’t trying to understand. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?

  Someone’s in trouble.”

  “I know,” she says, between clenched teeth, as if the someone in question is definitely me. “Now, calm down, or they’ll come in here again. Do you want them to give you another one of those injections?”

  “Let them try,” I say, moving out of the bed. This time, Dad lets me. I grab my clothes off the end of a chair.

  “Where is she going?” Mom asks. A fresh batch of tears works its way down her face.

  “To talk to the police,” Dad says, finally taking a stand. “And I’m more than willing to let her.”