Deadly Little Voices

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  DAD ASKS MOM TO STEP OUTSIDE for some fresh air, and then he calls the police in himself. Officer Len Thompkins, probably a little bit older than my parents, has his partner cover for him in the lobby (apparently the emergency room here always has police on duty) while he comes into my room to talk.

  “What can I help you with?” he asks; his voice is much deeper than I expected it to be, based on his looks. Standing about five feet five inches tall, he has pale blond hair and a tiny frame.

  “I think someone might be in trouble,” I say, fearing that timing may be an issue. Back on the bed now, I pull a blanket over my legs, wishing I’d changed into my clothes.

  Officer Thompkins takes a notebook and pen from his pocket and begins to write down what I say. He has me go over the details at least three different times, as he twists, turns, and contorts the same questions. I tell him how I’ve been having premonitions—how I’ve been sensing for some time now that Danica’s life is in danger. “I think someone’s been following her, pretending to be her friend, and giving her gifts,” I say.

  “Has this kind of thing happened to you before?” Officer Thompkins asks.

  I nod and look at Dad. “It’s been happening for a while now.”

  “And do any of your premonitions come true?” There’s a slight smirk on the officer’s face, making me think that these questions about my powers are merely for his own amusement.

  “A couple months ago I helped save a good friend from being killed.”

  “Really?” The smirk widens into a smile. “Care to elaborate on that one?”

  “Care to go check on Danica Pete before she ends up on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper?” I ask him.

  The officer flips his notebook shut and raises his eyebrows at my dad, perhaps wondering why he doesn’t scold me. But I don’t even care, because a huge weight’s been lifted from my shoulders now that I’ve finally chosen to ask for help and told my dad the truth.

  The officer assures me that he’ll check on Danica right away. After he leaves, Dad comes and sits beside me on the bed. His eyes are as red as mine feel. “I’m sorry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me.

  “Sorry that I have to deal with all this stuff?”

  “Sorry that I never asked you about it.” His voice is much weaker than normal.

  “Because you knew what was going on with me?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, which I take to be a yes. He breaks the embrace to look into my eyes—to wipe my tears away with his hand and to ask me if I’ll ever forgive him. “I just didn’t want to believe it was true. I wanted there to be some logical explanation.”

  “You read her journal, didn’t you?” I ask.

  He nods. “But I wasn’t prepared to talk about it, wasn’t ready to make that connection…because I didn’t want the same fate for you.”

  “It won’t be the same fate,” I say, wiping away his tears now. I grab a tissue from the box by my bed, unable to remember a time when I saw him look so broken. “I have a much better support system around me.” Not to mention that I’m no longer ignoring my art or obsessing over the fact that Aunt Alexia and I have so much in common. Instead, I’m trying to think of my power as a gift. “And I’m choosing to handle things differently.”

  EN ROUTE TO—OR IN LIEU OF—getting some fresh air, Mom must have taken a detour to the cafeteria. She returns to the room with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “It was the only vegan choice on the menu,” she says, setting it down on my bed table.

  “Thanks,” I say. Even though I’m not a vegan.

  I scarf it down, suddenly realizing that I’m absolutely starving. I stuff two huge bites into my mouth, fully aware of the silence in the room—of the fact that Dad has yet to say anything to my mom about the police or my power. But before he can broach the topic, she gets emotional all over again, like she can’t even stand the sight of me.

  Dad goes over to comfort her—to help her into the chair, to give her some tissues, to kiss the top of her head. But nothing seems to help.

  And then, a second later, there’s a knock on the door.

  Adam is there, with a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

  “Hey, stranger,” he says, lingering in the doorway, silently asking permission to come in.

  “All this fuss just to get my attention? You shouldn’t have.”

  “Hey,” I say, happy to see him despite the situation.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  “Spencer,” he says, setting the bouquet down beside me. “I stopped by the studio to see how you made out with Dr. Tylyn, and he told me what happened. He seemed really worried about you.”

  “Well, I’m fine,” I say, aware of how ridiculous the statement sounds. “At least, I will be.”

  “He said you had an attack of some sort?”

  Before I can answer, Mom gets up and leaves the room, her hand cupping her mouth, as if only moments from barf city.

  “Maybe I should go,” Adam says.

  “No,” I tell him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Dad’s the one who leaves. He excuses himself to go check on Mom.

  “Is she okay?” Adam asks, once we’re alone.

  “She will be; at least, I hope so. But right now, I have more pressing issues to worry about.” I get up from the bed, grab my clothes, and change in the adjoining bathroom.

  “The whole pillowcase look not working for you, I take it?” He raises his voice so I can hear him. “Care to tell me what’s going on? What kind of attack you had?”

  “I had another premonition,” I say, joining him back in the room. “And it kind of got out of hand.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  I shake my head and explain that I talked to the police. “I also told my dad about the premonitions. And, long story short, he wasn’t surprised. I probably should’ve said something a long time ago.”

  “And what about your mom?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper, unable to put it into words—how guilty I feel, how frustrated I am, how it tears me up knowing that I’ve done this to her.

  Adam comes and wraps his arms around my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

  “Is it?” I ask, thinking how much my relationship with Mom has changed over the past several months. She used to be so super involved in all aspects of my life, but ever since things got more difficult (ever since I became more like her sister than she probably ever expected), our relationship has slowly but steadily deteriorated.

  Into this.

  A few moments later, Dad comes back into the room.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask, breaking my embrace with Adam.

  “She isn’t feeling too well,” Dad says. “But she’s in good hands. I called her a cab. She’s going to meet with Amy.”

  Her therapist.

  I nod, feeling my heart sink. But even as guilty as I feel, I’m relieved that she’s gone.

  DAD ASKS ADAM if he wouldn’t mind staying with me for a few more minutes while he checks on the status of my impending evaluation. “But I also want you to try and get some rest,” Dad says to me. “You’re going to need your strength.”

  “No problem,” Adam chirps. “I’m happy to stay.” He grabs the TV remote and pulls up a chair. “Camelia won’t even know I’m here.”

  Dad leaves, and Adam flicks on the television, muting the sound to avoid disturbing me.

  “It’s not like I can actually sleep,” I tell him.

  “Close your eyes,” he orders, trying to sound intimidating despite the smile on his face. “I gave your father my word.”

  I lie back on the bed while Adam watches a silent rerun of The Simpsons. He laughs out loud and then peeks at me as if apologizing for the noise.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, closing my eyes, knowing that there’s no way I could ever possibly nod off.

  But somehow I do.


  I wake up about an hour later, all out of breath. I sit up in bed, the image of the ivy-covered building that I’d been sculpting at Knead alive in my head.

  I neglected to tell the officer about it.

  “Is everything okay?” Dad asks, having returned with what I hope to be the news that I’ll soon be out of here.

  He and Adam have been watching a rerun of Friends with the sound off.

  Before I can answer, there’s a knock on the door, and I feel my heart pound. At first, I think it’s a psychiatrist, here to evaluate me. But instead, Officer Thompkins pokes his head into the room.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, eager to hear what he’s found out about Danica.

  But almost as soon as he starts talking, I squeeze my eyes shut, completely jarred by all he’s saying: that he went to Danica’s house, that Danica was safe and sound, doing her homework and watching TV. And that Danica filled him in about me.

  She told him that I’ve been harassing her, that I won’t leave her alone, and that she’s really starting to get freaked out.

  “She asked me about filing a restraining order,” he adds.

  “Are you sure you had the right house?” I ask, grasping at straws, knowing that what he’s saying about Danica’s annoyance makes sense, but that her life is also at stake.

  “Right house, right girl. I spent more than thirty minutes asking her all sorts of questions.

  Her father was there, and I asked him, too.”

  “Well, can you at least have someone watch her?”

  “She insisted that you’ve been watching her,” the officer says.

  “There’s an ivy-covered brick building,” I tell him, feeling my face flash hot. “I think she might end up trapped inside it.”

  The officer looks at my dad, shaking his head slightly, as if embarrassed for him.

  Meanwhile, Adam comes and sits beside me on the bed. “Danica is safe,” he reminds me.

  “That’s good news.”

  But then, why don’t I feel relieved?

  “The nurses tell me your daughter’s being evaluated today,” the officer says to my dad. “I hear there’s already a bed waiting for her, so it shouldn’t be too much longer here.”

  Dad thanks him, keeping his focus on me. His expression remains fairly neutral, but then I catch him winking in my direction, and I know he’s on my side.

  “Do you think you could check on Danica later?” I ask Adam, after the officer leaves.

  “Or maybe you could just watch her house to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere? I could give you her address.”

  “Anybody home?” someone calls, rapping lightly on the door.

  Even better than a fairy godmother, Dr. Tylyn joins us inside the room. “A little bird told me that this is where I could find you,” she says, smiling at my dad. She asks both him and Adam to step out of the room as she takes a seat by my side.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I tell her, once Dad and Adam have left.

  “I was actually here anyway.”

  “You were?” I ask, though I already suspect the reason why.

  Dr. Tylyn tells me that she spent some time talking to Aunt Alexia. “I agree with you,”

  she says. “She does have a remarkable gift.”

  “But…?” I ask, sensing her hesitation.

  “But she doesn’t have the resources to handle it.”

  I swallow hard, feeling a giant pit in my throat. “Can you help her?” I ask.

  Dr. Tylyn gives me a subtle smile. “I’m going to try. But first, I need to help you.”

  I spend a good half hour telling her about what happened at Knead, how I told both the officer and my dad everything, and how my mom is on the brink of a nervous breakdown because of me.

  “Probably not a smart idea to add the weight of your mother’s breakdown to your already overloaded shoulders, okay? Right now, I’d like you to have a look at this.” She hands me a napkin. On it, someone’s drawn a brick building, covered with ivy. A baby grand piano sits below it, as a separate doodle, and there’s a picture of a grandfather clock in the corner. The face of the clock doesn’t have any hands, but the pendulum itself—the way it’s drawn—gives the illusion of motion.

  As if time is definitely ticking.

  “Aunt Alexia gave this to you, didn’t she?”

  Dr. Tylyn nods. “Do you know what it means?”

  I shake my head, wishing I did, explaining that the brick building has been on my mind, too.

  “Well, maybe it’ll come to you,” she says.

  “Meaning, you don’t think I should try to forget about everything? You don’t think it might be just a random premonition?” I ask, referring to our last therapy session, when she was trying so hard to play devil’s advocate.

  “You have a gift,” she reminds me. “Better start thinking of it that way.”

  “Or else?”

  “I have to get back to your aunt,” she says, leaving me to read between the lines. “I’ll be back in an hour or so; sound good?”

  I hold the napkin-note tightly in my grip, about to ask if she wants it back. But then I reconsider, wondering if Aunt Alexia asked her to give it to me—if maybe my aunt is trying to tell me something, and if maybe she knows that I’m here.

  AFTER DR. TYLYN LEAVES, I concentrate hard on the image of the brick building, trying to remember where I’ve seen a building like this before, or if I know anyone with a baby grand piano. After only a few minutes, my head is spinning with questions. And so I count to ten, imagining the stress inside me like a ball of clay that gets smaller with each breath.

  Just as I start to unwind, I hear music: the sound of someone playing the piano. The napkin still clenched in my grip, I assume the music’s coming from the lobby. I try to identify the tune, but someone’s screaming now—a high-pitched wail that sends shivers all over my skin.

  A moment later, Adam comes into the room. “You’re awake,” he says, a wide smile crossing his face. He starts to say something else, but I can barely hear him over the screaming.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up in bed, figuring there’s been some horrible accident.

  But Adam appears confused. He furrows his brow and asks me something. His lips are moving, but I can’t hear the words.

  “That screaming,” I say, covering over my ears. “The music.”

  Adam’s confused expression morphs into a look of concern.

  “You don’t hear anything?” I ask him.

  Still shaking his head, he gazes at my hands, noticing the napkin. “What’s this?” he asks, taking it from me and holding it up to the light.

  Suddenly, the noises stop—perhaps because I’m no longer holding the napkin.

  “I need to check on Danica,” I tell him, sitting up more in bed. “What if those are her screams? What if she needs me right now?”

  “Camelia, you really should rest.”

  “She’s in an ivy-covered brick building somewhere,” I say.

  “No, she’s at home,” Adam says, setting the napkin on the pillow beside me. “The police checked on her, remember?”

  I bite my lip and glance down at the napkin again, sure that there must be something I’m not seeing. I move my head from side to side, trying to look at the drawings from different angles. I even try humming along with the piano tune. “Moonlight Sonata,” I say, thinking out loud.

  “Excuse me?” Adam asks.

  I close my eyes. The image of the baby grand is alive inside my mind.

  And that’s when it finally hits me.

  The baby grand piano and the ivy-covered brick building—and where I’ve seen both of them before.

  “Nothing,” I say, knowing I’m not getting anywhere with him. “I’m probably just overreacting. Where’s my dad?”

  “Out in the lobby. Why?”

  “Can you have him get me something to eat?”

  “Sure thing.”

&
nbsp; “And then would you mind going to the gift shop to get me something unhealthy to read?”

  “Unhealthy?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Tabloid magazines,” I tell him. “Anything that looks trashy and lacking in any real substance.”

  “I’ll see what I can find.” He gives me a kiss on the forehead before exiting.

  My cue to get the hell out of here.

  Dear Jill,

  Please know that it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but when you refused to do as you were told, refused to see all the sacrifices I’d made for you, you left me no other choice.

  …

  Dear Jack:

  I told you I’d try on the uniform, but instead of going to the bathroom to change, I grabbed your camera by the canvas strap and tried to thwack you over the head with the lens.

  As if by reflex, you snagged the camera, tossed it to the sofa, and wrapped your hand around my neck. “What are you going to do now?” you hissed.

  “Please,” I begged, promising to try the uniform on for real.

  You brought me to a hallway closet, where you kept your supplies. How often had you actually done this? You seemed so well prepared.

  The gag came first. You stuffed a rag inside my mouth—all the way in, until I choked.

  And then you locked a chain around my wrists.

  “You should’ve done what you were told,” you said. “You should’ve listened, but you’re just so ungrateful.” Your face was red, including your ears, as you wrapped duct tape around my ankles and made me listen to more of your singing, again to the tune of “Yankee Doodle Dandy”“Jack and Jill ran up the hill ‘cause they were meant to be-eeee. Jack said forever, but Jill said never, and now she can’t be free-eeee. La-da-da, let’s lock her up. La-da-da, we have to.

  La-da-da, she won’t obey. And now she has to pay…”

  I tried to speak—to tell you no—but the rag tasted like gasoline, burning my throat.

  You dragged me to the bathroom, pushed me inside, and I fell to the floor. Then you threw the skating uniform at my face.

  …

  MY HEART IS ABSOLUTELY RACING. I hike my hair up into a high ponytail and pinch my cheeks for color. A voice on the hospital intercom makes me jump. I reach for the door, but then pause to search for my coat, almost positive that my cell phone is inside it.