The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  43

  Garret watches me get inside the house before driving away. As I lock the door behind me, I can hear my aunt talking in the kitchen. At first, I assume she’s on the phone, but then I remember. The text she sent. The “appointment” to talk. What time is it?

  I linger a moment, seeing if I can figure out who she’s with.

  “Terra? Is that you?” she calls. Not two seconds later, Aunt Dessa appears in the doorway, all dressed up in a blazer and dark pants.

  “Who’s here?” I ask.

  “Well, hello to you too. How was your day?”

  “You have company,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “Yes. It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  A surprise for her? For me?

  “Come see,” she says, turning away, expecting me to follow.

  Instead, I look back at the door, tempted to bolt. I tighten my grip around the wasp spray in my pocket—my version of security—and gaze at my reflection in the entryway mirror, with my stringy golden hair and pale, slim face. There’s a layer of soot crusted over my skin. I blink it away and move into the kitchen.

  Dr. Mary is sitting at the table. “It’s so good to see you.” She pops up like toast and wraps her arms around my limp body.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Dr. Mary is dressed up too—in her hospital suit, with her hospital tag. She and my aunt are drinking tea out of pretty china cups I’ve never seen before. It appears that my aunt either bought or made muffins.

  “Come sit,” Aunt Dessa says.

  “Your aunt is quite the baker. Have you tried her raspberry-filled scones?”

  A plate has already been set for me. An empty china cup sits on my rosy placemat, along with a matching floral napkin.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask once again.

  “Terra,” my aunt scolds. “Is that very polite?”

  “That’s okay.” Dr. Mary smiles. “Terra, your aunt just invited me to come have a chat.”

  “A chat about me?” I ask.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Is it the truth?” I sit. The air smells like blueberries.

  “It is,” she says, getting right to it. “Your aunt reached out to me out of concern.”

  “Concern,” I say, processing the word.

  “Would you like some tea?” Dr. Mary lifts the rosy pot, like this is her house.

  I shake my head. Meanwhile, my aunt faces away from the table, her posture angled sideways.

  “There was an incident,” Dr. Mary continues. “You recently ran into an old neighbor.”

  I manage a nod, completely unprepared. But maybe they’re talking about something else, some other incident.

  “Tell her,” Dr. Mary says, speaking to my aunt.

  Aunt Dessa folds her arms, still keeping her posture angled away. “Did you recently bump into Connor Loggins?”

  “Yes.” I nod.

  “Care to tell us what happened there?” Dr. Mary asks.

  “Nothing much.” I shrug. “I just hadn’t seen him in a while.”

  “So, you didn’t threaten him with bug spray? And he didn’t have to pry the can out of your hands? And a little girl didn’t go crying to her mother because you made her so afraid?”

  A little girl?

  My aunt shakes her head when I don’t argue. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

  Dr. Mary responds by swiveling in my aunt’s direction, handing her a tissue, reaching out to touch her forearm. There’s a fresh box of Kleenex on the table. Where did it come from?

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “What’s happening is that I’ve tried to be patient,” Aunt Dessa says. “But I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Because of Connor Loggins? I thought he was someone else.”

  “As if that makes it okay? He said you could’ve blinded him.”

  Blinded him? I didn’t even shoot. Or did I? Did I press the nozzle and not even realize it? Did a little come out?

  Dr. Mary pats my aunt’s arm like a favorite cat, as if my aunt is the wounded one. And maybe she is. Maybe I’ve done this too.

  “Let me guess,” Aunt Dessa continues, finally meeting my gaze. “You thought it was the guy who took you from your bed and put you in the ground.”

  When did my aunt’s skin get so blotchy? Why do her eyes look so tired? I study her face, desperate to find even a trace of my mother. But I can’t seem to see one now.

  “There was no proof,” she says.

  “My hands were proof.” Doesn’t she remember the welts from the chain, the dirt in the tub, the mud in my hair?

  “And now you’re seeing things … statues on our back porch.”

  “Why don’t we start over?” Dr. Mary says. “Terra, would you like some tea?” She nods at my empty cup.

  It’s only then that I realize I’m stirring my spoon inside it.

  “I don’t even feel like I know you,” Aunt Dessa says.

  “That’s because you don’t,” I tell her.

  “All the secrets you’ve been keeping—from yourself, from me…”

  Secrets?

  “I went through your room. And I saw all of that stuff.” Her lip curls up.

  What did she see?

  Dr. Mary turns to my aunt. “Tell Terra what specifically bothers you about some of the things in her room.”

  Aunt Dessa’s lip coils up farther, bearing her teeth. “I worked so hard … making your room look nice, doing it all over.”

  “Be specific,” Dr. Mary orders.

  “The knives, the repellents, the baseball bats and bottles of insecticide,” Aunt Dessa says. “I took it all—whatever I felt looked unhealthy…”

  I stand from the table. Every inch of me feels on fire. “You took my things. Where did you put them?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you need help.” Her eyes throw daggers. “I think you’re a safety risk—to yourself, to others.”

  Dr. Mary is speaking now—her lips are moving. I can hear the sound, but I can’t decipher the words. What do they mean?

  What is my aunt doing?

  I look above her head at the cat clock on the wall. Its shifting eyes move back and forth, back and forth to the ticking sound.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Like a bomb inside my heart.

  Dr. Mary says, “What do you think about taking a little break?”

  The cat’s tail is broken. It doesn’t move in sync with the eyes.

  “Your aunt wanted me to tell you about a new therapeutic program at the hospital,” Dr. Mary says. “We’re really excited about it; it’s cutting edge and has an impressive success rate.”

  “New program?” Isn’t that what they said before?

  “That’s right,” she says. “And it’s totally voluntary, totally tailored to the individual. Some of the participants do a full day. Others participate in the partial program. And then some do full immersion. So, this would be your choice.”

  My choice.

  “Your bus, remember?” she chirps.

  Right. I nod. I’m driving my own bus. I’m the leader of my own pack and the strongest link in my chain.

  “So, what do you say?” Dr. Mary motions to my seat. “Shall we discuss the program options a bit more?”

  I shake my head, backing away, bumping into the wall from behind.

  “Terra,” my aunt calls once I get out of view.

  I pause in front of the mirror, listening to them talking. My aunt wants me to enter the overnight program; she doesn’t think I’m “safe” enough for partial placement. It’s either that or I move in with my grandparents in Florida and enter a day program, after a thorough screening. She’s already contacted them. My grandparents are okay with the plan but not thrilled. There isn’t an extra bedroom in their condo. Plus, Grampa’s heart condition is a major consideration. How much will my presence add to his level of stress?

  �
��I think the immersion program is really the best option,” Aunt Dessa says once again, making it emphatically clear. “I can’t go on like this. It’s affecting my health too. It’s also affecting my work.”

  I grab my bag, noticing the door to the study is closed—a rarity at best. I open it up. My things sit in a heap on the floor—my art solvents, my scissors, my carving tools, my troll items. My most recent self-portrait sticks out at the bottom, beneath my mom’s yoga blanket. A bottle of maple syrup has poured over the eyes, stealing my breath.

  I take a step closer, noticing the star-studded doorknob amid the rubble, just as I did five years ago. I pull it out. It feels hot, fresh from the flames. I stuff it into my pocket, grab the yoga blanket, and bolt out the door.

  NOW

  44

  Not knowing where else to go, I drive to the library even though my shift doesn’t begin for a few more hours. Tucked away in one of the study carrels on the second floor, I hold the doorknob to my lips, feeling hot bubbling tears well up in my eyes. My phone vibrates at the corner of the desk—again and again.

  A text from my aunt.

  A reminder to take my meds.

  A phone call from my aunt.

  A phone call from Dr. Mary.

  Felix’s voice plays in my mind’s ear: Just finish high school and get the hell out of there. But where would I go? And what could I do? Somehow, it seems I forgot to have dreams.

  I’m not sure how long I sit before my pulse stops racing and mind stops spinning, before I’m finally able to remember that Darwin12 had something to tell me. I grab my phone and log on to Jane, still hoping to find Peyton logged on too. I enter the chat room and scroll downward, searching for her name, unable to find it.

  TulipPrincess: Hey, NightTerra. Any Paylee22 sightings yet?

  NightTerra: Unfortunately, no.

  RainyDayFever: Wait, wasn’t she on here for a second?

  TulipPrincess: When???

  Darwin12: Hey, NightTerra. Glad to see you. Can you go talk?

  NightTerra: Wait, did someone see Paylee22 on here?

  Darwin12: I saw her. Can you talk to me now?

  JennaIsDead: Guys, don’t leave me hanging! I need your advice!!! What should I tell my stepmom???

  A link from Darwin12 pops up on my screen. He wants me to go into a private chat room. I click on it.

  Darwin12: Hey.

  NightTerra: You heard from Peyton?

  Darwin12: Yeah. About an hour ago. She logged on, saw me in the chat room, then sent me a link right away to go chat in private.

  NightTerra: So, she’s ok then.

  Darwin12: I wouldn’t go that far. She def wasn’t herself.

  NightTerra: What do you mean?

  Darwin12: I asked her why she hasn’t been online, but she wouldn’t tell me.

  Darwin12: She did say that you and she had gotten into an argument and that you don’t trust her anymore. Something about her not being 100% honest about stuff she shared online …

  Darwin12: I don’t know … It sounded pretty stupid, but she was def upset.

  NightTerra: Did she mention the message I sent her?

  Darwin12: No, when did you send it?

  NightTerra: Yesterday. Or the day before? The days are blurring together.

  Darwin12: You sound like me.

  Darwin12: Anyway, she asked me to come get her, like that’s even an option, right?! I live in Oregon, all the way across the country. She knows that too.

  NightTerra: She told you where she lives.

  Darwin12: Yeah. Maine.

  Darwin12: Pinecliff or something like that.

  NightTerra: Pineport.

  Darwin12: Yeah, that’s prob it. I asked if she was ok because that seemed totally weird and really random. I mean, why ask me to come, of all people? Why not ask her parents or a friend that lives closer?

  Darwin12: Or maybe she’s in some kind of trouble and doesn’t feel she can tell anyone—except for the faceless guy in the chat room who’s prob just as screwed up as she is … Lol.

  NightTerra: Is she in trouble?

  Darwin12: That’s just it. I don’t know. She just kept telling me she was inside a phone booth, like the kind you see in old movies. I didn’t even think they still existed, but I guess they do because, apparently, she was in one.

  NightTerra: What???

  Darwin12: I know. Definitely weird.

  Darwin12: She said she was staring out at a blue-and-white-striped lighthouse.

  NightTerra: Why was she telling you all that?

  Darwin12: Exactly. Why? I have no idea. But it seemed she wanted me to know, as if she was giving me landmarks.

  NightTerra: Do you think she was drunk or something?

  Darwin12: I don’t know. She couldn’t really talk. It was almost as if everything was in code. Plus, I think her cell reception must’ve been bad because her messages kept getting delayed and some of them seemed out of order, like not in sync with mine.

  Darwin12: The only thing for sure was that she wanted me to drop everything and come get her.

  NightTerra: In Maine?

  Darwin12: Yep. At that phone booth.

  Darwin12: Totally messed up. So, I’ve been staying online, just to see if she might come back and explain herself.

  Darwin12: But, of course, she hasn’t.

  NightTerra: How long was the chat?

  Darwin12: I don’t know. Maybe 5 min tops. The chat cut off in the middle of things.

  NightTerra: Are you sure that’s all you remember?

  Darwin12: There was one more thing. She said she was scared. I asked her why—more than once. But either she wouldn’t tell me or she wasn’t getting the question, like maybe it wasn’t coming through. I don’t know.

  NightTerra: Was she alone?

  Darwin12: Probably not completely alone, since she was being all cryptic. Maybe someone was nearby. Again, not sure.

  NightTerra: Do you think we should tell someone? Maybe the Jane administrators …

  Darwin12: I already did. I’m just waiting to hear back.

  NightTerra: Is there anything I can do?

  Darwin12: No chance you live in Maine and know where there’s an old-fashioned phone booth that looks out at a blue-and-white-striped lighthouse, is there?

  NightTerra: I have to think a bit.

  Darwin12: Well, don’t think too long. I’m worried about her. And I’m almost ready to cash in my frequent-flyer miles and hop on a plane.

  Darwin12: I feel partially responsible because it’s me she’s confiding in. I have this info. I need to do something with it.

  NightTerra: Sounds like you’re already doing something.

  Darwin12: I guess. Anyway, let me know if you think of anything else.

  NightTerra: I will. Talk to you soon.

  I log out, then check my JaneBox. There’s a message from the Jane administrators.

  Dear NightTerra:

  We hope you’re having an empowering day! We just wanted to let you know that Paylee22 logged on to the Jane Anonymous website at 4:22PM EST this afternoon. We’re still looking into things, but we know you were worried about her and hope this news helps to ease some of your concern. Hopefully, you’ll see her around the chat room very soon. In the meantime, please let us know if we can be of further assistance.

  Yours,

  “Jane”

  I hit Reply and send a message back, asking what “other things” they’re looking into and to send me a response as soon as they know anything more.

  In my search box, under Images, I type in Pineport Community College. Several of the pictures feature the campus and buildings. Others show glimpses of a blue-and-white-striped lighthouse. I try another search, using Peyton’s name and the name of the community college. A photo of a group of students pops up. They’re all sitting on the campus lawn in front of a brick building. The caption reads Back to the Books and lists the students’ names. The second person from the left is a girl named Peyton Bright. Could that be her?
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  I do a search on Peyton Bright. A series of options comes up: Peyton Bright, the marine biologist; Peyton Bright, the photographer; an obituary for Peyton Bright, who died at eighty-four.

  On and on.

  Nothing that fits.

  My head aches.

  I shut my phone off and close my eyes; they feel scratchy and dry. Do I have any eye drops? Or a rubber band to tie back my hair? I should really splash some water onto my face.

  Also, when was the last time I ate?

  Or had anything to drink?

  Or took my meds?

  My throat feels parched. My stomach is queasy.

  Has the water cooler been refilled? What are the odds that Miguel left his stash of butter cookies behind in the break room? I need to check, but the visual of the girl in the campus photo burns inside my brain. Peyton Bright, with her long dark braid and cheeky smile. I picture her huddled up inside an old and rusted phone booth.

  “Hey, you’re here early,” a voice says from behind, making me jump.

  There’s a clamoring sound; I did that, dropped something on the floor. The doorknob rolls across the ceramic tile.

  I’m in the bathroom. How did this happen? When did I come in here?

  Katherine’s standing in front of a stall. “Sorry I scared you. Is everything okay?” She looks at the knob and then at the sink.

  The faucet’s running. It seems I’ve done that too. “Yeah,” I lie, shutting the faucet off. When did I come in here?

  “Feel like getting in a couple of extra hours of work? I could really use you at the circulation desk.”

  “Yeah,” I repeat. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Great.” She smiles. “Anytime you’re ready, just clock in.”

  Once she leaves, I stuff the knob back into my bag and peek in the mirror, trying to get a grip. The skin beneath my eyes looks swollen and gray. When was the last time I got a solid four hours of sleep? Days? Weeks? I douse my face with water and search my bag for eye drops or a rubber band. No dice.

  Downstairs, the clock-in room is just past the reference desk. I head straight for it, but on impulse, instead of going in, I make a beeline outside as my phone continues to buzz.

  It’s a text from Aunt Dessa: Where are you? Come home. We need to talk.

  And another text from Dr. Mary: Please let us know that you’re okay. We’re worried about you.