Cackle, page 22
The embarrassment spiral beckons.
Doubt waits there, too.
I know Oskar has a major chip on his shoulder when it comes to Sophie. I know this. Still, for him to be so adamant in his animosity . . . is there something I’m missing? Some part of the story that Sophie may have left out? I have known her to be not particularly forthcoming with the whole truth, and she does tend to be deliberate in her edits. Case in point: the ghosts.
I guess if I thought someone had kidnapped my spouse, and then, when I confronted them about it, they threatened to wear my teeth as a necklace, I’d also be pretty miffed.
Maybe that is the whole story.
My intuition yawns, awakening briefly from its endless slumber to deliver a message before rolling over and going back to bed.
That’s not what’s bothering you, Sherlock.
Right.
My insecurity returns like a villain in a sequel. The same but worse.
I’m not upset about Oskar’s grudge against Sophie. I’m concerned with his perception of me.
I shouldn’t have told him that I’m spending Valentine’s Day by myself. And I definitely shouldn’t have done the floaty-cup thing.
I’ve opened myself up to judgment and maybe worse. I’ve made myself vulnerable.
I try to take a deep breath, calm myself down, but it’s like there’s cellophane over my lips.
Am I ashamed to be associated with her? With Sophie? Am I embarrassed by this newfound power?
I mean, I was sad before, but at least I was normal.
Spite-floating hot beverages in a local café is not normal.
Have I made a mistake?
I pull into the school parking lot and sit in my car, take a few minutes to compose myself.
When I open the door and step out into the brutal February wind, there’s Jill. We make eye contact. She turns to Rebecca Deacon, an uppity AP history teacher. She whispers something in her ear. Rebecca looks at me. Now we’re making eye contact.
Is it too much to ask never to have to make eye contact with any other living being ever again?
I offer a weak smile that goes unreciprocated. They huddle together and scramble away from me.
This is how it is to be like Sophie. To be different. To be feared.
I put my head down and hurry to my classroom. The day crawls by, the clock mocking me from above the door. After school, I force myself to go to the grocery store to get the ingredients for my Valentine’s Day dinner tomorrow night.
As I stand beyond the automatic doors sanitizing my hands before selecting a basket, I realize something. It seems to fall out of the sky and strike me with the force and precision of a ballistic missile.
None of this has been by choice.
Sam and I didn’t break up. He dumped me. And if he hadn’t done that, there’s no way I’d be out here proclaiming how wonderful it is to make risotto for one. I’ve spent the past few weeks convincing myself that I’m becoming empowered, but I know that if someone, if anyone, wanted me, I wouldn’t be here.
Maybe independence is just the flag we wave to distract from the pain of being alone.
And if everyone’s afraid of me, alone is all I’ll ever be.
I’m tempted to abandon my list and instead purchase multiple frozen pizzas, a bag of cherry Twizzlers and an enormous jug of Arizona iced tea, but I suspect that will only make me feel worse.
I stick to the list. Then I stop at the pet store to get Ralph some live crickets as a special treat.
I leave them out on the stairs, so he doesn’t see. I planned on surprising him tomorrow morning, but then end up crying as I put the groceries away and, for a while after, sitting on the couch, catching what seems like a disproportionate amount of snot with my bare hands.
This of course upsets Ralph, who lies on his back and flails his legs around for the duration of my sob session.
Afterward, I feel too guilty to let his gift wait until tomorrow.
“I got you something,” I say, wiping my hands on my pants.
He perks up.
“Wait here,” I say.
I take a few steps toward the front door. I spin around quickly, catching him right behind me.
“I said, wait.”
He looks up at me with so many eager eyes.
“Okay, okay,” I tell him. I open the door and get the crickets.
When he sees them, he squeaks with excitement.
“Not all at once,” I say.
At least I’m not totally alone. At least I’ve got Ralph.
But as I watch him hunt one of the crickets, as I watch him devour it, slurp up its juices, a chill slithers up my back and wraps itself around my neck.
* * *
—
I embrace the next morning with all the enthusiasm of a goat entering Jurassic Park.
I do my best to rally, to put on a decent outfit and use concealer on the zit that has appeared on my forehead, the approximate size of a demoted planet.
I go to the Starbucks drive-through in Aster for coffee. Whatever I get, it’s 50 percent caramel and I’m not complaining.
The day is benevolent and moves quickly. When I get home, I take out all of my ingredients and spread them across the counter. I watch several YouTube videos on how to cook beets for the salad. It’s more involved than I had anticipated. Salads are always too involved.
“No, this is good,” I say, scrubbing the beets. “Cooking is relaxing.”
Roughly ninety minutes later, my kitchen is a catastrophe. I’m dripping sweat. My purple beet-stained fingers are covered in Band-Aids, but I have a lovely three-course meal prepared and a sense of accomplishment.
I’ve never understood why people take pictures of their food, but . . . here I am. I grab my phone and snap a few photos to commemorate the occasion.
For your pathetic moments scrapbook? a malevolent voice asks me.
I tell it to fuck off.
I set the table and pour myself a glass of Pellegrino.
“Still or sparkling?” I ask Ralph.
He doesn’t get the joke.
“Crickets later,” I tell him.
He rubs his front legs together.
I sit down to dinner. I put on some Icelandic folk music, then change my mind and play Fiona Apple.
I admire the salad for a moment before attacking it with my fork.
“It’s good!” I tell Ralph a few bites in.
He’s pleased to hear it.
He’s not eating with me. He’s saving his appetite for the crickets.
I’m enjoying my risotto when the malevolent voice returns.
I wonder what Sam and Shannon are up to right now, it wheezes.
Probably not listening to “Criminal” while grating an obscene amount of Parmesan cheese onto their food and contemplating the texture of mushrooms.
The thought of them together gets me. It renders my food tasteless. It zaps the color from the room, the world.
I carry my plate into the kitchen and scoop whatever’s left into Tupperware.
I stand over the kitchen sink, staring at the Everest of dirty dishes that awaits me, and begin to chant.
“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
“You’re good, you’re good, you’re good.”
I refocus my energy on decorating the chocolate cake with raspberries and cream. When I’m done, I put it down on the coffee table. The whole cake. I don’t bother to slice it. I’m honest with myself about what’s about to go down. I get a glass of milk and a fork.
I get the remaining crickets for Ralph. They died overnight, but Ralph seems happy to munch on their corpses.
I settle in to watch the Boleyn documentary.
I’m about to take my first bite of cake when I hear my phone chime.
I look over at Ralph. He’s busy with the crickets. He doesn’t even notice as I hurry into the kitchen, where I left my phone charging on the counter.
I want so badly for it to be him.
I hate that I want it to be Sam. That I want him to rescue me from this sad Valentine’s Day. From myself.
It’s not him. It’s Nadia.
Hey, girl, happy V day!!! There’s an excess of heart emojis.
I resent them.
Same to you, I reply. She and I text every once in a while. Most of the time, I’m happy to hear from her. Not right now, though. Not today.
Whatcha up to?
I step out of the kitchen. I look over at the chocolate cake on the coffee table, then at Ralph sucking on a cricket. I sigh.
She’s texting me only because she knew I’d be around. I’m probably the only single person she knows.
Hanging at home, I type. You?
Same! she replies.
It’s a comfort to know I’m not the only one.
Another text. I bought myself so much chocolate LOL.
My resentment begins to fade.
I made myself cake, I say. I send her a picture.
OMG!! Amazing!
Ralph does a little burp. It appears he’s vomited up some cricket guts. Now he’s eating the vomit.
I take my phone into the bedroom, sit on the window bench and stare out at the empty street.
What’s new with u? Nadia asks. Miss u!
I guess it is kind of nice not to be totally alone tonight. To be catching up with a friend.
Not much, I tell her. How about you?
Just started dating someone! Really excited about him!!
Nope. Never mind. No, thanks. I can’t handle hearing about someone else’s happiness. I know it’s shameful, but I just can’t.
Remember I told u about the hot history teacher Mr. Collins? He’s out of town right now, but we’ve been hanging out a lot & I was thinking of u because remember that psychic we went to on your bday?
I watch the little ellipses as she types another message. Is there anything more dread inducing in this world than those fucking ellipses?
That psychic said I was going to meet the love of my life and his name wasn’t going to be his name, and Ben’s real name is Winston but his dad is also Winston, so they call him by his middle name, Benjamin. Weird right?
I can’t.
There’s more, she types.
Of course there’s more.
He’s from Miami and says he’ll probably move back there when he’s finished with his master’s. But he said he’s also got family in San Diego and it’s nice there, too.
She’s still typing.
It’s exactly what that psychic said to me. That I’m going to move somewhere warm like California or Florida. There are other warm places but she wasn’t like u might move to New Mexico or whatever.
I press my head against the window, smoosh my forehead into the cool glass.
Crazy right??? Imagine if I end up with him & that psychic was right about everything.
I let the phone fall from my hand. I close my eyes.
Nadia either doesn’t remember what the psychic said to me or doesn’t care.
Imagine if the psychic was right. Right about everything. About my bleak, ambiguous fate.
I sense a darkness. That’s what the psychic said to me all those months ago.
I didn’t need her to tell me. I sensed it then. I sense it now.
How could I not?
I sit in its palm.
I open my eyes, and there’s nothing but black.
At first, I think I’m being dramatic, projecting the absolute dark, manifesting my fears.
But then it moves.
It’s moving.
I back away from the window. My view outside is completely obstructed.
Obstructed by a swarm of spiders.
Layers upon layers of them crawling over one another.
To witness it, the sheer number of them, atrophies my muscles. I stand petrified in the middle of my bedroom.
“Sss . . . sss . . . sssss,” I stutter. “Sssstop! Stop it!”
The spiders disperse with unnatural speed.
My view is returned.
I slump down to the floor. I rock there, holding my knees close to my chest.
DEVELOPMENTS
Simple Spirits doesn’t close until ten. I put on my coat, my gloves, my hat and my ugliest, warmest boots and trudge out to Main Street.
Under the honey glow of the streetlamps, I see that it’s desolate. It’s always quiet at night, but not this quiet. I walk up to Simple Spirits and find it dark.
I try the door. It’s locked.
I knock.
“Alex?” I say, my voice quavering with desperation. “Alex, it’s nine twenty-six. Are you there? Are you open?”
I knock again.
I listen.
I hear voices.
But the voices aren’t coming from inside Simple Spirits. They’re coming from somewhere else. Somewhere close.
I step back from the door, back onto the sidewalk.
To the right of Simple Spirits, there’s a Tudor-style antique shop. I’ve never been inside, but there’s a carousel horse in the front window that I always admire. On the other side, on the left, there’s the little white cottage.
The lights are on.
I’ve lived here for six months and I still don’t know what’s inside. I figured it was vacant.
I follow the stone walkway up to the door, which is slightly shorter than me. I’m about to lean over to peer into one of the small round windows when I hear someone speak my name.
“Annie is a sweet girl. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
I recognize that voice. It’s Rose’s.
I hunch under the window, out of view. I listen.
“She’s corrupting her.” Oskar.
“Lynn saw her out dancing in the yard.” Alex. “Late at night. Singing to herself. Ya can’t deny that’s a little strange.”
“Harmless,” Rose says. “It’s harmless.”
“Until it isn’t,” Oskar says.
The horror of it blooms in me. It’s an endless unfurling of embarrassment.
They’re all talking about me. Why are they all hanging out late at night talking about me? Gossiping about me? About . . .
A bead of sweat descends from my hairline down to my temple.
“Oskar, I appreciate you keeping us in the loop and raising your concerns. I understand why you have them, given your history, but Annie isn’t dangerous. She’s a sweetheart.”
“She is a very sweet girl.” Deirdre, I think.
Are the two really mutually exclusive? Sweet or dangerous?
“Doesn’t matter,” Oskar says. “She won’t be sweet when Sophie’s done with her. Don’t you see what’s happening here? She’s being manipulated.”
“Annie moved here without knowing anyone. She doesn’t have people. I don’t think her friendship with Sophie is as destructive as you’re implying,” Rose says. “It might even be a good thing. Don’t forget, a lot of what we have, we have because of Sophie. There are benefits.”
Oskar starts to laugh. It’s an icy, annihilating laugh.
“What?” Rose asks. “Our crops, our property, our health. Our entire way of life here in Rowan is possible because of Sophie. Deirdre?”
“Mm, yes,” Deirdre says. “We do have something special here. It’s not like this everywhere.”
There’s a branch poking me somewhere very inconvenient, but I’m too afraid to move, to make any sound.
“I’m tired of living like this. Under her thumb,” Oskar says. “It’s on us. We let it happen, and we’re letting it happen again. We have a moral obligation to do something. If not for our sakes, for Annie’s.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Rose says. “To interfere.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Oskar. I do,” Alex says. “But ya know, I have to agree with Rose. I don’t think there’s anything we can really do here. We’ve all heard the stories.”
“They’re not just stories,” Oskar says. “It’s history. Our ancestors. Many of whom died under mysterious circumstances after making enemies with Sophie. Anyone who moves against her suffers or ends up dead. That’s not a coincidence. Come on, Rose. How can you defend her? She curses people. Makes tonics out of their bones!”
My heart plummets. I’m nauseous.
“We don’t know that for certain. And even if those things did happen, they happened a long, long time ago,” she says. “You know as well as I do, Oskar, there is no Rowan without Sophie.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he says. “You’re all terrified of her. Just admit it. Alex?”
“She is an . . . imposing figure. She can be a bit intimidating. But I don’t dislike her,” Alex says.
“Yes. I don’t dislike her,” Deirdre echoes.
“Tom?” Oskar asks. “Back me up here.”
“I’ve learned to live with the old bitch,” Tom says. “But there can’t be two.”
This unleashes something ugly from the depths of me. I experience a sudden and lawless swell of anger. It ignites like a match meeting a pool of gasoline.
The window shatters above me, sending shards of glass hurtling in every direction. There’s a symphony of clinking, followed by profound silence.
For a moment, I’m too shaken to do anything. A tear sizzles on my hot cheek.
“Hello?” Rose says.
I take off running.
The air is freezing. I swallow big gulps of it as I book it down Main Street. Violent shivers rattle my whole body. Panic combs my veins.
I don’t stop to look behind me, to check if anyone came out and is now watching me flail into the night. I keep going until I’m home. I lock my doors.
There’s so much anxiety rioting inside me I’m afraid my body can’t contain it. I pace around the apartment. I peek into the bedroom. Ralph is there asleep, snoring lightly under his washcloth blanket.
