Oblivion, page 21
“I need a uniform for tomorrow,” I say. “Just tell me where you put my skirts, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
She pulls a plastic sweater box out from under her bed, gives it a shove in my direction, and turns up her speakers.
The grass grew grew grew.
I take my skirts, my oxfords, and my sweaters, and marvel at her premeditation in hiding my things. She’s sneakier than I knew—and I already knew quite a bit. After mumbling thanks she can’t hear, and doesn’t want to acknowledge anyway, I turn away.
Mr. Hutch peeks in just as I’m heading out.
I nearly drop my stack of clothing, when I press my back against the door to make room for his imposing frame.
“Turn it down,” he says. Then yelling: “Turn! It! Down!”
Lindsey obeys.
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, young lady.”
I say, “Yes, sir,” as Lindsey says, “Okay.”
With our simultaneous replies, we share a surprised glance. What does he want to talk to her about? I guess Lindsey must be thinking the same thing, judging by the confused knit of her brow. Slowly, she lowers her glance back to her cell phone.
Mr. Hutch, wearing the same expression as Lindsey, darts a look in my direction, but quickly turns back to his daughter. “Don’t make plans for after dinner tomorrow.”
She nods. “Okay.”
He awards me—or rather my neck—one last glance, but he doesn’t ask about the mark there before he walks toward the master suite. I’m sure the police have told him what I reluctantly told them—that my mother can be dangerous. I appreciate his not delving into the conversation today. It’s been a long enough day already.
I walk down the hallway and spill into my warm bed. There’s still a trace of John Fogel in the sheets, as the last time I slept here, I slept here with him. I picture the two of us holding hands on Highland Point, then imagine roots pushing down from our heels into the earth, tangling and webbing together until one can’t be discerned from the next.
My phone buzzes with a text from John: can u talk?
I text back: 2 tired.
John: sleep well.
My eyes are already heavy.
Grass grows.
I follow the roots into the earth, tunneling deep, and surrender to the quiet.
“Callie?”
I startle awake to see a Lindsey-shaped silhouette standing over me. The clock glares 2:18 at me. “Wh—”
“My dad found my stash.”
“Oh.”
“He’s pissed.”
“Tell him it’s mine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Tell him it’s mine.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Didn’t turn out too bad when he found my smokes. I can take it.”
“But … why would you?”
“You’re my sister.”
“No, I’m not.” She nudges her way into my bed. “Cuddle up.”
I scoot over and share my covers.
One of her feet grazes mine, when she begins to swish them against the sheets.
She’s freezing.
The aroma of potting soil and grass seed overwhelms me.
“Honor thy father.”
“No, no, no, no!”
“Nymph,” he hisses. “Lucifer’s temptress. She’ll get her due, she’ll get it!”
Through the spaces between my fingers, I see him reach for his belt. I think he’s about to buckle it, but he yanks it from its station and slashes it over a pale-skinned shoulder. “Why do you make me do this?”
I can’t speak to stop him.
Slash.
“Why?” he prods.
Slash.
“This is the devil’s work,” he growls. “The devil’s!” Slash. “And you do his bidding!”
I flinch when my blueberry tarts pop from the toaster, and I cringe with the haunting images. I glance at my notebook, open on the counter:
The grass grows grows grows grows grass grows grass grass grass grows grows.
“You’re looking a little pale.” Mr. Hutch, wearing khakis and a brown cable-knit sweater, pours himself a mug of coffee and heads, newspaper in hand, to the breakfast table, where Lindsey’s already nibbling on a granola bar.
“She does look pale,” Lindsey says. “It’s almost like she’s going to spend the day vomiting.”
I thought we’d gotten past this last night, but apparently, I’m still the ritual sacrifice for the bruise to her ego. I shoot her a glare.
She mouths: No one fucks with me.
I roll my eyes. Seriously? The grass grows.
“Nice turtleneck,” Lindsey says.
It’s hers. I’m wearing it under my Land’s End V-neck to hide the bruise my mother left on my neck. “Thanks.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Mr. Hutch asks.
“Yes. I’m fine.” I fight with the mad-hot pastries to get them onto a plate—staccato movements like pulling legs off spiders—and blow on the tips of my seared fingers as I walk to the table.
As strange as it is that Lindsey’s talking at and around me, instead of to me, it’s stranger still to have Lindsey’s dad underfoot. The entire six months I’ve lived with the Hutches, I’ve never seen him in the mornings. I wonder why he isn’t already at work and doesn’t appear to be heading there. I wonder why I haven’t seen Mrs. Hutch, or her car, since before the homecoming dance. Something’s going on.
“You’re okay?” he asks again.
Lindsey raises her brows.
I wonder if Lindsey’s shared her rumor with him. “Yes, fine.”
“Good. I feel like you’ve missed enough school.” It’s the first, and I suspect last, time he’ll raise the issue of my cutting class.
“Yes, I have.”
“And we understand that Lake Nippersink has a police department, and detectives and specialists, to do what you were doing last night.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Then we understand each other.” He shakes open the paper. “And from what I hear, the two of you haven’t been reporting for charity work. If we don’t pick up the pace, we’ll start looking for paying positions. Clear?”
“Clear,” Lindsey and I say together.
So this is what it’s like to have a real dad.
My gaze locks on the front-page headline, and I gasp: “Infant Remains Found on Highland Point.”
Infant?
That means three things:
One: a baby died.
Two: alive or dead, Hannah’s out there somewhere.
And three: my memories, however vivid, aren’t valid. I’m back to square one.
Lindsey parks the car in the student lot. She hasn’t said much to me since I’ve been back home, but she hasn’t seemed to be seething with anger, either. On the contrary, judging by her crawling into my bed last night, I’d guess she needs me. But why?
Once we’re both out of the car and heading toward the building, she quickens her pace, as if anxious to leave me behind.
I don’t know if this is any of my business, but I decide to brave a question: “Where’s your mom been?”
“I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take you to ask.” With a stomp of her foot, she turns to face me. Her chest is heaving, and a blush is crawling from her neck into her cheeks. “You’ve been so busy in bed with Jon Fogel that you haven’t even noticed.”
I’ve been busy. Not so much in bed. But that’s beside the point. “I’m asking now, Linds.”
“Like you care. You knew how I felt about Jon, and you—”
“That’s not true, Lindsey. I didn’t know how you felt about him. You had some interest, that’s all. That’s all I knew. I didn’t know you and he had … you know …”
“Wish we hadn’t.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
An unbearable silence hangs between us. So unbearable that I fill it: “What’s going on with your mom?”
With a minute shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she says, “She left.”
“Left?”
“She’s gone overboard with the children’s charity. She’s on a two-month-long retreat. She’ll be gone till after Christmas, and my dad’s pissed. Says she’s putting charity before our family, and considering you, I have to agree with him.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t ask to be put into the foster system, you know.”
Lindsey shrugs. “Do you think anyone cares that she’s skipping out on Christmas? Or just that she’s skipping out on our first Christmas with you?”
“That’s awful. I’m so sor—”
“Ironic thing is, I feel like my dad’s making too big a deal of this. Do you know how much shit they’ve missed in my life? No one makes an issue out of that, but she leaves during all this Callie drama, and my dad threatens divorce. Sort of tells you something about his unnatural attachment to you, doesn’t it?”
I stop in my tracks. I don’t feel very attached to her dad at all, let alone overly attached.
She grins. “C’est la vie.”
I hang back and watch her walk on without me. God, she’s vicious when she’s angry, blaming me for everything—including my existence. She’s obviously less worried about taking the heat for her stash than she is about getting me back for spending time with John Fogel.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought,” she says over her shoulder. “No one fucks with me.”
Numb, I walk to my locker. Stow my coat. Grab my calc text. Head to homeroom.
“An infant.” John falls in step beside me. “Did you hear the report?”
I swallow over tears building inside me. “Saw the article. Didn’t have a chance to read it.”
“Hey …” He touches me on the elbow. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just, you know, Lindsey.”
“I’m taking care of that rumor.”
It goes beyond the rumor. She hates me. The thought of it stings, cuts through me. No matter what I do to stifle the tears, I feel them coming.
“So.” He reaches for my hand.
I let him take it, and although it feels natural to be close to him, it doesn’t feel normal to be holding hands, walking down a high school hallway with a boy. Such an easy, carefree gesture. My life is anything but easy and carefree these days, and never has been.
Just as we’re passing Gianna Watson, he asks, “So, whose baby do you think it is?”
Gianna yelps with delight and says, “We assumed it was yours!”
The hushed sob I’ve been withholding escapes me. Great. Just great.
John slows his pace and turns to face her. “Hey, I was talking about the news—”
“Don’t bother.” I tug on his hand. “It won’t matter what you say.”
A few steps closer to homeroom, he says softly, “God, I’m sorry. Stupid thing to say. Bad timing.”
He brushes a kiss over my lips, although the Carmel Catholic code of conduct states there ought to be no public displays of affection beyond holding hands on school property or at school events. He casts a concerned gaze down into my eyes. “There was a baby under that door.”
“Yeah, I saw the headline.”
“Do you know whose baby that was? On the Point?”
I don’t, but memories are swirling. Grass grows.
“Oh, and I asked my dad. He thinks my cousin probably did hang out at the Vagabond from time to time. He says they used to have open mic every night, not just on Tuesdays, back then. Fewer professional bands, more amateurs.”
White room, guitar, my mother’s laughter. The watch, the rosary … “I think you should meet my mom.”
A smile brightens his eyes. “I think you should get to know mine better, too. How do you feel about coming to their anniversary party?”
I don’t mean it the way he does.
“Or maybe dinner tomorrow?” John asks.
I sniffle, wipe away tears. “Ask me tomorrow, okay?”
I’m looking up today’s news on John’s phone while he’s driving me to my appointment with Ewing. While I was in French class, Detective Guidry left a message to confirm they’d found human remains, but he couldn’t give me details. He said they’d call to schedule another conference soon. They didn’t find Hannah, but they found someone up on the Point. Although I all but marked the spot with an x for them, I’m left to scrounge information online, like everyone else.
“It says here the remains appear to be of an infant girl, estimated at three months of age,” I say.
“So young.”
I nod, but keep reading.
“I don’t remember reading about any missing babies from the area.” And he would know, given his self-proclaimed addiction to missing child cases. “Do they know how she died?”
“If they do, they’re not saying.” When I scan the next line, I understand why Detective Guidry hasn’t offered me much information: I can’t have had anything to do with her death, and it’s unlikely that I knew anything about her circumstances. She’s been there since I was a small child. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the road ahead of us. She’s been there the whole time—near my rosary.
How on earth did I know about it, then?
A memory nags at me from the back of my mind. I follow its pull until I’m back there again, in a white room with my mom. I’m rubbing the stone at the heart of the crucifix. My mother is turning cards. Laughing, she rests one on her pregnant belly.
Pregnant.
What happened to that baby?
“Maybe nothing.”
I look at Ewing and expect to see three eyes or a spiked tail protruding from his body. Nothing? Is he whacked? He’s pacing his office floor. I’m on the sofa with my feet curled under my rear.
“Something must’ve happened to it,” I say. “I’m an only child, aren’t I?”
“Maybe there was no baby.” Ewing taps his fingertips together. “The thing about memories, particularly memories of very young ages, is that often they’re unreliable. There was representation of a baby, no doubt about it, but whether or not there was actually a baby remains to be seen. It’s convenient that remains of a baby turn up simultaneously with these memories, but until we know otherwise, it’s a coincidence, and nothing more. Maybe it’s something you’ve conjured to help explain things to yourself, to sort things out in your mind.”
“You think I’m making it up?”
“That phrase indicates you’re lying, and I don’t think you’re lying. You honestly believe you saw your mother pregnant. But that doesn’t mean she was. Your graphomania is a perfect illustration of how mangled information can come to be, especially in traumatic situations.”
This makes sense. The yellow dress in the rowboat, for example, was a melding of suggested memories. Guidry’s already ruled out the possibility the sundress was Hannah’s, but I still associate it with her.
“I spoke with Detective Guidry this morning. He’ll be calling you to schedule another conference. I’ll relay this memory about a baby, and maybe he’ll collect some samples from you, Serena … you know, to test against the remains. If that baby was your sister, DNA tests can confirm it.” Ewing massages his chin as he walks back and forth, back and forth. “But I want to deal with the entire scope of this situation, not just the remains of a baby on Highland Point. Some pretty distinct memories led you to that door.”
“Hannah was still alive, at least I think she was. He rolled her into the hole. He dropped the door again, and …” My head is pounding. “But she wasn’t there. Why wasn’t she there when they dug up the door?” Imprisoned obsession. I rub my temples and reach for my notebook. “I swear it happened.”
“We’ll sort through it, what these memories may mean,” Ewing says. “One step at a time. Write if you have to write, but let’s …” His words echo, as I tumble down an avenue in my mind.
His voice is distant, as if it’s coming to me via tins cans and a string: “You okay, Callie?”
No. It feels as if my head is in a vise, as if the words are pushing out, but all the hands of the world are pressing on my skull to keep them in. Stars dance at the corners of my eyes. I grasp at reality … something, anything, to bring me back to the here and now.
But his words are fading, as if he’s miles away on a call with a bad connection.
The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Blisssssssssss
The room whirls about me, as if I’m holding fast on to the hub of a carousel.
Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging.
The corners of the space darken, until there’s only a tunnel before me.
I smell the earth, feel the grit of dirt accumulating beneath my fingernails and grinding between my molars. My hands ache from digging. My eyes burn. Chunks of earth consume me, swallow me whole. I breathe earth into my lungs. Cough it out again.
My hand breaks through to the other side.
The ground crumbles as I emerge. I gasp when I see the moon against a midnight backdrop.
I stumble over the terrain, trip on the wilting daisies. The grass grows up here, but not down on the rocky shore.
“Callie!”
I blink through tears, and the moon fades away, but I can’t draw a breath through the sobs racking my body. Ewing’s office bleeds back into view. I glance down at my notebook:
The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Blisssssssssss Amputate cancer of the folds of years Does the scent of her linger within you Tempt her, break her, make her feel real. Devour her when she begins to bleed
Bleed bleed
bleed her and feed Burn her in an urn Crucify quarter and stone her Buried alive she’ll claw at the case Smile as you condone her
The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss
Walk not on the cobblestone paths of her memory in black-veiled grief to relieve you Mourn not for her mind her beauty her mouth drawn down so quick to believe you Pressed like a rose in a book from a lover Sift through as the hours pass Imprisoned obsession She can’t escape Amber ashes in her hourglass
She pulls a plastic sweater box out from under her bed, gives it a shove in my direction, and turns up her speakers.
The grass grew grew grew.
I take my skirts, my oxfords, and my sweaters, and marvel at her premeditation in hiding my things. She’s sneakier than I knew—and I already knew quite a bit. After mumbling thanks she can’t hear, and doesn’t want to acknowledge anyway, I turn away.
Mr. Hutch peeks in just as I’m heading out.
I nearly drop my stack of clothing, when I press my back against the door to make room for his imposing frame.
“Turn it down,” he says. Then yelling: “Turn! It! Down!”
Lindsey obeys.
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, young lady.”
I say, “Yes, sir,” as Lindsey says, “Okay.”
With our simultaneous replies, we share a surprised glance. What does he want to talk to her about? I guess Lindsey must be thinking the same thing, judging by the confused knit of her brow. Slowly, she lowers her glance back to her cell phone.
Mr. Hutch, wearing the same expression as Lindsey, darts a look in my direction, but quickly turns back to his daughter. “Don’t make plans for after dinner tomorrow.”
She nods. “Okay.”
He awards me—or rather my neck—one last glance, but he doesn’t ask about the mark there before he walks toward the master suite. I’m sure the police have told him what I reluctantly told them—that my mother can be dangerous. I appreciate his not delving into the conversation today. It’s been a long enough day already.
I walk down the hallway and spill into my warm bed. There’s still a trace of John Fogel in the sheets, as the last time I slept here, I slept here with him. I picture the two of us holding hands on Highland Point, then imagine roots pushing down from our heels into the earth, tangling and webbing together until one can’t be discerned from the next.
My phone buzzes with a text from John: can u talk?
I text back: 2 tired.
John: sleep well.
My eyes are already heavy.
Grass grows.
I follow the roots into the earth, tunneling deep, and surrender to the quiet.
“Callie?”
I startle awake to see a Lindsey-shaped silhouette standing over me. The clock glares 2:18 at me. “Wh—”
“My dad found my stash.”
“Oh.”
“He’s pissed.”
“Tell him it’s mine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Tell him it’s mine.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Didn’t turn out too bad when he found my smokes. I can take it.”
“But … why would you?”
“You’re my sister.”
“No, I’m not.” She nudges her way into my bed. “Cuddle up.”
I scoot over and share my covers.
One of her feet grazes mine, when she begins to swish them against the sheets.
She’s freezing.
The aroma of potting soil and grass seed overwhelms me.
“Honor thy father.”
“No, no, no, no!”
“Nymph,” he hisses. “Lucifer’s temptress. She’ll get her due, she’ll get it!”
Through the spaces between my fingers, I see him reach for his belt. I think he’s about to buckle it, but he yanks it from its station and slashes it over a pale-skinned shoulder. “Why do you make me do this?”
I can’t speak to stop him.
Slash.
“Why?” he prods.
Slash.
“This is the devil’s work,” he growls. “The devil’s!” Slash. “And you do his bidding!”
I flinch when my blueberry tarts pop from the toaster, and I cringe with the haunting images. I glance at my notebook, open on the counter:
The grass grows grows grows grows grass grows grass grass grass grows grows.
“You’re looking a little pale.” Mr. Hutch, wearing khakis and a brown cable-knit sweater, pours himself a mug of coffee and heads, newspaper in hand, to the breakfast table, where Lindsey’s already nibbling on a granola bar.
“She does look pale,” Lindsey says. “It’s almost like she’s going to spend the day vomiting.”
I thought we’d gotten past this last night, but apparently, I’m still the ritual sacrifice for the bruise to her ego. I shoot her a glare.
She mouths: No one fucks with me.
I roll my eyes. Seriously? The grass grows.
“Nice turtleneck,” Lindsey says.
It’s hers. I’m wearing it under my Land’s End V-neck to hide the bruise my mother left on my neck. “Thanks.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Mr. Hutch asks.
“Yes. I’m fine.” I fight with the mad-hot pastries to get them onto a plate—staccato movements like pulling legs off spiders—and blow on the tips of my seared fingers as I walk to the table.
As strange as it is that Lindsey’s talking at and around me, instead of to me, it’s stranger still to have Lindsey’s dad underfoot. The entire six months I’ve lived with the Hutches, I’ve never seen him in the mornings. I wonder why he isn’t already at work and doesn’t appear to be heading there. I wonder why I haven’t seen Mrs. Hutch, or her car, since before the homecoming dance. Something’s going on.
“You’re okay?” he asks again.
Lindsey raises her brows.
I wonder if Lindsey’s shared her rumor with him. “Yes, fine.”
“Good. I feel like you’ve missed enough school.” It’s the first, and I suspect last, time he’ll raise the issue of my cutting class.
“Yes, I have.”
“And we understand that Lake Nippersink has a police department, and detectives and specialists, to do what you were doing last night.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Then we understand each other.” He shakes open the paper. “And from what I hear, the two of you haven’t been reporting for charity work. If we don’t pick up the pace, we’ll start looking for paying positions. Clear?”
“Clear,” Lindsey and I say together.
So this is what it’s like to have a real dad.
My gaze locks on the front-page headline, and I gasp: “Infant Remains Found on Highland Point.”
Infant?
That means three things:
One: a baby died.
Two: alive or dead, Hannah’s out there somewhere.
And three: my memories, however vivid, aren’t valid. I’m back to square one.
Lindsey parks the car in the student lot. She hasn’t said much to me since I’ve been back home, but she hasn’t seemed to be seething with anger, either. On the contrary, judging by her crawling into my bed last night, I’d guess she needs me. But why?
Once we’re both out of the car and heading toward the building, she quickens her pace, as if anxious to leave me behind.
I don’t know if this is any of my business, but I decide to brave a question: “Where’s your mom been?”
“I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take you to ask.” With a stomp of her foot, she turns to face me. Her chest is heaving, and a blush is crawling from her neck into her cheeks. “You’ve been so busy in bed with Jon Fogel that you haven’t even noticed.”
I’ve been busy. Not so much in bed. But that’s beside the point. “I’m asking now, Linds.”
“Like you care. You knew how I felt about Jon, and you—”
“That’s not true, Lindsey. I didn’t know how you felt about him. You had some interest, that’s all. That’s all I knew. I didn’t know you and he had … you know …”
“Wish we hadn’t.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
An unbearable silence hangs between us. So unbearable that I fill it: “What’s going on with your mom?”
With a minute shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, she says, “She left.”
“Left?”
“She’s gone overboard with the children’s charity. She’s on a two-month-long retreat. She’ll be gone till after Christmas, and my dad’s pissed. Says she’s putting charity before our family, and considering you, I have to agree with him.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t ask to be put into the foster system, you know.”
Lindsey shrugs. “Do you think anyone cares that she’s skipping out on Christmas? Or just that she’s skipping out on our first Christmas with you?”
“That’s awful. I’m so sor—”
“Ironic thing is, I feel like my dad’s making too big a deal of this. Do you know how much shit they’ve missed in my life? No one makes an issue out of that, but she leaves during all this Callie drama, and my dad threatens divorce. Sort of tells you something about his unnatural attachment to you, doesn’t it?”
I stop in my tracks. I don’t feel very attached to her dad at all, let alone overly attached.
She grins. “C’est la vie.”
I hang back and watch her walk on without me. God, she’s vicious when she’s angry, blaming me for everything—including my existence. She’s obviously less worried about taking the heat for her stash than she is about getting me back for spending time with John Fogel.
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought,” she says over her shoulder. “No one fucks with me.”
Numb, I walk to my locker. Stow my coat. Grab my calc text. Head to homeroom.
“An infant.” John falls in step beside me. “Did you hear the report?”
I swallow over tears building inside me. “Saw the article. Didn’t have a chance to read it.”
“Hey …” He touches me on the elbow. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just, you know, Lindsey.”
“I’m taking care of that rumor.”
It goes beyond the rumor. She hates me. The thought of it stings, cuts through me. No matter what I do to stifle the tears, I feel them coming.
“So.” He reaches for my hand.
I let him take it, and although it feels natural to be close to him, it doesn’t feel normal to be holding hands, walking down a high school hallway with a boy. Such an easy, carefree gesture. My life is anything but easy and carefree these days, and never has been.
Just as we’re passing Gianna Watson, he asks, “So, whose baby do you think it is?”
Gianna yelps with delight and says, “We assumed it was yours!”
The hushed sob I’ve been withholding escapes me. Great. Just great.
John slows his pace and turns to face her. “Hey, I was talking about the news—”
“Don’t bother.” I tug on his hand. “It won’t matter what you say.”
A few steps closer to homeroom, he says softly, “God, I’m sorry. Stupid thing to say. Bad timing.”
He brushes a kiss over my lips, although the Carmel Catholic code of conduct states there ought to be no public displays of affection beyond holding hands on school property or at school events. He casts a concerned gaze down into my eyes. “There was a baby under that door.”
“Yeah, I saw the headline.”
“Do you know whose baby that was? On the Point?”
I don’t, but memories are swirling. Grass grows.
“Oh, and I asked my dad. He thinks my cousin probably did hang out at the Vagabond from time to time. He says they used to have open mic every night, not just on Tuesdays, back then. Fewer professional bands, more amateurs.”
White room, guitar, my mother’s laughter. The watch, the rosary … “I think you should meet my mom.”
A smile brightens his eyes. “I think you should get to know mine better, too. How do you feel about coming to their anniversary party?”
I don’t mean it the way he does.
“Or maybe dinner tomorrow?” John asks.
I sniffle, wipe away tears. “Ask me tomorrow, okay?”
I’m looking up today’s news on John’s phone while he’s driving me to my appointment with Ewing. While I was in French class, Detective Guidry left a message to confirm they’d found human remains, but he couldn’t give me details. He said they’d call to schedule another conference soon. They didn’t find Hannah, but they found someone up on the Point. Although I all but marked the spot with an x for them, I’m left to scrounge information online, like everyone else.
“It says here the remains appear to be of an infant girl, estimated at three months of age,” I say.
“So young.”
I nod, but keep reading.
“I don’t remember reading about any missing babies from the area.” And he would know, given his self-proclaimed addiction to missing child cases. “Do they know how she died?”
“If they do, they’re not saying.” When I scan the next line, I understand why Detective Guidry hasn’t offered me much information: I can’t have had anything to do with her death, and it’s unlikely that I knew anything about her circumstances. She’s been there since I was a small child. Slowly, I lift my gaze to the road ahead of us. She’s been there the whole time—near my rosary.
How on earth did I know about it, then?
A memory nags at me from the back of my mind. I follow its pull until I’m back there again, in a white room with my mom. I’m rubbing the stone at the heart of the crucifix. My mother is turning cards. Laughing, she rests one on her pregnant belly.
Pregnant.
What happened to that baby?
“Maybe nothing.”
I look at Ewing and expect to see three eyes or a spiked tail protruding from his body. Nothing? Is he whacked? He’s pacing his office floor. I’m on the sofa with my feet curled under my rear.
“Something must’ve happened to it,” I say. “I’m an only child, aren’t I?”
“Maybe there was no baby.” Ewing taps his fingertips together. “The thing about memories, particularly memories of very young ages, is that often they’re unreliable. There was representation of a baby, no doubt about it, but whether or not there was actually a baby remains to be seen. It’s convenient that remains of a baby turn up simultaneously with these memories, but until we know otherwise, it’s a coincidence, and nothing more. Maybe it’s something you’ve conjured to help explain things to yourself, to sort things out in your mind.”
“You think I’m making it up?”
“That phrase indicates you’re lying, and I don’t think you’re lying. You honestly believe you saw your mother pregnant. But that doesn’t mean she was. Your graphomania is a perfect illustration of how mangled information can come to be, especially in traumatic situations.”
This makes sense. The yellow dress in the rowboat, for example, was a melding of suggested memories. Guidry’s already ruled out the possibility the sundress was Hannah’s, but I still associate it with her.
“I spoke with Detective Guidry this morning. He’ll be calling you to schedule another conference. I’ll relay this memory about a baby, and maybe he’ll collect some samples from you, Serena … you know, to test against the remains. If that baby was your sister, DNA tests can confirm it.” Ewing massages his chin as he walks back and forth, back and forth. “But I want to deal with the entire scope of this situation, not just the remains of a baby on Highland Point. Some pretty distinct memories led you to that door.”
“Hannah was still alive, at least I think she was. He rolled her into the hole. He dropped the door again, and …” My head is pounding. “But she wasn’t there. Why wasn’t she there when they dug up the door?” Imprisoned obsession. I rub my temples and reach for my notebook. “I swear it happened.”
“We’ll sort through it, what these memories may mean,” Ewing says. “One step at a time. Write if you have to write, but let’s …” His words echo, as I tumble down an avenue in my mind.
His voice is distant, as if it’s coming to me via tins cans and a string: “You okay, Callie?”
No. It feels as if my head is in a vise, as if the words are pushing out, but all the hands of the world are pressing on my skull to keep them in. Stars dance at the corners of my eyes. I grasp at reality … something, anything, to bring me back to the here and now.
But his words are fading, as if he’s miles away on a call with a bad connection.
The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Blisssssssssss
The room whirls about me, as if I’m holding fast on to the hub of a carousel.
Keep digging. Keep digging. Keep digging.
The corners of the space darken, until there’s only a tunnel before me.
I smell the earth, feel the grit of dirt accumulating beneath my fingernails and grinding between my molars. My hands ache from digging. My eyes burn. Chunks of earth consume me, swallow me whole. I breathe earth into my lungs. Cough it out again.
My hand breaks through to the other side.
The ground crumbles as I emerge. I gasp when I see the moon against a midnight backdrop.
I stumble over the terrain, trip on the wilting daisies. The grass grows up here, but not down on the rocky shore.
“Callie!”
I blink through tears, and the moon fades away, but I can’t draw a breath through the sobs racking my body. Ewing’s office bleeds back into view. I glance down at my notebook:
The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Blisssssssssss Amputate cancer of the folds of years Does the scent of her linger within you Tempt her, break her, make her feel real. Devour her when she begins to bleed
Bleed bleed
bleed her and feed Burn her in an urn Crucify quarter and stone her Buried alive she’ll claw at the case Smile as you condone her
The grass grows grows grows. Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss Bliss
Walk not on the cobblestone paths of her memory in black-veiled grief to relieve you Mourn not for her mind her beauty her mouth drawn down so quick to believe you Pressed like a rose in a book from a lover Sift through as the hours pass Imprisoned obsession She can’t escape Amber ashes in her hourglass
