The Storyteller (16 page)

I've noticed before and I noticed this morning that adults can be as fidgety as kids, but they're not as obvious about it. They pretend to stretch their necks or scratch their backs, but the message is basically
Get me on the next train outta here
. I could relate. I fidgeted. But it wasn't the entire time. Sure, some of it was boring, but occasionally there were some words of wisdom from Debra.

That's right. The preacher wasn't Reverend Something or Deacon Whatchamacallit. She was Debra. Just Debra! And she didn't spew a bunch of Bible passages, though she did make fun of herself at one point, joking that she went to high school with Methuselah, which is the name of a guy from the Old Testament who was pushing a thousand years old. I don't remember everything else she said, but I remember what she said about being confused.

“Sometimes confusion feels like pain. Sometimes it feels like falling.”

Falling. She got that
exactly
right. She also talked about choices. Again, my memory isn't perfect, but one thing stuck with me.

“We are a sum of our choices. We are not our single choices.”

I liked that bit the best. I wanted to tell it to everyone as soon as I got home. It's an important thing to remember.

Afterward, Debra gave people an opportunity to speak to her directly. I waited in line, which reminded me of years ago when I was a flower girl at Uncle Dale's wedding and everyone got less than a minute to talk to the bride and groom.
No time for chitchat. Get to the point, Grandma!

That's why when I finally had my moment with Debra, I got right to the point. “What does God or the Bible or religion in general say about coincidences?” I asked.

“Whoa,” she said. “That's a big subject.”

“Yeah, the thing is, I've been noticing all sorts of coincidences and I'm not sure what they mean. I write these stories and I guess they're inspired by life and whatever, but then something happens and I don't know if I'm noticing it because I wrote the story or the story is actually causing it but…”

I was out of breath. I didn't realize how excited I'd gotten, but Debra certainly did. She put a hand on my shoulder. “This is your first time with us?”

I nodded.

She nodded. “There are writings on coincidences. But I'm guessing you're not looking for an academic answer.”

“What sort of answer am I looking for?”

Debra laughed out loud, but not in a mean way. “What's your name?” she asked.

“Kerrigan,” I said, because that technically is my name, even though everyone calls me Keri.

“Kerrigan, I'm guessing you're looking for a personal answer. I can't tell you why you're noticing so many coincidences, but I think it probably speaks to whatever it is you're looking at these days.”

I shrugged. “I just look around.”

Debra motioned around the church with her hands like a ringleader at a circus. “What do you see when you look around here?”

I checked out the wooden seats, which had butt marks worn into them, and the view through an open door that led to a cluttered office. I searched for crosses and stained glass, but I didn't find any. It wasn't that sort of church. Almost all the other people had left, and so the place was mostly empty. Dad was there, though, standing in the doorway waiting for me. The reason I didn't say “waiting patiently” is because he was looking at his feet, which was a dead giveaway that he didn't want to be there. Fidgety. Like I told you, Stella.

“I see … worry,” I said.

“Worry? In general or in specific?”

I shrugged. “People come to you because they worry, right?”

“I suppose some people do, but the main reason people come here is for community.”

“Is that what faith is about?” I asked.

“How do you mean?” she replied.

“When you believe something that you don't have solid proof of, that's faith, right? But faith is hard to do alone. You need others to believe the same things you do, or else you're gonna go a little nutty, aren't you?”

Debra smiled and said, “An interesting way of putting it.”

By that point, Dad had made his way through the church and was slipping his hand in front of Debra. A classic Dad sneak attack. “Richard Cleary,” he said. “Keri's father.”

“Kerrigan is a lovely and inquisitive young woman,” Debra said. “I'm glad she joined us today. And I am pleased to meet you.”

It seemed as though she
was
pleased to meet him. Really and truly. Her eyes said it. Her mouth. Her shoulders. Everything. Not that Dad is unpleasant or anything, but she was so graceful in her greeting that I think he was caught a bit off guard.

He smiled a crooked smile and said, “It's … Keri decided to come on her own this time. Maybe next time…”

“Any and all are welcome,” Debra said. “Whenever.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”

Debra's eyes moved to me. Her eyebrows went up.
Your call,
she was telling me.

“No,” I said. “I was bugging her with my crazy philosophical questions. That's all.”

Dad tussled my hair and said, “Sometimes I wonder if she's an ancient Greek reincarnated.”

Yep. Thanks, Dad.
Exactly
what a girl wants to hear.

“Answers aren't always easy,” Debra said. “But I always encourage questions.”

“Hear hear,” Dad replied in a voice probably too loud for a church. Loud enough to echo.

Indoor echoes are always followed by silence, and we all stood there for a few seconds not saying anything. Then Dad dug into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled money and tried to hand it to Debra.

“Oh, no,” Debra said. “Not necessary.”

“Please,” Dad said, pushing the cash at her. “For the collection plate.”

“Buy Kerrigan an ice cream,” she said.

Dad shrugged and put the cash back in his pocket. We said our goodbyes to Debra and she said her
hope to see you again
and when we were in the parking lot, with the frosty wind blowing against my face, Dad took the cash out of his pocket and handed it to me.

Twelve dollars.

EVENING

As we ate dinner tonight, Mom asked me about the sermon. I repeated the quote about choices, which she appreciated. She turned to Alistair and said, “Something to consider. Something to talk about with Dr. Hollister tomorrow, right?”

Dr. Hollister is the name of the psychiatrist my parents found. She's a woman Dad occasionally works with at the hospital, and Alistair is scheduled to see her in the morning. That's all I know because that's all I've been told. Things are moving along, or so my parents believe.

And so Dad moved the dinner conversation along, asked me more about my morning in church. I said that it was sort of like school and sort of like the one-woman show we saw that time we all went out to the theater in Ovid. Which steered the conversation in another direction, toward talking about drama club and Dad telling me and Alistair that it would be a good thing for both of us to do, especially when we got to high school. For friends. For fun. For college transcripts. I'm not against drama club, but you don't do drama club because your parents tell you it's a good thing to do. I informed them of this.

“I gotta follow my muse,” I said.

My muse, whatever it is, is leading me to write stories. Of course, my parents don't really ask me about my stories. Which is weird, because Dad is always telling stories himself. Not writing them down necessarily, but always yapping about something that happened back when a double feature and a Coke would cost you barely a dime.

It's no surprise that Alistair is still curious about my stories, though. As we were clearing dishes, he whispered, “I wanna help you with the wombat story. Come to my room at eight.”

At this point, I wasn't going to object. Mom and Dad were on top of getting Alistair help, and I still had my responsibilities of being a supportive big sister. However, I will say that when I knocked on his door at eight and he opened it without a word and pointed to the beanbag chair in the corner, I felt … little. Once again, he wasn't treating me as an elder, or even as an equal.

“Just so you know, I'm not looking for a coauthor,” I said as I moved over and sat on his bed instead.

Alistair shut the door and held up the cordless phone. “You want to follow your muse,” he said. “It leads to Jenny Colvin.”

“From the tape?”

“Exactly,” he said. “She must have it by now, but she hasn't responded or shown up at the fountain, and there's no time to waste.”

“Why is there no time?”

“Because in Aquavania, years have gone by and Chip and Dot might give up soon.” He slapped the phone in my hand like it was the hilt of a sword. “I dialed everything but the last digit. Press nine and you'll be connected.”

I don't think I'd ever called someone who lives that far away. I'm not sure I've even spoken on the phone to someone in another country. “What time is it there?” I asked.

“Ten thirty a.m. on Monday,” he said. “But it's her summer break, so I'm hoping she's home.”

“And if she isn't?”

“We keep trying.” He nodded at the phone. “Dial nine. Say you're you. Keri Cleary.”

“And?”

“Ask her if she's listened to the tape. See what she says. Then once you have a moment, say this.” He handed me a slip of paper with a few sentences written on it, and as he did, he pressed nine on the phone.

“I don't see why you aren't talking to her,” I said as the rings pulsed softly in the earpiece.

“Like I said, she'll be terrified of me. She'll hang up immediately.”

Before I could object anymore, there was a voice on the other end, and I instinctually raised the phone to my ear.

“Hello,” said a woman with an accent. I guess it was an Australian accent, but I don't know if I could tell that from a New Zealand accent or even an English one. In any case, it sounded … fictional.

“Um, hi,” I said. “This is, um, Keri. Keri Cleary. Calling for Jenny.”

Silence.

“Jenny Colvin?” I said, my lungs tightening.

More silence. Then the woman called out, “Jennifer! Telephone!” And as I caught my breath, she returned to the line. “It'll be a minute, dear. She's pounding away on her computer, as always.”

“As always,” I said, like I had a clue.

It was at least a minute, an excruciating sixty seconds of waiting for Jenny to pick up the other end, a lifetime of staring at my brother, who was giving me a thumbs-up like I was about to go down a hill in a soapbox racer. I probably should've hung up, but I'll admit I was curious. Who was this person?

A breathless voice finally came on the line. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Who's this again?” she asked. Her voice was similar to the woman's, but it was lighter, airier. I'm guessing they were mom and daughter. Which made me think of my mom, my voice.

“This is Keri,” I whispered. “Keri Cleary.”

Another pause, and then, “You're American?”

“Yup,” I said. “So … what … did you think of it?”

“It?”

“The tape.”

A longer pause. A painful pause. “What is your problem?”

“I don't … I…” Alistair saw me floundering and he pointed at the paper. I raised it up.

“You still there?” Jenny asked. “Who was that boy on the tape? What exactly is your game?”

I hadn't even read the paper yet, so as I said the words, I was in the same boat as Jenny. Experiencing them for the first time. “I'm still here,” I told her. “It's just … Fiona Loomis was my neighbor. Fiona Loomis was your friend. She believed in you. And you failed her. But you have a second chance. The portal at Steerpike Fountain will open again at two p.m. If the Riverman wanted your soul, he would have taken it already. He wants your courage. Your genius. So stop hiding. And don't be a coward, and don't be an idiot. Find Fiona. Bring her back.”

“I am not a coward,” she replied. “I am far from an idiot. You must be crazy to think I'll listen to this rubbish. I am not going anywhere because some boy on a tape tells me to. I am not going to end up like Sigrid. I am happy with my life how it is for once. And I don't ever want to forget that. That's all that matters to me.”

I didn't have any more of Alistair's words to draw from, so I improvised. “Sometimes it's about more than your own happiness. Sometimes you have to think of other people.”

Dial tone. I didn't even notice it until I stopped talking. And the name Sigrid? It didn't register until I hung up.

“Yikes,” I said as I placed the phone on the bed. “That was … intense.”

“What did she say?” Alistair asked.

“Who the heck is Sigrid?” I responded. “And why does Jenny not want to end up like her?”

Alistair bit his lip. He closed his eyes and put his hands over his face. Either he was thinking deeply about something or wanted me to believe he was thinking deeply. When he pulled his hands away and opened his eyes, he finally answered. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” I barked. “You pretend to know everything!”

“Sigrid is not a name that comes up in all the memories I've absorbed,” he said. “She could be someone Jenny once knew from Aquavania. Maybe a Riverman before me released her.”

“The Riverman again! What does that mean? Who the hell is this Riverman?” I asked.

“I am,” Alistair said plainly.

Now it was me who was putting my face in my hands. “This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.”

Alistair placed a hand on my shoulder. I don't know what it was about it, but it felt like an old man's hand. Feeble and spindly. So I recoiled, and Alistair put that old man hand up in surrender. By the light of his halogen lamp, it looked like a standard-issue twelve-year-old-boy hand.