Closer Home (18 page)

Callie sits in her booster seat at the kitchen table, whining and wretched. Her face is still crusted with the milk and cereal we both ate for breakfast and lunch. It’s time for dinner, and we’re both hungry and sick to death of cereal. Mother sits in her chair at the end of the table, cigarette burned to a long stick of ash, the live embers almost to her fingertips. She stares across the kitchen at the scuffed cabinets, unblinking. It’s like she’s sleeping, only her eyes are open. I’m frightened, but I know better than to call Dad at work.

“I want to eat!” Callie pounds a small fist on the table, and the cigarette ash trembles and falls apart, a soft cloud of gray dust. Mother doesn’t even blink. What’s left of her cigarette is going to burn her fingers. I move my hand to take it away and then stop, watching the red coal grow upward, waiting for pain to jolt her awake. Maybe then she’ll see me again, will get up and make us something for dinner.

But when flame meets fingertips, she doesn’t even flinch. Her eyes move down, slowly, and she stares at her hand as if it belongs to someone else, as if it’s a mild curiosity like a caterpillar. I grab the butt away and drop it into the ashtray. It burns my fingers, and I shake them and pop them in my mouth. Blisters bubble up on Mom’s index and middle fingers, but she shows no sign of pain.

I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do. There’s nobody to call who will help me. And so I do the only things I know how to do. I feed Callie and get her off to bed. And I leave my mother sitting there at the table until at last my father comes home to take care of her.

Now I’m all grown up, and I’m supposed to know what to do. But that same lost feeling nearly swamps me. Ariel stands inside the circle of my arms, neither pulling away nor seeking comfort. Tears pour soundlessly down her face. I can’t reach her, and helplessness creeps into me from my toes on up. Maybe she needs a hospital. Grief does weird things to people, I know, but this seems beyond normal. I’m horrible at emotions, and I don’t know what to do, other than protect her from what is outside that window.

I’ve already failed at that, but wallowing in failure won’t help her, either. So I coax her back to bed and wrap her in blankets. She lets me, but I’m not convinced she even knows what her body is doing. I fetch a glass of water from the sink, so full of chlorine it stings the lining of my nose.

Her hands recognize the glass, shaping themselves to hold it, but she does nothing with it until I say, “Drink,” and guide it to her lips. She swallows the whole thing, then lies down on the bed curled up into a comma, eyes closed but with those silent tears still sliding out from under her lashes.

In the distance, I hear a deep whomp, whomp, whomp in the sky. The sound tightens my belly, makes me want to take shelter under the bed. It’s not until it stations itself overhead that I realize it’s a helicopter. Ariel and I are worthy of a news chopper, as if there’s going to be a big car chase or a shoot-out or something. I mean, the best thing they could hope for would be a glimpse of us running for the car from the hotel room.

THE CAR.

I had completely forgotten about the car. A car is good. If we can get to it, we can get out of here. My first glimpse out the window was too full of shock and alarm to register details, and I wonder if escape might be a real possibility.

I go back to the window and peer through a crack in the blinds, trying not to move them. The light is bright after the dimness of our unlit room, and I blink. There are more cars in the parking lot now, and a raft of pickup trucks. Many of the newly arrived vehicles look like they could have driven right off Jim’s used-car lot.

The truck now wedging into an empty space is more rust than metal. The right fender is bent. A woman squeezes out through a door that slams against the neighboring car. She’s wearing too-tight jeans and a T-shirt, a Seahawks cap jammed down onto her head. Her arms are full of flowers. She works her way out from between the vehicles to a space left clear by apparent common consent. There are already several bouquets of flowers there. A teddy bear. Hand-lettered signs that say, “Rest in Peace” and “God Loves You, Callie.” All heaped around a poster-size picture of my sister.

With all of this going on, it takes me a minute to register the fact that our rental car is nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I can’t believe he told them where we are,” Ariel says. “Maybe they followed him or something.”

“Nobody followed him. He took the car!” I shout at her. “Now how the hell are we supposed to get out of here?”

My anger at Shadow transfers nicely to her. This was all her harebrained scheme. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be safe and warm back at Callie’s house, reading through financial statements and dealing with the terms of the will. And Ricken. Her tears increase my helplessness, and that makes the flames burn even higher.

“Maybe somebody else stole it.” She hugs a pillow, burying her face.

“Grow up, Ariel. Shadow sold us out, stole the car, and left us stranded high and dry. Sooner you face up to reality, the better.”

“Reality sucks.”

“Yep. But that doesn’t change anything. He’s gone, he’s not coming back, and he’s the reason we’re now screwed.”

She’s shivering, despite the blankets. A sob escapes her, and she stuffs the back of her hand into her mouth to silence the rest of them. As fast as it came, my anger fades.

“I’m sorry.” The words ring empty. Which is the way my chest feels, as though my heart isn’t even there anymore. With a sigh, I sink down onto the bed beside her. “We should call the cops and report the car stolen.”

“Please don’t,” she pleads. “He’ll be back. You’ll see.”

“Honey, you have to let him go. He’s not worth it.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The tears spill over and flood her cheeks. “He’s all I have left.”

Her voice breaks. She buries her face in the pillow, both fingers knotted into the case, weeping as though her heart will break.

Jesus God have mercy.

When I reach out to stroke her hair, she doesn’t pull away, and I dare to lie down and spoon behind her to give her my warmth. Her body tenses. I hold my breath, waiting for her to pull away, but instead she snuggles back against me, and I drape an arm around her and hold her until the sobs slow to an occasional shudder.

Her breathing settles, and I begin to think she’s fallen asleep when she says, “He was my best friend. We rode the limo to school together. We hung out. He knows me better than anybody.”

“A limo took you to school?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know it’s a stupid thing to say. All I need to do is look out the window to understand why she wouldn’t be taking a school bus.

“Always. I thought it might be fun to ride the school bus sometime.”

There’s a spark of interest in her voice, and I figure talking is good. Any subject, anything, to move her away from tears.

“Callie and I walked. A lot. Mostly because I never could get her out of bed in the morning, and we always missed the bus.”

She rolls over to look at me. Her eyes are swollen, her face all splotchy. “Where was Grandma? Why didn’t she drive you? Or make Mom get out of bed?”

“Grandma was . . . sick. She wasn’t usually awake before we went to school.”

“Mom never did like to get up in the morning. But then she was usually out partying until late. I like morning. Everything feels new. Fresh. Like maybe good things will happen.” I sense her thinking about Shadow again.

“Niles was okay before he was Shadow,” she says, after a long pause that fails to be silence because of the helicopter noise. “He’s really a super nerd. Which is cool. I like his nerdiness. But the kids picked on him, and then he met these goth kids and took Intro to Philosophy, and bam. Shadow. Like he got lost somehow.”

“I’m sorry.” The more I say these words, the more they feel threadbare and inadequate, but what else can I say? I’ve got no life advice to offer her on boys.

“Mom got lost, too, I think. She was around more when I was little. We did stuff, like finger paints and Barbies. And she used to sing to me.”

“Did she?” I prop my head up on an elbow so I can see her better. “Like what?”

“I don’t know the names. Weird old songs. There was this one about a little kid who wanted scarlet ribbons or something. And her mom couldn’t get them for her. I forget. Only I remember lying in bed, sick, I think. And her hand on my forehead, and her singing to me.”

My turn to roll flat on my back and stare at the ceiling, digesting this bit of information. My imagination is not up to the task of framing my sexy, popular, fashionista sister embracing this song. Dad used to play scratchy old vinyl albums over and over until I wanted to scream. The Browns. Jim Reeves. Tammy Wynette. If he was feeling modern, we got Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers.

But when Callie was sick, or sad, or scared, it would always be the same request. “Sing something.” And the old songs, so engrained in my memory, would come into my head first and foremost. I didn’t think Callie remembered. I certainly never dreamed that she would have sung the same old songs to Ariel.

“You could maybe sing something,” Ariel says now. “Do you know the ribbons song?” Her voice is tentative, and she’s staring up at the ceiling. I can feel her not looking at me.

“Yeah, I know it.” The song is not a problem; it’s me. How long has it been since I sang anything? In the car, in the shower, anywhere? I can’t remember. This scares me. Once upon a time, singing was more natural than talking. Now the very idea sets my heart to pounding, the nerves in my hand to zinging.

“Now?” My throat feels like it’s full of rust.

She doesn’t answer. After a moment, she rolls away, leaving a space between us. I feel the cold creep into my skin where her body had been touching mine, and I reach for the memory of the girl I used to be. If I close my eyes, I can imagine being a child again. That this is my bed, and that it’s Callie snuggled in beside me. This makes it a little easier to get started. I draw in a breath and manage to squeeze out the first line.

My voice doesn’t ring true. I’ve picked the wrong key. I stop, my whole body thrumming with nerves.

“You do know it!” Ariel exclaims, with the most enthusiasm I’ve heard from her all morning.

“Of course I do. I used to sing it to your mom.”

“Well, keep going, then!”

I clear my throat, shutting off my brain and letting my memory find the melody. “Send me, God, some scarlet ribbons . . .”

My throat closes and breaks. It’s too much, this song. It carries too much of then and now, of everything lost. I’m the only one who remembers. The old record, and the whispering and giggling under the covers in the dark. The childhood I shared with Callie is no longer shared. There’s only me.

And then a cold hand slides into mine.

Ariel. Maybe it’s not all lost after all. We’re connected by one old song, generation to generation.

“My dad had that song on vinyl. I bet the album’s still around somewhere. You want me to find it for you?”

“That would be cool. Auntie Lise, I want—”

She’s interrupted by a male voice trumpeted through a bullhorn.

“People—I know we are all grieving Callie’s death. Thanks for coming out, and for bringing flowers for her. I know she’s looking down and happy right now. Let’s remember the gift she left behind.”

Oh, no. I know what’s coming before it happens. A squeal of a microphone, static, and then the opening bars of “Closer Home.”

“Sing it,” Ariel says. This time, there’s a spark of mischief in her bloodshot eyes, and that dimple pops up in her cheek.

“No.”

“Come on, Auntie Lise. Sing the fucking song.”

“Watch your language, young lady.”

She’s out of bed now, dancing around the room as though she hadn’t been half-comatose thirty minutes ago. She picks up a shoe as a microphone and starts to sing, mimicking Callie’s stage schtick. Laughter shakes me out of tears. The music moves through me like quicksilver, head to toe and back again, and my lips start to move pretty much on their own. In a minute I’m singing, too, my voice free under cover of the noise outside and Ariel’s antics.

A knock at the door stops us both in our tracks. Ariel’s hand with its shoe microphone sinks to her side. Both of us stare at the door as if it’s a living thing that might come after us at any minute.

I wish I had Dad’s Colt .38, but it’s back home, tucked into the top drawer of my nightstand. Or Dale’s bulldog. Hell, I wish I had Dale.

“Pretend we’re not here,” I say.

Ariel rolls her eyes. “They saw me, remember? They’re not that stupid.”

We both creep up to the door, Ariel still clutching the shoe. Not a bad idea, and I grab the other one. If an intruder breaks in, we can bludgeon him with footwear.

“Don’t open it,” I whisper, loud enough to be heard over the still-blaring music.

The knock comes again.

Ariel stands on her tiptoes and looks out through the peephole.

“Who is it?”

“Like I would know? Some guy.”

“Move. Let me see.”

“Ariel? I’m your father,” a voice says from the far side of the door. “Let me in so we can talk.”

Ariel shoots me a look that is half hope, half panic.

I shove her out of the way. “Let me see.” The man on the other side of the door looks like an advertisement for Joe Average. Medium height, medium weight, medium-brown nondescript hair receding from a high forehead. He’s clean-shaven and smiling, white teeth glinting in the morning sunlight. I don’t like him.

“Well?” Ariel says. “Who is it?”

“I have no idea.”

“I thought you knew all of Mom’s boyfriends.”

“I did. It was a small school. I don’t remember this guy.”

“Maybe we should—”

“Don’t you dare let him in! You’d better tell me who the others are. Then I can make a better guess at his identity.”

She shakes her head.

“Ariel . . .”

“You’ll ruin it.”

“I think that’s already been done.”

Ariel puts her eye up to the peephole again, then calls out through the door. “What’s your name?”

“Just let me in, baby girl, and we’ll talk.”

Ariel reaches toward the chain and I block her with my shoulder. She stumbles away from the door and I put my back against it, bracing myself. “You’re not thinking! We cannot open this door. I’m willing to bet you a thousand bucks that man hasn’t ever set foot in Colville and never met your mother.”

“Then why . . .” Her voice falters as reality finally sinks in. “But Kelvin knew about the money.”

“Kelvin’s fan base is more important to him.”

“Do you think Timothy . . .”

The look in her eyes reminds me that I still have a heart. How many hits is she going to have to take? “No. I don’t think that at all. There are some good and decent people in the world, and Timothy is one of them. But right now we are up against the assholes. Understand? And that guy outside the door is part of the asshole clan, sure and certain.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if he was, like, visiting Colville or something?”

“Did her journal say anything about boys visiting? C’mon—you really need to tell me. It’s time.”

The music from the parking lot is becoming annoying. It’s moved on from “Closer Home” to the new album, the one with a picture of that blasted horse on the cover. I want to scream at the top of my lungs.

But at least the knocking stops, and Ariel finally decides to cooperate.

“All right,” she says. “I guess I might as well tell. There are only three others. Some guy named Hunter Brasswell or Braithewait. Arlyn Thompson. And, um, Grant somebody or other. That’s it.”

A shiver of relief runs through me. “Did you read the whole thing?” I ask, carefully.

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything . . . about Dale?”

Her eyes narrow. “That guy from the funeral? Should there be?”

“No.” I can feel the heat creeping up my neck and into my face. The more I try to stop it, the hotter I get, and I turn away to hide my face.

“Then how come you asked?”

“Because he took Callie to prom. The sharks are already onto him; if Callie mentioned him, there will be a bloodbath.”

Her forehead creases and her eyebrows go up. “How would they know if she mentions him or not?”

“The diary,” I say, as gently as I can.

“But Shadow has it.”

I don’t respond to this. I wait. She’s a smart girl; she won’t live in denial forever.

“Oh,” she says, finally. And again, “Oh.”

I wait to see how she’s going to take this, dreading hysterics or, worse, a return to shocked immobility.

“I thought he only told them where we were and everything. You think he sold the diary?” She grabs her phone off the dresser, thumbs moving at lightning speed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m asking him what he did with it.”

“You think he’s going to tell you the truth?” I find the remote and click on the TV. If he’s sold the diary, there will be speculation all over the news.

“Jerk’s ignoring me. Maybe we should call the cops after all.” She slams down the phone, grabs her laptop, and flops onto the bed.

On second thought, I don’t think that’s a good idea. The last thing we need is to have the media taking pictures of a cop at our motel door. Hell, if I have to, I can buy the car from the rental people.

“Let’s wait a little,” I tell her, flicking through TV channels. Commercials on all the local channels. Dramas and comedies on the cable affiliates. I flick past a talk show featuring a man in a suit and half glasses expounding on something psychological, then flick back. A ticker tape runs across the bottom of the screen: “Ariel Redfern in Pasco Searching for Her Father.”

“These children of stars,” the man is saying, “are inevitably damaged by their parents. Generally, they are dragged into the spotlight at an early age and made to feel that they are the center of the universe. It becomes a rush, a fix. All children seek attention. Too much of it turns into an addiction to the spotlight, to the camera.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ariel says. “Who is that idiot?”

“Apparently, he is Dr. Ralph Newcomb, Ph.D.”

“Take this case of Ariel Redfern,” he goes on. “It would appear that her mother kept her out of the spotlight quite effectively. As a child, we don’t see her traipsing to the awards or put on display. And yet, here we see her engaged in this publicity stunt only days after her mother’s death. In grief, the need for outside recognition and acknowledgment from the fan base overpowers the healthy desire for connection with family and friends. Also, one must ask whether her guardian is manipulating her at this point.”