Deadly Little Voices (6 page)

“A female?” Kimmie asks.

I nod, remembering the pair of ice skates in front of the girls’ locker room during my hallucination in sculpture class.

“So, does this mean we should be on the lookout for suicidal skaters?” Wes asks, seemingly serious.

I bite my lip, beyond confused. On one hand it feels really good to tell them stuff, but still, no matter how hard I try to explain what’s been going on, I can’t possibly expect them to understand what I can barely make sense of myself.

“Perhaps here lies the root of your whacked-out dream,” Kimmie says, plucking my long-lost doll out from under my covers. Kimmie flips the doll’s dress up, revealing dirty rubber knees and a stray pen mark on the belly. “Since when do you sleep with dolls?”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” Wes says with a wink. “I’ve got a life-size Princess Leia pillow that I’ve been known to cuddle on occasion…especially on those cold and lonely nights in front of the fire.”

“Miss Dream Baby,” I say, ignoring his chatter. “That’s what I named her when I was little.”

“Miss Nightmare Baby might have been more appropriate,” he says.

“She’d been missing for years,” I tell them. “But I found her in my room last night.”

“
Found
her?” Kimmie’s barbell-pierced eyebrow rises. She peers around at my room.

Aside from a couple of sweatshirts piled up on my dresser and a few pairs of shoes strewn about the floor, it’s actually pretty neat.

“I think my aunt had the doll all this time,” I explain.

“So, let me get this straight,” Wes says. “Your escaped mental patient of an aunt stole your baby doll when you were little, kept it for some twisted amount of time, and then snuck into your room last night and left it here for you?”

“Okay, first of all, my aunt is hardly an escapee. She was legitimately released into my mother’s care. And, secondly, I found the doll by accident—by stepping on it in a pile of clothes and recognizing the familiar squeak.”

Kimmie pushes the doll’s belly and it lets out a catlike cry. “As if things couldn’t get more creeptastic.”

“Almost as creeptastic as that noise,” Wes says, nodding toward the wall that separates my room from Aunt Alexia’s, where we can suddenly hear a scratching sound, like fingernails against wooden panels.

“Ignore it,” I say, wondering if Alexia might be trying to listen in on our conversation through the wall. “It comes and goes at various points of the day—ever since my aunt moved in.” Apparently she isn’t sleeping after all.

“Well, if that isn’t enough to drive you nuts…” Wes says. “Who needs voices in their head and public displays of convulsions?”

“I know,” I whisper, wondering what it would actually take for me to get to that tipping point—another month of voices? Another year? And where will Kimmie and Wes be then? Still by my side? Or tired of my drama? Or maybe even fearful of me? The way I’ve become fearful of my aunt?

I grab Miss Dream Baby and hug her against my chest, thinking how it was only a couple of months ago that I visited my aunt in Detroit—when we talked a bit, and painted together, and when she showed me her art.

So, what happened?

Why is she like a stranger in my house?

And why can’t I get over this anger? As stupid and irrational and embarrassing as it is to admit, part of me—my six-year-old self—can’t help feeling angry that she had my doll all this time.

“What’s up with the
X
’s?” Wes nods toward the marks made over the doll’s ears.

“I’m not sure, but I suspect that the answer might have something to do with hearing voices.”

“Do you think she did it recently?” Kimmie runs her finger over the marks, trying to rub off some of the ink.

“Like, maybe somehow she knew you were hearing voices, too?” Wes says, all but frothing at the mouth at his theory. “And this doll is part of some weird and twisted voodoo spell to make those voices go away? You know Van Gogh cut his ear off, right?”

“For the record, it was just his earlobe,” I say.

“And is there a point to this random piece of trivia?” Kimmie asks.

“Are you kidding? There’s nothing random about it,” Wes says. “An artist, rumored to have suffered from major mental illness, cuts off his ear…”

“Meaning you think Van Gogh was hearing voices, too?” I ask.

“It’s possible,” he says, giving a happy tug to his earlobe.

“Just curious, but were you dropped on your head at birth?” Kimmie asks him.

“Anyway,” I say, getting us back on track, “it must’ve been pretty important to Aunt Alexia that I got the doll back. I mean, she hardly even comes out of the guest room.”

“That you know of,” Wes says, correcting me. “Maybe she merely dropped it while stalking around in your room while you slept.”

“But then why tuck me in with it?” I ask, noticing how the doll’s eyelids (the kind that open and close) are much droopier than I remember, and how it appears as if the lashes have all been plucked out. I glance in my dresser mirror, picturing the word
BITCH
scribbled over my reflection—when my ex-boyfriend Matt broke into my room several months ago and wrote it across the surface in bloodred lipstick. Is it a coincidence that the words
DIE ALREADY, WILL

YOU?!
were scribbled across the locker-room mirror in my hallucination?

“Well, I still think we need to figure out a way to stop all of this touch stuff.” Kimmie wraps her arm around my shoulder. “But don’t even think I’m going to let you sleep alone tonight.”

“Planning a sleepover?” Wes perks up.

“I’ll tell my mom we’re working on a research thing,” Kimmie tells me.

“I, on the other hand, will need no excuse,” Wes says. “Dad will be as giddy as a zitless schoolgirl to hear about our threesome. What time shall I bring my pj’s? They’re Iron Man–themed, by the way, which is totally appropriate, when you think about it.” He winks.

“You’re so mentally disturbed,” Kimmie tells him.

“And speaking of…Camelia, what’s it going to take for
you
to get some mental help?”

Wes asks. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I say, pulling Ms. Beady’s sticky note from my pocket. “I need to call this doctor. Apparently, she works at Hayden and knows a thing or two about all things psychic.”

“Hayden as in, where Adam goes to school?” Kimmie asks.

“Nothing like multitasking,” Wes says. “A little psychic talk on the shrink’s couch, followed by pillow talk on Adam’s.”

“And what do you think our favorite touch boy would have to say about all this?”

Kimmie asks.

“Do you really think Benny Boy needs to know about Camelia’s occupancy on Adam’s love couch?” Wes asks.

“I was actually referring to Camelia’s recent bout of hearing-voices syndrome,” Kimmie says. “Don’t you think he ought to know about it?”

“Wasn’t it you who said I should be mourning?” I ask her.

“Okay, so I didn’t want to bring this up,” she says, “but since we’re sort of talking about him anyway—”

“Rumor has it that Ben’s seeing someone else,” Wes blurts.

“But it’s totally false,” Kimmie says, flicking a Starburst at his head. “I mean, let’s not

forget that he could barely even lay a finger on Camelia without going into a touch-induced tizzy.”

“Unless, of course, he only tizzies with Chameleon,” Wes ponders aloud.

“We all know that isn’t true,” I say, thinking about Ben’s past with his girlfriend Julie—when he touched her on the cliff that day. “Do we know
who
he’s supposedly seeing?”

“Not yet,” Wes says, “but I’ve got calls in to all my connections.”

“Within the geek community,” Kimmie says, blowing him a kiss.

“Of which you’re the current president.” He blows a kiss back at her. “Anyway, I should know within the hour.” He checks his cell phone for messages.

I gaze down at my hands, feeling my heart tighten. It’s not that I don’t want Ben to be happy. It’s just that a part of me can’t help feeling jealous—the part that wants him to be happy only with me.

“I’m just thinking it might be a good idea to keep the lines of communication open with Ben,” Kimmie says. “If not for your heart, then for the sake of your head.”

“Not to mention your other body parts,” Wes jokes.

“I just mean, considering everything that’s going on with you right now,” Kimmie continues, “it might not be the best time to stop all communication with Ben.”

“No one’s stopping anything,” I tell her. “And it’s not that I don’t want Ben to know what’s been going on with me. It’s just that his power works a lot differently from mine. Don’t you think I should be focusing my attention on finding someone who knows exactly what I’m going through?”

“Someone besides your ear-hating aunt, you mean?” Wes says, smooching Miss Dream Baby’s ear. “With all due respect, of course.”

“Of course,” I say, looking down at the sticky note again, knowing full well how crazy my whole story sounds.

And only half believing that I’m not going crazy, too.

WHILE WES DRIVES KIMMIE home to get her stuff, I remain in my room, wondering if Aunt Alexia might be open to talking to me.

I get up from the bed and place my ear against our shared wall, accidentally kicking one of my strewn shoes in the process; the wooden heel knocks into the wall.

My heart tightens and I hold my breath, hoping she doesn’t think it was me knocking, trying to get her attention.

A moment later, a clanking noise comes from her room. I huddle in closer, trying to hear something more. The scratching sound has returned. “Camelia?” a voice asks. I start and then turn to look, surprised to find my dad standing just behind me. “What are you doing?” he asks with a grin.

My pulse racing, I look back at the wall. The scratching sound has stopped now, but I honestly have no words.

He studies me for several moments, then asks if I’m hungry. “Your mother won’t be home for another hour,” he says, flashing me a bag from Taco Bell. The smell of chicken chalupas calls out to me.

I follow Dad into the hall. He stops in front of the guest room door and knocks a couple of times. It takes a moment for Aunt Alexia to answer; her door creaks open with an eerie whine.

Dressed in a loose cotton dress and a pair of leggings, she stares at me as Dad talks to her.

“Care to join us for a little snack?” he asks her, holding the bag up. “I got enough for all of us.”

She hesitates, as if considering the idea, but then shakes her head, still gazing at me.

“Maybe some other time.”

Dad nods and tells her that we’ll be in the kitchen if she changes her mind. I start to follow him, noticing that Aunt Alexia continues to watch me. She tries to be sneaky about it, closing the door most of the way, peeking out through the crack; plus she’s switched her room light off.

But I can still see her there: a sliver of white that cuts through the darkness, sending shivers all over my skin.

“Coming?” Dad says, already down the hall, in the kitchen. I can hear him setting up the island.

I take one last look at Aunt Alexia’s room, just as the door clicks shut.

“How’s she doing?” I ask Dad, joining him in the kitchen. I slide onto an island stool, noting the requisite trash bag he’s set out in which to dump any remaining evidence.

Dad pops the lid off a container of salsa and assures me that Aunt Alexia’s been taking all her medication, going to therapy twice a week, and receiving high marks for cooperation from Nurse Loretta.

“Yes, but she barely comes out of her room,” I remind him.

“At night, she does. She’s been sleeping a lot during the day. She’s got her days and nights reversed, I guess.”

I manage a nod, wondering if her erratic sleep schedule is the reason I’ve had the sensation of being watched: if maybe she’s been skulking around the house while I sleep, and peeking into my room.

We eat in silence for several minutes. I can tell Dad’s got a lot on his mind. He keeps gazing up from his trough of guacamole, taking big breaths as if about to say something.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, finally venturing to speak. He looks toward my plate.

“Better than okay,” I say, assuming he’s talking about the food.

“And what about between you and Aunt Alexia?” he asks. “Is everything okay in that department, too?”

I pause from polishing off the container of nacho dip. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, have you two gotten a chance to chat at all?”

“Not really,” I say, choosing not to tell him about last night, because I’m not so sure that being coaxed out of a closet and tucked into bed with my long-lost baby doll constitutes an actual chat. “She seems so much different now than she was at the mental facility—more afraid, less willing to talk. It’s like she’s taken a step back.”

“Well, I think you should at least
try
to talk to her,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready, that is. I think it might make her more comfortable. Nurse Loretta told us that Alexia’s feeling a bit self-conscious about staying here. Your mom and I want her to feel welcome.”

I swallow hard; a chip scrapes my throat. “I’d like to talk to her. I think we might have a lot in common.”

Dad meets my eyes, waiting for me to elaborate, maybe. But I’m waiting for him to elaborate, too. It feels like there’s so much more being said than what’s actually coming out of our mouths.