Extraordinary (9 page)

She would call Ryland.

Her heart beat quickly, quickly.

Phoebe didn't feel comfortable contacting Ryland that same night, not with Mallory sleeping across the hall in the turquoise bedroom. But the next day at school, during her morning study hall, she slipped into the girls' restroom. Fingers trembling slightly, she texted him.

A moment later, she remembered that Mallory had said Ryland didn't respond to text messages. But the actual truth must have been that Ryland preferred not to answer
Mallory's
texts, because not two minutes later, Phoebe's phone trilled to signal a call.

And it was him.

Phoebe had not expected such an immediate response. She had a moment of panic. Then she sent up a quick prayer of thankfulness that she was alone, and also that she had fifteen minutes left of her study hall. “H—hello?”

Ryland's voice was deep, resonant, and faintly amused. “Hello, Phoebe Rothschild. What's so v. important?”

Phoebe had to struggle to remember. “Um, your sister—Mallory—she said something about, uh, about your mother's care. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.” Phoebe tried for a crisp, businesslike, adult manner. “Mallory said you've canceled the service that checks on your mother a few times a week. But they're needed. They make sure your mother is doing okay on her medications and eats enough and goes for a walk now and then, and, you know. Washes. They take her to doctor's appointments and things too. They make sure there are groceries in the house.” She paced the restroom while she talked.

“Mallory and I can do all of that. We don't need to be paying strangers for it. Or perhaps I should say: your family shouldn't be. I'm grateful. I'll thank your parents as well. It's not that I'm unappreciative. But you've done enough.”

Ryland sounded so reasonable that Phoebe almost found herself agreeing.

But she didn't agree, and after a moment, she recalled exactly why. “No, please, can't you understand? I mean, yes, Mallory can do those things for your mother sometimes, but it's such a relief to her to know there are professionals helping. She needs to be able to take care of her own life without worrying. She has to be able to go to school and study.”

“And she needs plenty of time to be visiting with you overnight too?” said Ryland. “Which is where she was last night, correct?” There was a little teasing note in his voice. But there was also—also—

Phoebe felt her face heat up. “What are you saying?”

“What do you think I'm saying?”

Now Phoebe was embarrassed about her embarrassment. She did love Mallory, and why should she care what Mallory's brother thought about it? He could ask Mallory herself; that was what he ought to be doing.

But—but she did care what he thought. Suddenly, she cared terribly. She wanted him to be clear on this point. Clear about her.

She said, “Well, Mallory does come and stay often with me, but that's just because, you know . . . we're such good friends . . .”

“But what does it mean to be your friend, Phoebe?” The teasing note in Ryland's voice was paramount now; that other insinuation had vanished. Maybe she had imagined it?

Before she could reply—assuming she could even have thought of a reply—he went on. “I'm told that you have one other really good friend, a boy named Benjamin. But Mallory says she's never met him. Are you different with your male friends than your female friends, Phoebe? I wonder.”

Was he—could he be—was Ryland
flirting
with her? No, no. Not possible. And yet—

Excitement began to flutter in Phoebe; she couldn't control it even though, in a way, it horrified her. She tried to calm herself down. Ryland was just asking a question.

“You mean my friend Benjamin Michaud? He lives on Nantucket. We have a vacation home there, that's when I see him. Mallory hasn't ever been able to come with us, even though I've asked her. She's never wanted to be that far away, in case something happened with your mother.”

Phoebe discovered she was gripping her phone hard. “Benjamin's younger than me,” she added, for no reason.

Ryland's voice, when he replied, sounded almost caressing.

“So he's just a friend, then, this Benjamin Michaud? Not your lover? And my sister, she is not your lover either?”

Phoebe was speechless. Her hand, where she held the phone, was sweaty.

“The answer to both of my questions is clearly no,” said Ryland's voice.

Now it seemed almost as if his words caressed the rim of her ear before entering it and translating into sense.

“And I can also tell that I've shocked you. I apologize, Phoebe. You haven't had any lovers at all, have you? Not yet.”

Phoebe tried to say something—anything—but all that emerged from her throat was a little croak.

She discovered that she had at some point stopped pacing, and that she now stood in front of the row of sinks. She was staring at her own face in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were huge . . . her body felt—felt—

“I apologize again,” said the voice. “I wanted to know, Phoebe, and so I asked. It was wrong of me. Can you forgive me for shocking you?”

“Oh,” Phoebe managed at last. “O—okay.”

“Really? Is it okay?”

“I—yes.”

“Truly? Say you forgive me.” Ryland's voice was a spectral finger that had reached out to trail down her bare spine. “I need to hear the exact words.”

“I forgive you,” Phoebe whispered.

“Do you? Say it again.”

“I forgive you.”

“What you say three times is true. Say it once more, but say it with my name, so that I know you mean it. Say, ‘I forgive you, Ryland.'”

“I forgive you, Ryland,” said Phoebe.

“Good,” said the voice. “And now—”

The bell for the end of class rang, loudly, jangling, startling Phoebe so that she literally jumped. The next second, the door to the restroom slammed open and two girls came in. They looked at Phoebe indifferently as she stood clutching her cell phone, and then once more the door slammed and three more girls piled in, talking, laughing—

It was like being shaken awake from a dream.

“I have to go now,” Phoebe said. “I have a class.”

“All right, then,” said Ryland easily. “I'm glad we talked, aren't you? Let's talk again. Call me. Will you?”

“Yes,” said Phoebe. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Phoebe held the phone to her ear for another long second. She was sleepless that night. Turn and reposition though she might, she couldn't seem to find a cool spot on her sheets. She got up once, in the middle of the night, to turn on the light and stare at herself again in the mirror.

She wasn't beautiful, she knew, but was she pretty at all? Sexy, desirable?

Had Ryland really been flirting with her? Had he really asked the intimate questions that he had asked? Yes, he had. He had. She ought to be repulsed, because he was six years older. But he was gorgeous, and his voice—oh, his voice . . .

Her blood pulsed through her body. When she put a hand on her chest, she felt her heart thump. She couldn't stay still; it was as if she needed,
needed
, to climb right out of her own skin. Would she ever sleep again? She didn't see how.

What next? He had asked her to call him again. If she didn't, would
he
call
her
?

How would she feel when she saw Mallory again tomorrow? She had avoided her friend after the phone call. She hadn't felt ready to talk normally with her, after what Ryland had said about her and Mallory.

Benjamin too. Ryland had asked about Phoebe and Benjamin. Imagine that. It was as if he could not conceive of a friendship that was not, in some way, sexual.

Phoebe went back to bed but still did not sleep. After a while, she crept into her bathroom and had a long, hot bath, with bubbles and scented soap and bath oil from France.

Finally, finally, morning came.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Ryland is—well, it's working. Phoebe's becoming obsessed with him.”

“And Ryland, what is your opinion?”

“My sister is telling the truth, my queen. We have made excellent progress. The girl is fascinated.”

“And your sister is cooperating? She is helping you?”

“Yes. Soon I will not need her anymore.”

It was the first official day of spring in the month of March, but Boston was greeted by a gentle snow shower that scattered a light dusting of white on the landscape.

Phoebe enjoyed snow, especially when it came down all soft and unthreatening as on this particular March day. But knowing how Mallory loathed it—Mallory complained bitterly about every aspect of winter weather—Phoebe wasn't surprised to find that her friend had declared a personal snow day and not come to school. She was relieved too, because she still didn't quite feel able to face her. Out of guilt, she sent a stream of text messages to Mallory during the day. But as the day wore on and Mallory failed to respond to even one of them, Phoebe, vaguely, thought it was odd.

But the forefront of her mind was occupied with its own separate tug-of-war.

I won't call him, Phoebe thought. I won't, I won't, I won't.

I want to.

I won't.

And she didn't. But after school, she got in her car and found that, instead of driving home, she was on her way to Mallory's. She would just check in on her friend, she told herself. She would drag Mallory kicking and screaming out into the land of the living, even if there was snow on the ground there.

The Tollivers' driveway was empty, which meant Ryland was not home. Phoebe repressed disappointment, even though she acknowledged, in that moment, that she had really come to see him.

But it was Mallory she ought to see. It was Mallory who was her friend. She was lucky, really, that Ryland was not home.

She rang the doorbell and waited patiently, swinging her backpack in one hand. There was a light on inside, and Phoebe could hear the irritating elevator music that Mrs. Tolliver liked. Mallory would no doubt be wrapped up in bed in three or four quilts, pretending she was going to die of the cold. Since Mrs. Tolliver never got up from her sofa unless she had to, she'd be whining pathetically for Mallory to get the door.

But when Phoebe had rung three times without success, she gave up and reached for her phone. It was then that the door opened. And it was Mrs. Tolliver, not Mallory.

It was Mrs. Tolliver in a terrible state, her face streaked with tears and her shoulders and chest heaving in loud hiccup-like sobs.

“Mrs. Tolliver, what is it?”

Mrs. Tolliver had already turned and walked unsteadily back into her living room. Phoebe followed her to the sofa, where Mrs. Tolliver collapsed and said something that the volume of the awful music drowned out. Luckily, the music player was within reach, and it only took Phoebe a second to turn it off.

“I'm alone,” said Mrs. Tolliver to Phoebe. “I have nobody. I have nothing.” Without the competition from the music, her voice emerged powerfully. It was very different from the dull, tentative voice she usually used. Hearing it seemed to startle Mrs. Tolliver; her body jerked as if in surprise.

Phoebe knelt beside the sofa, dropped her backpack onto the floor, and put a hand on Mrs. Tolliver's arm. “Now, you know that's not true. You have Mallory and Ryland.”

Mrs. Tolliver blinked at Phoebe. “My daughter Mallory is dead,” she said. “She died years ago. Who is this Ryland? And who are you?”

“I'm Phoebe, Mallory's friend. We've met many times. And Ryland is your son. He's been away for a few years, though. Remember? And Mallory isn't dead. She lives here with you.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Tolliver blinked at Phoebe. “Mallory didn't die of leukemia?”

“No! Of course not. Mallory is just fine. Mrs. Tolliver, were you asleep? Did you have a nightmare?” Then Phoebe had another thought. “Have you had your medication today?”

A sly expression slid across Mrs. Tolliver's face. “I had my Skittles. I'd rather have Skittles than any other pills. They help me more.”

“I see,” said Phoebe. This was by far the worst she'd ever seen Mrs. Tolliver, and she was a little frightened. The woman was totally disconnected from reality. She needed those home health care people! “Well, listen, I'm going to go get Mallory.”

“All right.” Mrs. Tolliver seemed suddenly to see Phoebe anew. “Wait. I remember you now,” she said. “Mallory's little friend. It must be true, then. Mallory isn't dead. Thank God.” She smiled warmly, all at once returning to apparent stability.

Phoebe was relieved.

“It's true. I promise. Mallory's alive.” She's just sleeping like she's dead, Phoebe thought. “I'll go get her now.”

“Oh, good, dear. Thank you!”

Phoebe escaped down the hall toward Mallory's room, the door of which was closed. She rapped on it, and when there was no answer, turned the knob and eased it open an inch. “Mallory?” she said. “It's Phoebe. Are you sleeping? It's after three! You have to get up! Your mom isn't doing well. She says she didn't take her medication, but I don't know what to get her, or what to do.”

There was still no answer, so Phoebe went in.

She had visited before, but not often, and always in a rush because she and Mallory were on their way somewhere else. So she had never really paused to reflect on the bare white walls of Mallory's room, the lack of any dolls or stuffed animals or other totems from childhood, except to think smugly about how different the room was from Mallory's other room at Phoebe's house.