Oblivion (28 page)

L
indsey’s in her bedroom with her iPod speakers cranked up so loudly that she doesn’t hear me step in, even when I rap on the door. She’s wearing a white cotton tank, a matching fleece hoodie, and camouflage flannel pajama pants adorned with
Booty Camp
across the rear—which I see because she’s lying on her stomach, kicking her feet to and fro. Her phone is in her hands; thumbs busy at work, texting.

Grass
.

I’m certain she’s gossiping about me. It’s a good guess that the student body will be afire tomorrow with all sorts of unreliable theories as to why I was detained at the police station tonight wearing only John Fogel’s sweater and wet undergarments.

I knock again. Louder this time.

Grass
.

When Lindsey looks up, her black tresses fall over her turquoise eyes. For a moment, an expression of pure vulnerability is present in her pained stare, but then I decide she only looks sort of stunned to see me, as if she expected her parents to abandon me simply because I’ve pissed her off. Still, I’m struck with her natural beauty, with her ability to command a room simply by being in it.

“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.