Rattled (9 page)

I sat there on the floor for a minute, arms crossed. I was kind of surprised. Mrs. Swicker didn't strike me as the sentimental type. Baby stuff was the last thing I expected to find.

A blanket in each hand, I twirled around the furnace room doing my best impression of a rhythmic gymnast performing an Olympic gold medal ribbon routine. Satisfied they were dry enough, I knelt to re-roll them and pack them away in the exact way I had found them. I picked up the rattle that had been inside the pink blanket. I could feel engraving under my fingers. Holding it up close to my face I read,
Amy Elizabeth,
July 1, 1994.

I frowned. Amy Elizabeth? Who the heck was that? It was at that moment I heard a noise. The furnace room was next to the garage. I could hear a car engine in the driveway. My heart jumped into my throat and I felt the air being sucked out of my lungs.
They must be back early!
They weren't supposed to be back until later! Frantically I bundled everything up as best I could, pressed down the tape, put the box back, jammed the wet paper towel in my pocket, and tore back up the stairs. I slid across the floor, as if I were sliding into home base, and came to a stop by Peter and his bowl of Meow Mix just as the Swickers walked in the door.

“Hi!” I blurted. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. My heart was beating so loudly, I could swear they must have been able to hear it.

Mrs. Swicker stood in the doorway looking down at me, a startled expression on her face.

“I just got here,” I explained, my voice unnaturally loud. “Peter seemed lonely, I thought I should stay with him for a few minutes, pet him, talk to him, that kind of thing.” I knew I was rambling.

Suspicion was written all over Mrs. Swicker's face. “I couldn't figure out why the door was unlocked,” she said slowly.

“Just little ol' me.” I swallowed nervously and stood up. “Everything's fine here, just fine.”

Megan stepped around Mrs. Swicker and scooped up Peter. “Did you miss us, boy? Thanks again, Lydia.”

“Oh it was fine, everything's just fine,” I squeaked. I had to get out of there. “Okay, well…see ya tomorrow.” I squeezed between Mrs. Swicker and Sam and rushed out the door. I was in such a hurry, I almost didn't notice how cute Sam looked with his new haircut.

Chapter 12

M
y heart was still racing when I got back home. I went directly to the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I nervously rocked back and forth waiting for my breathing to return to normal. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember if I had turned off the light in the furnace room. Mom had us trained so well, I was hoping I'd done it instinctively. I just couldn't remember.

Mrs. Swicker was barely civil to me
now
. I couldn't imagine how she'd treat me if she suspected me of going through her stuff. If she noticed the light was on, if she saw the box, she'd be able to tell right away. Ohmygod! Then she'd tell Mom, and take it from there…the possibilities were endless, and none of them good.

If this whole thing blew up, I had to have a plan, a reason why I had been down there. The truth? Always an option, I suppose. Think. I just needed a couple minutes to think, and I did some of my best thinking in the bathroom. It was a result of Mom's unconventional (I prefer the word
twisted
) approach to parenting. Whenever Jilly or I would get in trouble, the kind of trouble when most parents would send their kid to their room, Mom sent us to the bathroom. “It's no punishment being sent to your room these days,” she would say, “iPods, TVs, a
bed!
…that's no hardship. Wish someone would send me to
my
room and make me stay there for an hour.” So, it was off to the bathroom for us, and let me just say, sitting in the bathroom for an hour? Pretty boring, not much else to do but…think.

Okay, so the truth may have been the way to go. I mean, I hadn't done anything wrong. My issue was that I knew no matter how I explained it, Mrs. Swicker wasn't going to believe me. She'd be convinced I was up to something. I wanted to shake myself and say, “What do I care what she thinks? I can't stand the woman.” And that was true. I really did feel that way. But there was something else: Mrs. Swicker kind of scared me. I think I was actually afraid of her.

And what about that rattle? The name—Amy Elizabeth. Who was that? And the date—July 1, 1994. I was pretty sure Megan had mentioned once her birthday was around Christmas. Did Sam and Megan have a sister? Where was she? And the other blanket and rattle. Who did those belong to? It all kind of weirded me out. I massaged my temples. I was starting to get a headache. Lucky for me, I was in the bathroom. I popped a couple Advil and leaned against the vanity.

There was an impatient knock on the bathroom door. “Yo! Did you fall in or what?”

Jilly. I decided not to answer her. It seemed to work. I heard her footsteps leaving.

I wondered what my odds were of ever getting back to that furnace room and that box, checking out the other rattle, seeing what else was in there. As I sat back down on the edge of the tub, I heard the tinkle of a bell. It was Megan's key chain in my pocket. A smile spread across my face. I wondered how long it would take for someone to realize I still had it. Could I hang on to it long enough to get back in their house? Would I have the guts to actually go? If they asked for it back, I could say I misplaced it or something. Yeah, that could work. Of course I would have to wait for the right opportunity. Obviously the house would have to be empty. Unfortunately that didn't seem to be very often.

There was a brief moment when I contemplated just asking Sam and Megan, asking them about the rattles and this Amy Elizabeth. I talked myself out of it. I couldn't picture myself bringing it up. It would totally look like I'd been snooping.

There was another knock at the door.

“Lid! Get out! I wanna use the bathroom.”

“Just use the downstairs one, would ya?”

“No! I have to do my eyebrows and I need Mom's tweezers. God, I'm starting to look like I've been raised by wolves.”

“Come back in five minutes. Is that too much to ask?”

“Holy crap, Lid! I'm not asking for a friggin' kidney. Get out of the bathroom!”

I knew I'd never get any peace now. “Fine!” I huffed, and stormed out. “And you're right! You do look like you've been raised by wolves!” I hollered just before I slammed my bedroom door.

Chapter 13

W
e were sitting at Megan's kitchen table. It was one of the few times I had actually been allowed in the house. Mrs. Swicker had to be home. That was the rule. Counting in my head, not including the cake delivery and feeding Peter, this was only the third time I'd been in their house since they'd moved in. Mrs. Swicker was downstairs doing God knows what. Megan said laundry. My guess was trying to make contact with her home planet.

I'd just finished telling Megan about the big scandal at Dad's office. Kelley, the girl I was filling in for, had taken her vacation with some guy she'd met on an online dating site, and after just two days, they'd bolted to Vegas and got married.

She didn't seem to find the story as fascinating as I did. Actually, I wasn't even sure she'd been listening. “You okay?” I asked, noticing the dark circles under her eyes.

“Yeah. Just tired. Mom must have been having bad dreams or something. She talked in her sleep all night,” Megan said, avoiding eye contact. “Once I was awake, I couldn't seem to drift off again.”

I stopped what I was doing, my Oreo-filled hand poised mid-dunk over a glass of milk. “
Really
?” I rolled this around in my head for a second. “So…like…could you make out what she was saying?”

Megan looked up. She was doing that thing with her ring again, sliding it up and down her finger. I could tell she was struggling with something, like she was wondering whether or not to confide in me. After a worried glance around the room, she leaned in real close and whispered, “Stuff like, ‘You deserve it. You made me do it.'”

“Wow,” I gasped. “Freaky.”

“I know, and it's not the first time,” she continued. “Sam's heard her too.”

“I wonder what she was talking about,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Not a clue. But Sam says she's had that same dream for ages. I only noticed it since we moved here. Guess my room is closer to hers in this house.”

“What do
you
think it means?”

“It sounds like something bad, doesn't it?”

“Hmm…because it doesn't seem like just a dream, it seems like more of a nightmare.”

“Yes, definitely a nightmare,” Megan nodded. “Sometimes she yells.”

I knew the answer to this question already, but, “I don't suppose you asked her about it?”

“No.”

I took a sip of my milk. With this new development, and the box in the furnace room, my brain was definitely nearing overload. “What if…” I began, thinking out loud. But then good sense kicked in.

“What if what? Tell me what you're thinking.”

“Forget it, I'm probably way off.”

“Lydia!”

“Okay…What if it has something to do with your dad? Like maybe the person she's talking about in her dream is him.” I said it in a really tentative, “feeling out the topic” sort of way.

“You mean like she did something to him?”

“I dunno…Maybe?”

“Something bad, you mean,” Megan said, narrowing her eyes.

I shrugged my shoulders. I had a sinking feeling I was going to regret ever opening my big mouth…
again
.

“You mean something really bad. Like she
killed
him or something,” Megan accused. Her tone had definitely changed.

“No, no,” I lied. “You're blowing it out of proportion, that's the
extreme
version.” My voice was light, but she didn't buy it. I was back-pedalling, knowing I had gone one step too far.

“You're not a very good liar,” she said in a tight voice.

I could feel my face turning red. My brain was screaming at me to shut up. Do you think for once I could just listen? No sir-ee. “But if you think about it, it could really explain a lot of things. The strange way she acts, those dreams. And, like, what's the deal with your dad anyways? She won't let you even ask a question about him? You have to admit, that's kind of weird.”

“Maybe
he's
the one who did something bad.”

I took my time answering. “Okay…guess that's possible.” I doubted it though. “Still, she must know you guys are going to want to know about him. I mean, really, why won't she just tell you? Or make something up even? You have no reason not to believe her if she did. It's bizarre. You must think so too.”

“Just because she acts weird, or isn't like
your
mom, doesn't mean she's a
murderer
.” That last word,
murderer
, just kind of hung there, letters strung through the air.

The screaming in my head finally took over. “You're totally right,” I said. “When you put it like that, I don't know what I was thinking.” I knew exactly what I was thinking. It made perfect sense to
me
, but sometimes you just have to know when to quit.

“I think maybe you should go,” she said quietly. “I've got some stuff I'm supposed to do.”

I puffed out my cheeks and let the air leak out through my mouth. I felt like I was being dismissed. I made my way towards the door, real slow, waiting for her to call me back. She didn't.

To be honest, Megan's reaction surprised me a bit. Their mother-daughter relationship had always seemed sort of strained. Guess you never really know how someone feels about their mom until you suggest that she might be a murderer. I'd have to remember that for the next time.

Back home I stomped in the front door, sulk mode on high.

Mom was on the phone and held up a hand to shush me before I could even open my mouth. My shoulders slumped, I sighed and leaned against the doorframe. After listening for a minute, it was obvious she was talking to her editor. She wrote training manuals for different companies—guess someone has to. Knowing the call could last forever, I made my way upstairs.

The new
Teen Vogue
was lying on Jilly's desk. I grabbed it, took it to my room, and threw myself across my bed. I hung over the side, staring down at my matted pink and purple shag carpet. When I was nine, my parents let me redo my room, with Barbie pink walls and
this
carpet. I just
had
to have it. What was I thinking? My eyes ran along the baseboard, looking for a ripple or bubble, something big enough to get my fingers under. I was tempted to start ripping it up that very second, put my frustration to good use. Probably an all-day job, though. Maybe I'd save it for tomorrow. Or maybe I'd get Dad to do it on the weekend. He'd be way better at it than I would. I flipped open the magazine.

“You're back early,” Mom said.

I looked up, surprised she was off the phone. She seemed a little frazzled and had at least three pencils sticking out of the hair piled on top of her head.