Some Quiet Place (6 page)

I walk around him, the stairs squeaking beneath my feet. “That’s not true. Maggie is my friend.”

“Not for much longer,” he retorts, following me. His presence disturbs the cows once more; they start to bawl frantically. Fear’s coat flares around his feet as he stalks me to the house.

Choosing not to acknowledge this, I lower my voice as I tell him, “You should go. My mom isn’t feeling well right now.” And I don’t want her feeling any more uncomfortable around me than she already does—if I can’t live here, I’ll have nowhere else. Fear doesn’t reply, and when I turn, I see he’s gone. A lingering sense of hurt fills the air.

As I enter the kitchen Mom does her best to appear preoccupied, avoiding me. The phone lies on a table and the cord dangles across the floor from its base on the wall. I step over it and pick the phone up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Elizabeth. It’s … it’s Joshua.”

“Hello.” I notice Mom listening; besides Maggie, no one has ever called me before, much less a boy. When Joshua says nothing in response, I add, “How are you?”

He clears his throat. “Fine. Good. You?”

“Good.”

Joshua pauses a second time, then says with a nervous waver in his voice, “So, listen—” Something in the background clatters, and I imagine him tripping over a chair. He coughs, probably in an attempt to cover the sound. “I just wanted to let you know that today in Mrs. Farmer’s class, uh, after you left, everyone chose their partners for the project. And you and me are the only ones left.”

It wouldn’t be sensible to encourage this, to begin another friendship—not when that person is as observant as Joshua, and I’ve been so distracted lately. But then there’s Courage’s advice; he’d been so frank, and for once I find myself inclined to trust an Emotion.

“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound young and just as shy as Joshua.

If he’s surprised, he does well hiding it. “Okay, neat. I mean, cool. You’ve probably already looked at the handout, but the poems and story have to have a theme to them, I guess, and I was thinking we could—”

“I’ve looked at the handout,” I interrupt, hearing Tim’s heavy tread outside. “We can talk about it more at school. Okay?”

Joshua doesn’t ask questions or try to stay on the line. “Okay. See you.”

“Bye.” I hang up. Mom is still looking at me curiously, but I don’t offer any explanations. Tim’s opening the door, the hinges groaning. I’m gone before he sets one foot into the house.

Eight

It didn’t escape me, during his last visit, that Fear never gave me an answer when it came to the newspaper. Clearly the article disappearing changed things for him, and he intends to pursue this on his own. Although Fear is an excellent liar—he’s had centuries, millennia, to perfect the art—he can’t seem to hide the truth from me. As if some part of him wants me to know. And I will know; I’m good at research.

During lunch, rather than sitting in a corner by myself like every other day, I go to the school library. The librarian, Mrs. Marble, nods when she notices me slip into the room. I move quietly to the back corner, slipping in and out of shadows between the bookshelves.

I can’t rely on Fear to find answers; as soon as those words vanished right in front of me, I’d made the decision to search for my own copy of it. Though there shouldn’t be anything strange about a story like surviving a car accident, the fact that the article faded right as I was reading it makes
one fact obvious: there’s something in it worth hiding. And I’ve tried, but I can’t recollect ever hearing about the incident from my parents or anyone else—why wouldn’t they tell me?

The school archives are limited at best, but it’s the only library in Edson, so if a copy of the paper is anywhere, it’ll be here. Mrs. Marble leaves me to my search and I bury myself in the dusty corner where all the records are kept, sneezing once in a while. No one has been back here in ages.

I start by looking at dates. If I was three or four at the time of the accident, the paper should have been published in 1999 or 2000. Many of the newspapers are missing, but I look anyway.

There isn’t much excitement in this area. I see headlines like
Crops Bad this Year
and
School Teacher Fired for Drug Use.
Articles range from reports of small crimes to business spats and school events. But nothing about a little girl surviving any kind of car accident partway through 1999.

There’s no time to keep delving through the year—the bell rings overhead. My next class is U.S. History. I make sure to put away the mess; Mrs. Marble is known to hunt kids down and stand over them as they clean up their clutter in her library.

Joshua is waiting for me when I enter the classroom. Holding my book to my chest, I make my way to a desk in the back, as usual. At the sight of me Joshua pastes that same lazy grin on his face. I can’t tell what he’s really thinking—his eyes are hidden by his long hair. I smile in greeting, appearing friendly. He pulls himself clumsily to his feet and approaches. He reminds me of a newborn colt, but he’s doing better at concealing his anxiety and excitement.

“So about the project,” he begins without preamble, sitting on the edge of my desk. I’ve never noticed what he’s wearing before, but now I do glance at the ripped and worn jeans, stained white T-shirt, and scuffed boots. Working on a farm all of his life has benefited Joshua; his arms aren’t scrawny as I’d first assumed, but sinewy. His body isn’t gangly, just lean.

“ … okay with it, right?”

I blink at Joshua. “Excuse me?”

He frowns, his expression becoming worried. The Emotion manifests next to him, touches him briefly before vanishing again. “Do you have a problem with it? Because I can talk to Mrs. Farmer if you want. I thought—”

Oh. The assigned partners. “It’s fine,” I say to Joshua, cutting his anxious tirade short. “I’m sorry; I was thinking about something.”

“Oh yeah?” Joshua raises his brows at me. “Care to share?”

“People, people, find your seats and zip your lips, please. Get your pencils and notebooks out and prepare yourselves—lots of notes today. Your wrists are going to love you by the time we get out!” Collective groans as Mr. Anderson strides to his desk followed by the bouncy figure of Excitement, a female Emotion with spiky hair and a slight frame. Mr. Anderson really does love teaching us. Joshua grins at me, shrugging, and goes back to his own desk.

Sophia is gone for once, and I know that if I had the ability, I would be grateful. I settle on the hard desk seat and put the whole of my concentration into taking notes.

Joshua tries not to look at me for the rest of the class period, yet the boy can’t help glancing back at me under his lashes. I can practically hear the thoughts buzzing around the inside of his busy brain. It serves to be a little distracting.

But not nearly as distracting as my own thoughts.

Two days pass without event. Dad keeps me busy on the farm, and he’s pleased with the progress we’ve made on the harvest. His good mood affects Mom; she treats me less as a frightening stranger at supper and more like a distant relative coming to stay for a while. “Pass the peas, please, Elizabeth?” she asks politely.

Charles, of course, pretends everything is good and happy. He has a new plan to get out of Edson: drag racing. He’s bought an old run-down car from the junkyard. Old Tom gave him a deal. Every night while I paint, Charles is in the garage, tinkering away at the thing. He’s also been going to a small track in Chippewa Falls. “To check out the competition,” he tells me. “I think once I get my baby all fixed up, I can take ’em.” I agree, because it’s what he wants.

By Thursday, my bruises are faded enough to be covered by makeup. The result is adequate, and I make arrangements to see Maggie. It’s been too long since my last visit—over two weeks—and I feel the insistent nudge to maintain appearances. Charles agrees to cover the milking and make an excuse if Dad notices I’m gone.

After school I get into my truck with my plan in place. The parking lot thrives with the sound of engines coming to life and kids shouting “Bye!”
and “See you tomorrow!” Just as I jam the keys into the ignition, though, something caught in the windshield wiper catches my eye. I open the door and pull the object free. A piece of paper. Blue ink. There’s the curve of a
Y
visible. I smooth it out against the steering wheel to read the rest.

ARE YOU HER?

The handwriting is neat, elegant curves and loops. Frowning in thought, I hold it to my nose and inhale. The smell of something fresh, dark, and cold clings to the paper. Odd. It’s either a prank or something else, and I have no idea what that could be. Best to dwell on it later. Pocketing the piece of paper, I start the engine and head to Eau Claire, about a forty-minute drive.

The trip offers the same scenery: the rolling hills of Wisconsin all around. The minutes and miles pass by in a blur. I find myself thinking yet again about the dreams.

Finally the silver arches of the hospital appear on my left, a huge building jutting up in front of the horizon. I find a parking space, reading the words over the doorway:
Sacred Heart Hospital
. The staff here knows me well. The curly haired nurse at the front desk nods at me when I walk through the automatic doors and I go to the elevator, pressing 9 for Maggie’s floor. The button glows red. A small
ding
sounds each time it goes up a floor and I focus all my attention on that sound, mentally preparing myself for the visit. My expressions, my reactions, my voice and gestures—all smoothed into the caring, concerned friend.

Maggie is asleep when I walk through the door, the tiles squeaking beneath my shoes. I stop, standing in a shaft of sunlight that slips in through the window. Her parents aren’t here, and I don’t know how long she’ll sleep. Every second that passes is a second that Tim will notice my absence, so I move to leave again.

“You aren’t even going to leave a note?” she whispers. I turn around and watch her eyes flutter open. She’s weakened considerably since the last time I saw her. Her face is almost as pale as the pillow she’s leaning against. She’s not wearing a wig today—wisps of hair stick up in forlorn tufts—and someone must have made her remove the lip ring. But in typical Maggie fashion, she’s rebelled by wearing a necklace with a skull pendant and painting her fingernails black. I approach once more, sitting down in the uncomfortable pink chair by her bedside. Maggie watches me, smiling sleepily.

“I was dreaming about the ocean,” she tells me. “Did you know I’ve never been to the ocean?”

“Yes, you’ve told me.”

Maggie tosses her head restlessly, a thin hand going up to touch the remaining strands of her once-shining red hair. “Just once, I’d like to put my feet in,” she says. “See those colorful fish I’ve heard about, take pictures of the coral reefs.”

“I know,” I reply softly. “And you will one day.”

“No, I won’t. And we both know it.” Maggie faces me, forcing herself to smile again. It looks unnatural, as if that smile wants to shrivel and crawl away to a dark corner to weep. Out of the corner of my eye I notice that an Emotion now accompanies us—Sorrow, who huddles near Maggie with a glistening tear on his cheek. His dark hair hides the rest of his face. I act as if he isn’t there and lean toward Maggie. Even though she contradicts me, I know she wants more lies. So I give them to her.

“We’ll put on skimpy bathing suits and run down the beach,” I tell her, touching her hand. She clings to my fingers and my hold tightens automatically. “Boys will look at you and want you. Girls will be so jealous of you. We’ll have our cameras, and we’ll take thousands of pictures. We’ll buy corn dogs from the beach vendors, we’ll wear those ridiculous big hats you see in the magazines”—Maggie snorts here—“and maybe we’ll even swim with some dolphins. What the hell.”

My friend sighs, her smile bittersweet now, but real. “I don’t know if it’s these meds they have me on, but you look so strange in the sunlight. Beautiful, really. As if you’re absorbing all the light and it’s shining from you instead of the sky.”

“Could be the meds, or maybe it’s just you,” I tease.

Suddenly Maggie doesn’t want any more jokes. Her mood swings in another direction—the doctors once said her medications would make this happen—and she makes a sound of impatience. “Forget all of this. Fuck it. I’m tired of talking about me. I’m sick of listening to the doctors and the nurses and my parents. Distract me, Liz. Give me all the dirty gossip from school. Or better yet, let’s blow this Popsicle stand! You drove here—let’s go find a party!” Her eyes
glitter, and Sorrow fades, swiftly replaced by Desperation. So many Emotions. It’s almost dizzying.

It’s my turn to force a smile, meant to comfort. “Why don’t we just stick to the gossip?” I suggest. Maggie deflates and sinks back against the pillows. Desperation abandons her, already looking for his next victim. “Let’s see … ” I think. “The Dorseth brothers were arrested again. For stealing from Hal’s hardware store, I think. Oh, and I heard Joshua Hayes turned down Sophia Richardson when she asked him to go to the homecoming dance with her.”

“What?” Maggie squeals, struggling to sit up. I put a restraining hand on her shoulder and she leans back again, but her eyes are still wide with glee. “Where did you hear this? Tell me
everything
.”

For an hour I regale her with stories. Maggie eats it all up, intent, and for a bit I do manage to make her forget. But at some point she begins to lose focus, and more Emotions blur into existence, all touching the sick girl. Envy, Loneliness, Longing. Dark skin, skin pale as my bedroom walls, frizzy hair, sleek hair, dismissal and interest. Maggie half-listens to me now, nodding to keep me talking, but I’d guess she’s thinking of all she’s lost, all she’ll miss, everything she wants and will never have. I focus on this so I don’t give away the presence of all the Emotions.

Finally I glance at the clock on the wall: 5:46. I’ll only be able to stay for a few more minutes. My gaze flicks back to Maggie and traces the outlines of her hollow cheeks, the sprinkling of freckles across her delicate nose. She’s so tiny, a fragile bird that will forever be in the nest and never know what it’s like to spread its wings and feel the wind and the radiance.

I’ve gone quiet. Maggie turns her face to the window. Orange-yellow light spills across her blanket. She closes her eyes, and I watch her long lashes brush against her skin. “Elizabeth,” Maggie says. There is so much put into that one word, my name, that I know she feels enough for the both of us.

“Yes?”

Maggie swallows. “I was thinking … you know I joke about death”—the word makes her cringe—“and I brush it off. Hell, I dress like it.” She sniffs, attempts to harden, but it doesn’t work. Not now. Shuddering, she meets my gaze squarely. She’s decided something. “We’re all pretending, all the time. But now it’s different. I feel different. I think I need to face the fact that I’m going to die, and I need to hear someone say it.”

There’s no going back, and she seems to finally accept it, so I don’t attempt to help her with the pretense anymore. “I know, Maggie.”

She grins weakly. “You do, don’t you? You’ve always seemed to know things. But I wasn’t bothered by it like everyone else. You made me feel … safe. I used to get jealous. You’re so strong, so certain in who you are. I wanted more. I wanted to be beautiful, like Sophia Richardson, popular, loved, perfect. Since that wasn’t possible, I tried to be special by being the school Goth. And look at me now. I’m special now, aren’t I?” Maggie utters a bitter laugh.

“This isn’t—”

“I know. I know, okay? I don’t need to hear the speech again. I didn’t do anything to deserve this, bad things happen, it’s out of our control. I know, I know, I
know
. But
why
? Why me, why now? You know so much, Liz, then tell me.
Why did this have to happen to me?
”

I’ve been expecting this, anticipating this moment. No human can look into the face of death and not cower or panic. But I don’t have any words to calm Maggie, because the answer she’s looking for doesn’t exist. There’s no rhyme or reason for pain and suffering, for those beings that live to distribute it—these things just are. I could give her all the pretty lies, but it won’t hide the truth this time, and there’s no going back to our old ways.