The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle (85 page)

CHAPTER 13

Phoebe

JUNE 7, PRESENT DAY

T
ofu mushroom stroganoff. Was there anything more grotesque or stomach-turning on the face of the earth? Chunks of pale tofu and slimy, overcooked mushrooms in a gray milky sauce, served over egg noodles. It was a meal that clearly belonged in a health-conscious convalescent home, school cafeteria, or prison. But to Phyllis, it was good old-fashioned home cooking, vegetarian style.

Sam’s mother seemed to have cookbooks full of these hardy vegetarian recipes: stews, dumplings, and casseroles laden with tofu, tempeh, and the much-dreaded seitan. Thick, bland soups served with whole-grain biscuits dense enough to be used as doorstops. Stick-to-your-ribs meatless meals that somehow went with the old-fashioned fifties look of the kitchen—the white metal cabinets, cherry wallpaper, faded yellow countertops, and vintage table with a red Formica top and chrome legs. “My mom’s not big on change,” Sam had explained.

“Not hungry, dear?” Phyllis asked.

“I’m afraid not. It’s delicious, though.” Phoebe gave her a warm, thankful, yummy-in-my-tummy smile.

Sam kicked Phoebe under the table.

She stabbed a wide egg noodle dripping with gray goo, forced it into her mouth, and tried to chew without tasting.

“Are you coming down with something, Bee?” Phyllis asked. “You’re awfully pale.”

“Could be,” Phoebe said, setting down her fork, wiping her damp forehead with the back of her hand (was it horribly hot in here?). “There’s something going around at work.”

It was a lie, but it got an understanding nod from Phyllis, who mercifully removed her plate.

Sam rolled his eyes at Phoebe when his mother wasn’t looking.

Phoebe hoped her inability to clean her plate wouldn’t mean Phyllis assumed she was too ill for the Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch and Cherry Garcia she and Sam had brought.

“Let me help you with the dishes,” Phoebe offered, but Phyllis refused. Did the woman think that because Phoebe couldn’t cook she was useless as a dishwasher too?

She loved Phyllis, but Sam’s mom definitely brought out all of Phoebe’s insecurities and paranoia. Sometimes it was exhausting to be around her—trying so hard, smiling so much. She wished she could just have an oh-well-screw-her-if-she-doesn’t-like-me attitude, which she did with most people, but Sam’s mom mattered. Growing up with such a shitty mother had led Phoebe to have all these secret fantasies, where she ran away and was adopted into a normal family with a mother who was a mixture of all those perfect classic TV moms: Mrs. Brady, Mrs. Cunningham from
Happy Days
, Beaver’s mom. Moms who cooked casseroles. Phyllis was all of that and more.

“I’m just going to put them in the sink,” Phyllis said. “They can wait. Let’s head into the living room, shall we?”

They followed Sam’s mom out of the cheery, stuck-in-time kitchen and into the front room with the furniture that Sam claimed hadn’t been changed since he’d been alive. It had survived the years well. Whatever stains there might have been were now artfully covered by pillows, throws, and doilies. The room smelled of the sweet potpourri Phyllis kept in jars. There was a brick hearth, where they lit a fire each Thanksgiving and Christmas, and a mantel covered in framed family photos: Sam’s mother and aunt as young girls; Sam’s stern-faced great-grandfather who’d built the house. There was the snapshot of young Sam and Lisa that Phoebe had noticed on her first visit to the home years ago. Phyllis had caught her looking and said, “Sam had a sister. We lost her.” And Phoebe had pretended that she had no idea, that she had only a vague memory of hearing the story on the news.

Everything about the room, about the whole house in fact, screamed
home
to Phoebe. Not that she was much of a judge.

Phoebe had been brought up in a string of dingy rent-controlled apartments by her single mom, whose idea of a homey touch was a bottle of Lysol that she sprayed now and then to cover up the smell of cigarettes, pot, and general filth and decay. A happy homemaker she was not. The only stroganoff she ever made was with Hamburger Helper, and even that required too much cooking. She was more a SpaghettiOs from the can with Yoo-hoo to drink kind of mom.

Phoebe’s friends thought her mom was so cool. Phoebe got to come and go as she pleased, have chocolate cake and Pepsi for breakfast, have her very own cigarette or toke of a joint anytime she wanted. “Your mom is the best!” her friends would squeal when they met up at her place after school to get high. “She’s like one of us.”

“We’re diamonds in the rough, you and me,” her mom used say. But Phoebe thought they were more like fool’s gold.

P
hyllis plopped herself down on the couch next to Phoebe and straightened an embroidered runner on the coffee table. Phyllis was a well-kempt woman in her fifties. She had chin-length gray hair and wore loose linen clothing and Birkenstocks with bright, hand-knit socks. She worked for a nonprofit environmental group raising money, lobbying lawmakers. She’d even been arrested twice: for protesting at an antinuclear event and when she and a group chained themselves to a logging truck trying to stop a clear-cutting operation. When Sam was growing up, his mom would go away on trips to demonstrations down in Washington and he’d be left with the next-door neighbor—a sweet old woman named Mrs. August, whose house smelled like gingerbread and mothballs. After Lisa disappeared, the trips increased. Phyllis threw herself into her work, figuring that if she couldn’t save her daughter, she would do her best to save the world from the nukes and chemical plants and people who were, in her words, “raping Mother Earth.”

It broke Phoebe’s heart to think of Sam and his mother rattling around in the house after Lisa disappeared and Sam’s dad died. Phyllis kept Lisa’s room just the way it was.

“It was creepy, really,” Sam told Phoebe. “To go walking in there later when I was in high school and have everything the same. I was growing up and Lisa was stuck in limbo—a ghost girl haunting her old room, with unicorns on the walls and stuffed animals on the bed.”

But Phoebe understood. Phyllis was still waiting for Lisa to come back. And if she did, she wanted things to be just the way Lisa remembered.

“D
id you reach Hazel?” Phyllis asked Sam.

“Yeah, I did. Thanks,” Sam said, looking away. But Phoebe knew Phyllis wouldn’t let it go that easy. Sam asks for his aunt’s number after fifteen years of not speaking with her and that’s not supposed to arouse curiosity.

“How is she?” Phyllis asked, wincing a little, as though asking the question had pained her in some way.

Phoebe glanced over at the girlhood photo of Phyllis and Hazel, both with their hair in pigtails, smiling impishly into the camera. There were no photos of Hazel as an adult anywhere in the house. She, like Lisa, was somehow frozen in time here.

“Okay, I guess. Working in a nursing home. I actually called her because I wanted to get in touch with Evie.”

Sam’s mother sat up straight, peered at Sam over the top of her small rectangular glasses, which she kept on a chain around her neck. “Evie?” She said it like the name was an unfamiliar one to her:
Evie? Who on earth is Evie?

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah. I thought maybe it was time to do some catching up.”

Phyllis stared at him. “And did you?”

“Yeah. We did. Phoebe and I had dinner with her. She lives up in Burlington.”

Phoebe remembered the pizza and Mountain Dew. Not exactly the white tablecloth dinner Phyllis was probably imagining.

“Is she married?” Phyllis asked. “Any kids?”

Sam shook his head.

“A shame,” Phyllis said. “I don’t know what it is with you young people. I married your father when I was nineteen.”

Sam nodded. Hung his head. He knew where this was going. It was inevitable that she’d bring it up each time they visited.

“Is it so wrong to want to see your children happy? To want grandchildren? Actual children, I mean—not just a snake, a hedgehog, and a couple of rats.”

Phoebe bit her lip. She’d been with Sam all day and hadn’t had a chance to sneak off to buy a pregnancy test. She’d get one on the way to work tomorrow, do it as soon as she got there. The test would show that she wasn’t pregnant, and the worrying would all be over. Hell, maybe she’d get her period tonight and not even need to waste money on the test.

Sam sat up straight, rubbed his hand over his face. “No, Mom. It’s not wrong. And I am happy. Bee and I are very happy with things just the way they are.”

Phoebe smiled, reached out to take Sam’s hand.

Phyllis nodded, frowning. Phoebe understood, even felt bad for her. Sam was her one remaining child—her only shot at grandchildren—and so far, he’d shown no interest in producing any. But in truth, they
were
happy. And this idea that a couple could only be complete and know true happiness by squeezing out a couple of kids just pissed Phoebe off.

“Oh, Phoebe,” Phyllis said. “There’s something I thought you’d be interested in. Something I’d like your help with.”

Excellent. She was changing the subject. This got them off the when-are-you-going-to-settle-down-and-get-married-and-start-pumping-out-babies hook. For now anyway.

Phyllis reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out a small drawstring bag.

“After you found that fairy book up in the attic last week, I went up and took another look around in there. I sat for a while, remembering how Lisa used to spend hours up there, playing.”

Sam nodded, looked away.

“Anyway,” Phyllis continued, “I found this shoved back between the joists, tucked under the insulation at the very edge.”

Sam leaned forward, frowning. But his mother handed the bag to Phoebe, not to him, as if she was suddenly more worthy of her trust than her own son was. Phoebe took it, opened it slowly, and peered in.

“Teeth,” Phyllis said. “From a large animal. Must have been some treasure of Lisa’s. I was hoping maybe, with your work at the clinic, you might have some idea of what animal they’re from.”

Phoebe pulled one out. It was brownish yellow. Large. The tooth felt strangely heavy in her hand.

Sam peered at the tooth with a look of revulsion.

“I don’t know,” Phoebe admitted, dropping it back into the bag, wiping her hand on her jeans. “But Dr. Ostrum or Franny might. I can bring the bag in to work and ask.”

“That would be great,” Phyllis said. “I’d appreciate it. I know it doesn’t really matter, won’t help with anything, but I’m curious.”

Phoebe took the bag of teeth, held it tight in her hand.

“Have you done anything with the fairy book?” Phyllis asked.

“No,” Sam lied. “Not yet.”

“It should probably go to the police. It is evidence, after all. I have the names of the two detectives we dealt with if that’ll help. I don’t even know if they’re still around anymore, but it would be a starting place.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “If you could write them down, that would be great.”

Phyllis excused herself. Phoebe flashed Sam a what-are-we-supposed-to-do-now look. Sam shrugged. Whispered, “We can’t exactly tell her it was stolen, can we?”

“No,” Phoebe agreed. “But we can’t keep lying to her forever.”

“Not forever,” Sam said. “We’ll hold off until we have some idea of what’s actually going on.”

Phoebe nodded, clutched the strange little bag of teeth, and wondered if they’d ever be able to make sense of any of it.

“They were his first gift, I think,” Sam said, nodding at the bag in her hand.

“What?”

“The teeth. Lisa woke up one morning and found them on her pillow. We thought she was tricking us, that she put the teeth there herself. But now I think the son-of-a-bitch actually came into the house while we were all sleeping and left them on her pillow. Can you imagine? Who would take a chance like that?”

Someone who knew he wouldn’t be caught
, Phoebe thought as she shook the bag, rattling the teeth like dice.

CHAPTER 14

Lisa

JUNE 8, FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

L
isa had been thinking about it and had decided that maybe all of the tests she’d given herself over the years—holding her breath until she turned blue, making herself face angry dogs, touching bloody meat—maybe all of this was just training. It was a way to teach herself to not let fear get in the way. Preparing her to one day go into the woods and meet the fairies, no matter what might happen.

“Tell more of the story,” Evie begged, licking her lips like she was hungry. “About the sisters. They’d just left the castle, right?”

She was trying to distract Lisa, to make her forget about going alone into the woods. The very woods Lisa had just caught Evie coming out of, which was its own weird mystery. Evie had snuck off on her own after dinner, and an hour and a half later Lisa spotted her stepping into the yard from the woods. Lisa wondered if Evie was starting to believe and was looking for the fairies herself.

“What are you doing?” Lisa had asked.

“Nothing,” Evie said, not looking her in the eye. “Come on, it’s freezing out here. Let’s go in.”

Now they were back in Lisa’s room, getting sweatshirts because the night had grown cool. Once Evie had on her baggy gray pullover, she grabbed her sketchbook and flipped open to a drawing she’d been working on for the past two days—the cellar hole with the foxglove in the corner. Only in Evie’s rendition each flower had a horrible skeleton face at the end.

“Okay,” Lisa said. “But only if you tell me what you were just doing in the woods.”

Evie gave a frustrated sigh. “Scoping it out. You know, making sure it looked safe.” She scribbled hard, shading in the bottom of the cellar hole.

Lisa nodded, but somehow she knew Evie wasn’t telling the truth. She couldn’t believe Evie would lie to her. But then again, she couldn’t believe Evie had hurt Gerald so badly either. Over and over, Lisa had replayed the way Evie had stood over his crumpled body, taking out her knife. What would have happened if Lisa hadn’t stopped her? How far would she have gone? Lisa shivered. It was up to her to keep Evie under control, to make sure she didn’t hurt anyone again. But now she was worried that somehow she might be losing her influence over Evie.

“Come on, Lisa, the story!” Evie said.

“Okay already. They were on horseback, remember?” She touched the teeth in her pocket, remembering her strange dream.

“Yes,” Evie said, setting down the sketchbook and closing her eyes. “Riding fast through the woods.” She reached under her shirt and pulled out the key, holding it tight.

“Away from the dark, cursed castle,” Lisa said. “They rode all night. And then they came to a river. It was deep and wide. They looked for an easy way across but couldn’t find one. Then a frog hopped out of the water and spoke. He said, ‘If you can answer my riddle, sisters, I’ll get you across.’

“‘Very well,’ answered the dark sister.

“‘What holds water but is full of holes?’ asked the frog, smiling slyly.

“The pale sister moaned. ‘Cursed frog. It’s impossible. Nothing with holes can hold water.’

“But the other sister said, ‘Not so fast. It’s a sponge. A sponge holds water and is full of holes.’

“And so the frog hopped along the shore to a little grove of trees where he showed the sisters a hidden boat.”

“A sponge!” Evie exclaimed. “You’re the most clever storyteller in the history of the planet!”

Lisa smiled. “I’ll tell you more later. I’ve gotta get down to Reliance.”

They headed out to the yard, where Sammy was waiting. “You still going down there?” he asked, peering apprehensively into the dark woods.

Lisa nodded.

“Take this,” Evie said, pressing her sheathed hunting knife into Lisa’s hand. It was heavier than Lisa expected.

“No,” Lisa said, handing the knife back. “I don’t want to scare them. And remember what my mom said? About how they don’t like iron? So probably they don’t like knives and stuff.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Evie said, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “I don’t think you should go. Not on your own.”

“Don’t worry,” Lisa said. “Besides, you just checked it out yourself, right? Made sure there were no booby traps or an angry army of little green men waiting to tie me up and steal me away?”

Evie snorted, rolled her eyes.

“What if Gerald and Becca come back?” Sam said. “I think they’re the only thing you might have to worry about down there.”

“It’s not me they’re pissed at,” Lisa said, looking at Evie. “And Evie’s got the knife.”

“We’ll be here in the yard waiting,” Evie said. “Any trouble, you yell as loud as you can. We’ll hear you.” She and Sammy had their sleeping bags out. Lisa’s was beside them, an empty chrysalis.

Lisa slowly made her way down the hill and stepped over the brook, wondering if there’d be a frog waiting to ask her a riddle, and across to Reliance. The moonlight cast shadows of the trees with their leaves blowing—they looked like shaggy monsters writhing on the forest floor. Suddenly the whole landscape reminded her of one of Evie’s drawings.

Fighting the growing urge to run, she walked up to the edge of the cellar hole, sure she heard footsteps behind her. She held her breath, listening.

“Sam? Evie?” she called.

Silence.

She was sweating in spite of the cool breeze.

“If you two are following me, I’ll wring your necks. Skin you with Evie’s knife.”

In the fairy tales, the girl gets nothing unless she takes a chance.

Carrying the plate of treats, Lisa carefully lowered herself down, landing in roughly the same place Gerald fell. She thought of the awkward angle of his arm when he got up.

“I hope he’s okay,” she said out loud. And she did. He was just a dork who had found someone even lower on the social food chain than him and couldn’t resist taking advantage. He shouldn’t have said those awful things to Evie, but he didn’t deserve a broken arm.

In the corner of the old cellar hole, next to the foxglove, Lisa placed the plate with a glass of Orange Crush, a couple of cherry Life Savers, an unwrapped Devil Dog. She could barely see the rough shapes in the dark—sweet, shadowy offerings.

Lisa crab-crawled backward across the dirt floor, keeping her eyes on the treats. Then she settled herself against the rough stone wall across from the plate, looked up at what little she could see of the stars through the trees. She zipped her red hooded sweatshirt up tight, touched the bag of teeth in her pocket. Then the penny, which she’d attached to her charm bracelet.

1918. The year everyone in the village went missing.

Except for little Eugene.

People don’t just disappear without a trace like that.

Lisa yawned. She was tired. Bone tired. That was one of Aunt Hazel’s expression, one she always thought was funny—bones couldn’t get tired. At least she didn’t think so. But hers felt tired now. She let her eyes close. If anyone came into the cellar hole, she’d wake up.

A few seconds (or was it minutes? hours even?) later, she opened her eyes. Footsteps. Getting closer. She told herself she was hearing things, it was just that overactive imagination she was famous for.

“Hello?” she called, her own voice a strange crackle in the dark.

“Eugene?” she said, tentatively.

What if there were ghosts? What if everyone who’d disappeared in Reliance was still trapped there in some way? Maybe that’s what the lights were.

Twigs cracked. Feet shuffled through the leaf litter, but she couldn’t tell if they were moving closer or farther away.

She closed her eyes. Said the four most comforting words she knew: “Once upon a time.”

An incantation.

Protect me. Open the door and let me go someplace else.

She held her breath, stood slowly, peeking up at ground level. Maybe it was just Gerald after all, pissed at Evie and looking for revenge.

But there was no one there.

Just her ears playing tricks on her. Maybe the footsteps were part of the dream she’d been having, something about teeth and keys and doors.

She was about to climb out and head for home when a scream filled the woods, bounced off the walls of the cellar hole, through the trees—a scream so loud she was sure that not one human being could be making it. Surely the woods, the animals, even the soft beams of moonlight were all screaming together.