The Sitter (11 page)

And as we started to kiss, I saw the figure walking into the wide, yellow circle up ahead.

The boy. The blond boy. Stepping into the circle, bobbing slightly—the way Will had always walked.

Will.

No.

Of course it couldn’t be. But it was Will. Poor, dead Will.

And I pulled away from Jackson, pulled out of his arms, and started to run. “Will? Will?”

I heard Jackson calling to me. I could still feel the taste of his lips on mine.

But I couldn’t stop. My bare feet pounding the wet sand, I ran toward the spotlights, ran toward Will, gone for so long, dead for so long. But there he was. I saw him so clearly.

And now where was he?

I ran through a circle of light, my feet kicking up sand, my heart thudding against my chest. Into darkness now. And no sign of him.

“Will? Will?” I’m too breathless to shout.

And he is gone once again.

I lowered my hands to my knees, gasping for air, my eyes still gazing down the purple-black ribbon of beach.

Why did I suddenly see Will again?

It took so long to stop seeing him. All those years of seeing him everywhere I went.

Is it starting again?

25

W
hy did I sleep with Frankie Munroe?

I don’t really know. Why do you do anything when you’re seventeen years old?

I guess it had something to do with being in the popular group at school. Knowing I was in demand, at the top, so cool, just so damn cool. I guess it was a feeling of invulnerability.

What could happen to me, right?

Mandy Groves had been doing it with Colin Crowe since freshman year. And the Everson twins—they bragged about the guys they’d had as if it was some kind of competition between them. And, of course, I’d slept with Will a couple of times, including that feverish afternoon he got his notice from Princeton.

No big deal, right, when you’re popular and on top and
immortal
?

And I guess all the while—all four years—I had the sneaking suspicion that I didn’t really belong in the popular clique. I mean, I fit in okay and was friendly with just about everybody and all that. But I always had the feeling I was tagging along with my friends, who were prettier and hipper and smarter and richer. Like they were tolerating me for some reason—and I wasn’t sure why.

Typical teenage self-doubts, I guess.

So, did I feel I had to prove myself? Is that why I slept with Frankie Munroe after the party at his house when his parents were in Puerto Rico?

It happened so fast. It didn’t really feel as if we had done it. Frankie came so fast, while we were still messing around, rolling around on his parents’ bedspread. He shot it all over my leg. I mean, that’s not even really doing it.

And afterwards, I didn’t feel anything.

Not even guilt.

And then a few days later, Will and I sat in his car after school, the windows frosting up from our breath, and Will steaming, too—steaming because some guys at school told him about Frankie and me.

Did I really think Frankie wouldn’t brag?

And Will so angry, so red-faced angry, slamming the steering wheel with both hands and demanding to know why.

My voice was trembling: “You’ve been smoking, haven’t you? You’re high, Will, aren’t you?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he screams. “Why did you do it? After what we promised each other.”

I feel bad that I’ve disappointed him. But I don’t feel much more.

He sweeps back his white-blond hair, the hair I love to run my hand through. His chin is quivering. He’s so intense. He feels this so much, feels the hurt, my betrayal.

I wish I could feel it more.

I say I’m sorry again and again. All I want is for him to calm down and stop yelling at me. Should I climb out of the car? Should I just say sorry one more time and walk away?

No. I care about him. I really do. I just don’t care as much as he does.

Who could care as much as he does? He’s so intense. His eyes burn into mine, like glowing blue lasers. “How can I ever trust you again?” he asks.

I take a deep breath, and I say, “You’re too serious, Will. You’ve got to lighten up. You’ve got to back off a little. You know. Cut me some slack.”

Does that help calm him down?

No. He starts the car. He slams his foot on the gas pedal.

He’s in a rage now. I know he’s stoned. And now he’s in a total rage.

I touch his shoulder. He brushes it away.

The car slides over an ice patch in the road. We’re roaring away from the school, past snow-covered lawns, kids on sleds—

“Slow down! You’re driving too fast! Will, I mean it. This is crazy!”

His eyes are narrowed on the frosty windshield now. The car goes into a slide at a stop sign. He furiously spins the wheel. We spin out into the intersection. Luckily, no other cars around.

“Will, please!” My heart is in my throat, every muscle tensed. I’m shaking, my whole body shuddering. “Will,stop—!”

He ignores me. Straightens out the car. Stomps on the gas again. We squeal away, tires spinning, bouncing onto the snowy curb, then back onto the street.

He’s out of control. What does he think he’s doing?

Now I’m frightened. Really frightened. I’ve never seen this kind of anger.

And now I’m screaming, “Let me out! Let me out, Will!” I’m pleading, begging him to stop the car.

The car bounces hard over a rut in the road. My head hits the roof. “Will, you’re going to get us killed!”

“Why did you do it, Ellie?” he asks again, through clenched teeth, his voice strained, strange. “Just tell me why.”

He starts to turn. The car goes into a slide. We’re skidding so fast. I see the embankment, the snow-caked guardrail.

I grab the wheel. In panic. In horror. I grab the wheel.

“Will, stop the car! Stop it! Will—!”

We go crashing through the guardrail.

Flying. We’re flying over the snowy ground. Everything white.

Then everything red as the pain jolts me, and I hear the clatter of glass and the hard crunch of bending metal.

Then black.

And when I slowly open my eyes in the hospital, two days later, my first thought is this: I grabbed the wheel. I did it.

And I see my mother’s tearstained face, her cheeks so swollen and red, mascara running, teardrops on her glasses. That’s the picture I’ll never forget—those teardrops on her glasses. She’s leaning over me, laughing and crying at the same time because I’ve finally awakened after two days.

I grabbed the wheel.

That’s all I remember.

I blink hard, trying to focus. It takes so much effort to open my mouth. And my first raspy words are, “Is . . . Will . . . okay?”

My mother shakes her head. The tears roll down her cheeks. She doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t have to. I know the answer from the slow shake of her head, from the tears that drip onto my bedsheet.

I know the answer.

Will is gone.

Because I grabbed the wheel.

26

S
unday morning was rainy, showers that started and stopped and forced us to stay inside. I read the kids some picture books, and we watched cartoon videos.

I turned on
Sesame Street
, and both kids laughed at Bert and Ernie and Elmo. They did a funny skit about
over
and
under
—teaching the kids the difference between the two words.

Wow. I saw this same skit when I was a kid, I remembered.

Heather started chanting, “Over, under, over, under,” and then laughing, as if it were a great joke.

Brandon sat very close to me and held my hand with both of his. Maybe Abby was right. Maybe he
is
starting to like me. He stared intently at the
over-under
skit, and I felt a shiver run down his body.

Did I think about Jackson? Of course. I felt so embarrassed, so humiliated. He started to kiss me—and what did I do?

I ran off after a ghost.

When I couldn’t find Will, when he had vanished once again—as all ghosts do—I started back to find Jackson. But I felt so embarrassed . . . so confused and . . . well,
crazy.
The drinks, the excitement of meeting someone new and fun and interesting, Jackson, like a light on a dark beach. That’s what he was. A light on a dark beach.

And I turned and ran away from him.

I was too embarrassed to search for him. I ran to the club and found Teresa. I made her drive me home to the Harpers’. I told her I’d explain later. She didn’t ask a single question.

Now I definitely wanted to apologize to Jackson. I definitely wanted to see him again, if he didn’t think I was a total mental case. I decided I’d call him at the bike store.

Still thinking about him, I gave the kids lunch in the kitchen: reheated macaroni and cheese, applesauce, and a Fruit Roll-Up for dessert. My mother called on my cell while I was cleaning up the dishes.

“Ellie, happy birthday,” she yelled.

“What? Oh, my goodness! I completely forgot.”

“You forgot your own birthday? That’s a new one. You’re only twenty-five, dear. You don’t have to start forgetting your birthday till you get to my age.”

My head spun. How could I forget my birthday?

And was I really twenty-five today? It sounded so old.

My mother’s voice droned on. I realized I hadn’t heard a word she’d said. I pressed the phone to my ear, forcing myself to listen.

“Twenty-five. I already had two kids when I was your age.”

Go ahead, Mom. Rub it in. You had a life, and mine hasn’t started yet. Please don’t cut me any slack—even on my birthday.

“So you’re so busy with your baby-sitting, you don’t have time to remember your birthday? It’s a quarter of a century, El. I take it you’re not doing anything to celebrate?”

“Well, I went to a club with my friend Teresa last night. That was a nice celebration.”

“I’ll bet it was.”

“Excuse me? What does
that
mean, Mom?”

“Nothing. Why are you jumping down my throat? I didn’t mean anything. I said I’ll bet you had a nice time, that’s all. Where was it? One of those trendy Hamptons dance clubs where people get high on lord-knows-what and back their cars over each other in the parking lot?”

“Yuk yuk. Right, Mom. That kind of club.”

“Well, listen to me, El: Have a good time in that crazy place. You’re still pretty young, so you
should
enjoy life. Go out. Meet guys. Go to clubs. But, please—don’t do a lot of drugs and get yourself date-raped.”

“You’ve been watching
Ricki Lake
again, huh?”

“No,
Jerry Springer.
”

“Well, thanks for the charming birthday wish. That’s so sweet.”

“Sarcasm. I always get the sarcasm. Ellie, if you could bottle sarcasm, you know how rich you’d be?”

“I’m sorry. Really. But—”

“Did you get my package? I sent you a present.”

“Well, no. It hasn’t come. I’ll watch for it. Oh—hey, the baby’s crying. I have to run.”

“Well, happy birthday, darling. Kiss kiss kiss. Dad and I love you. You know he’d get on the phone, but he isn’t here. He has his golf game.”

“Love you, too, Mom. Bye.”

I clicked off the phone, tucked it into my shorts pocket, and hurried to see why Heather was crying. I could smell the reason immediately. Her diaper was real full. I hurried to change her—not exactly my favorite part of the job.

“Hold still. Hold still, Heather. I can’t get this side closed.” I turned and saw that Brandon had entered the room. He was holding
Hop on Pop
, one of his favorite Dr. Seuss books. I had already read it to him about a hundred times that morning. Did he really want to hear it again?

“Brandon, hi. Did you know that today is my birthday?”

He stared at me blankly.

“Maybe you’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me later. What do you say?”

His expression didn’t change. His eyes were glassy and blank, a dead man’s eyes.

I stared back at him. What could I do?

What could I do to get through to him?

“Ellie, two things came for you.”

It was about four on Monday afternoon. The kids were napping. I was in my room, lying on my back in bed, legs up, bare feet on the sea blue wallpaper, reading about Keanu Reeves in
People
magazine. I was thinking about how Jackson looked a little bit like Keanu, when Chip’s voice from downstairs interrupted my thoughts.

I hurried out of the room and peered down over the balcony. He was standing in the living room in baggy khaki shorts and a white sleeveless T-shirt, holding up a rectangular white box to me. “I think it’s a cake.”

“My mother sent it,” I called down. “Yesterday was my birthday.” I made my way down the stairs.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. We didn’t know. Happy birthday, kiddo.” His lopsided smile was a clue that he’d had a few drinks. He sang out: “Happy birthday to yoooooo.”

I made a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you very much.”

I was wearing a scoop-necked, blue-and-white-striped tank top over white shorts. I could see his eyes lower to my tits as I took my bow.

“How about some champagne?” he said, still balancing the white box in one hand. “A little celebration?”

“Well . . . not right now,” I said.

My rejection seemed to sting him. He suddenly looked so sad. His face just crumbled. “Hey, I’m not a bad guy,” he said. “I’m just being friendly, that’s all. Sometimes—well, it’s a little lonely here.”

I stared at him, struggling to think of a response. Why was he telling me this? What was I supposed to say?

He shook his head as if shaking away his sadness. Then he pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to me. “This came, too. In the mail.” He carried the white box to a narrow table behind the couch. “Look at the label. It’s from the French bakery in Southampton.”

He had a drink on the table. He picked it up and took a long sip, his eyes avoiding me. “How old are you, anyway? Twenty? Twenty-one? You’re not still jailbait, are you? You’re legal, right? Ha ha.”

Yikes.

“Twenty-five. And would you believe I forgot my own birthday?” I said, pulling open the envelope. “My mother is the only one who remembered.”

But I was wrong.

I tugged a birthday card from the envelope. The front showed hands clapping, dozens of hands clapping, and it read,
CHEERS ON YOUR BIRTHDAY!

I didn’t bother reading the rest of it. Because, when I opened it, I saw the signature on the bottom.
Love, Clay.

And then, written under the signature, the words:
See you soon, babe.

See you soon?

A chill tightened the back of my neck.

See you soon?

I tossed the card onto the table.

“That card from Mommy?” Chip asked. He tilted the glass to his mouth. He was standing really close to me. I could feel the heat off his body.

“From a guy I know,” I said.

He squeezed my hand. “Your boyfriend?”

“No. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He grinned. “A hottie like you? You’re kidding, right?”

His hand lingered on mine. I carefully slid my hand free.

“Open the box,” he said. “Let’s see what Mommy sent.”

His arm brushed mine. The way he kept saying
Mommy
, it was like he was coming on to me and making fun of me at the same time. What a jackass.

The bakery box had pink-and-white string around it, knotted at the top. I worked the string off one side and then pulled open the lid.

“It’s not a birthday cake,” I said.

The box was packed with shredded newspaper.

“Must be something fragile,” Chip said, setting down his glass. He peered into the box, his face close to mine.

Carefully, I dug both hands in. At first, I didn’t feel anything in there. I burrowed deeper—and felt something.

I squeezed it, and it was hard. Kinda warm.

“What is it?” Chip asked, leaning against me. His breath smelled of gin.

“I don’t know.”

I wrapped my fingers around the object and carefully lifted it out. The shredded newspaper fell away.

And a moan of horror escaped my throat.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

A hand! A human hand!

I was holding a human hand!

It’s a fake, I thought. A mannequin hand.

But no. I could feel the soft skin, the hard bone underneath. I could see where the hand had been cut off at the wrist. Bone poking through, damp, red flesh, yellow tendons.

I finally found my voice. I let out a shrill scream.

The hand fell to the floor. It hit with a soft
plop
, bounced once, and landed on my bare foot. The limp fingers fell across my foot and wriggled—
as if still alive!

And as I frantically started to kick it away, I saw the ring on the ring finger. The oval, silver ring with the big emerald in the center.

“Mrs. Bricker!” I shrieked. “Mrs. Bricker! Mrs. Bricker! Mrs. Bricker! Mrs. Bricker!”