The Sitter (15 page)

33

T
he first time I made love to Will was after the fall Homecoming dance. We did it in the backseat of his car, and it lasted only a minute or two, and I wondered what all the fuss was about. I think I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been so worried about staining my dress.

Will and I had been going together for such a short time. I guess I made love to him that night because Dawn Fregosi and Amy Kruschek—my two best pals and confidantes—said they planned to get laid after the Homecoming. In fact, they were double-dating, and the plan was for the four of them to do it at Dawn’s house because her parents were in Florida—in the same bed side by side.

I was surprised about Amy because she said she’d never really done it, not even with Johnny Harmon, whom she was crazy about. She said she only gave blow jobs because that wasn’t really sex.

So I don’t know if it ever happened. I had a feeling maybe Amy had wimped out. But I didn’t get the whole story because Dawn and Amy never talked about it, and I felt kinda weird bringing it up, even though I thought about it a lot.

I wasn’t competitive with Amy and Dawn. I liked them and even trusted them, which is a hard thing in high school. But I always wondered why they wanted to be
my
friend. I never really accepted the fact that I was part of their crowd. I always felt as if I were some kind of an impostor, that I was just passing for cool, and someday they would find me out and expose me, humiliate me in some way, and then never talk to me again.

Typical high school bullshit, right?

Of course, we went to the Homecoming dance as a goof. Everyone I knew did. We were way cool and above such things as school dances, above
everything
. There was nothing we couldn’t sneer at.

Except boys. We took them seriously, God knows.

Before the prom, Amy, Dawn, and I met at Dawn’s house, and we put on our makeup in the dark. That’s right. In the dark. Because, you see, we knew it would be dark at the dance. So we put on our makeup with the lights off to make sure we looked good in the dark.

We didn’t think it was crazy. We thought it was totally necessary.

Will was a fabulous dancer. He had a natural grace. He moved so well, and it looked so easy for him. The same kind of grace he had on the basketball court when he’d stop and seem to fly back through the air as he sent up his jump shots.

He was very funny all night, dancing crazy, being silly, being a parody of a Homecoming dance date. But during the one slow dance, where we held each other and danced so close, I could feel him pressing against me, pressing against me. And I knew how the night would end.

Yes, I was excited. Because it was Will. Blond, graceful Will, who was so funny, who had picked me.

If only we’d had a place to go. If only it had lasted longer.

After that night, Will acted as if he owned me. And that’s when it started—and when my feelings started to change. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t figure it out till much later.

But those two uncomfortable, sloppy minutes in the car changed everything.

Of course I still cared about Will. Of course I was still so thrilled and amazed that he had picked me. But did I really want to be owned? No. Did I want to be a possession, like one of those silly chrome basketball trophies he kept on his dresser?

Not really.

I didn’t like the way he slid his arm around me when he came up to me in school. I’d be talking to someone, and there would be Will, grabbing me, wrapping his arm around my neck, roping me in like a runaway calf.

Yes, suddenly there were things I didn’t like. Even while he was kissing me, his hands under my sweater so gentle but needy, even with the excitement of being so special to someone, there were things I didn’t like.

Why were his lips so mushy and wet? Did he really think it was sexy to slobber all over me?

Later, I felt guilty about every complaint.

Our whole time together was so short, so damned short, like the two minutes in the backseat of his car. I should have had more. More of Will. More time.

And now, there he was in front of my car in Sag Harbor, stepping out of the dime store.

I shoved the car door open—slamming the car parked next to me. “Will—! Hey!”

He turned. Did he see me?

He had a white plastic bag in his hand. He tucked it under his arm and started to jog down the sidewalk.

“Will—wait!”

I lurched out the door. Forgot about the seat belt. It jerked me back. I fumbled to unfasten myself.

“Will? Hey—Will?”

I saw his blond hair. Saw him dodge two bent old men with canes. The sidewalk was crowded. People moved slowly, window-shopping, chatting casually.

I saw the blond hair, saw the white bag in his arms.

Was he running from me? Why was he running away?

I leaped from the car and took off, my sneakers thudding the pavement. Forgetting about Brandon. Leaving the car door open.

“Will—?”

“Look out!” a voice shouted, and a lanky teenager in an open Hawaiian shirt roared past my feet on a skateboard.

I stumbled back, into a display sign in front of a clothing store.

“Will, please!”

People were staring now.

I stopped. He had vanished again.

I grabbed the back of a bench. Gripped it with both hands, leaning all my weight on it, and waited for my heart to stop pounding against my chest, waited for the sidewalk to stop tilting and swaying.

Will vanished again.

But it couldn’t be Will, I told myself, still sucking in air, still searching the crowded sidewalk.

Will vanished seven years ago.

Will died, Ellie. He’s dead. So you’ve got to stop seeing him.

You. Have. To. Stop.

My shrink back in Madison told me I’d stop thinking about Will someday. He said one day I’d stop seeing him. One day I’d put my ghosts to rest.

I believed him then. I really did. But I didn’t believe him anymore.

My ghost was back.

I stood up. Pushed back the hair that had fallen over my face. Took a deep breath and started back to the car.

I saw Brandon still sitting in the passenger seat. He was fooling with the dials on the dashboard. The driver’s door still hung open. I shut the door and made my way over to Brandon’s side to let him out.

A horn honked. Someone shouted my name.

I turned and saw Clay, his head sticking out of his black SUV, waving to me. “Hey, Ellie. Hi!”

I wanted to scream, but I held it back. I balled my hands into tight fists and stormed up to Clay.

“You—you shit!” I shrieked. “How could you call to me? How could you
face
me?”

He froze for a second. Then his face reddened as his smile faded. He blinked at me, acting confused, acting as if he didn’t understand. “Whoa, Ellie. Please—”

“You tried to
kill
me!” I cried. I slammed my fist on his car door.

Bad idea. Pain shot up my arm.

“Kill you?” He kept the confused look on his face. “Hey, I’m sorry. I came on a little strong last night. I was a little ripped, I guess. I didn’t mean to give that guy a hard time.”

“Clay, you shit! You liar!” I banged my fists against his car again.

People were staring. I didn’t care.

“You crazy shit! You bumped us off the road. You could have killed us.”

I glimpsed Brandon in the car. He had his hands pressed over his ears.

“I
what
?” Clay gave me the innocent, wide-eyed, baby boy look. “I bumped you? Have you fucking lost it, Ellie?”

“I’m calling the police. I’m going to file a complaint, Clay. You used your car as a weapon. You followed us. You crashed into us again and again. You tried to kill us.”

“You’re fucking crazy. I mean it. I didn’t follow you. Why would I follow you? I drove back to the house I’m staying at. I never followed you.”

“You liar!” I screamed. “Of course you deny it now. You tried to kill me. Of course you deny it.”

I jumped back as he shoved open the door and slid out of the car. “You think I would dent up my new SUV? Huh? You think you’re so hot, I’d dent up my new car for you? Is that what you think? Here. Take a look.”

He grabbed my arm roughly and pulled me to the front of the car.

“Take a look. Check it out. You see any dents anywhere? Go ahead. Look. You say I bumped you again and again? You want to accuse me? Take a good look, Ellie. You see any scratches? You see any marks on the car?”

I leaned down and examined the front of the car.

No.

No marks on the bumper. No scratches or dents on the fenders. The headlights okay, not cracked. No marks anywhere. The chrome shiny and new. The bumper spotless.

“You want to call the police on me again? You really think I’m a fucking murderer? You gonna call the police again? Look at the car, Ellie. Look at the fucking car. I didn’t follow you. You’re crazy.”

He bumped me out of the way and climbed back behind the wheel.

And then it hit me: I’m crazy.

He’s right. I’m crazy.

The car was spotless. Not the tiniest speck on it.

I stood up straight and took a deep breath. “You could have gotten it fixed,” I muttered.

“When? At two on a Saturday night? Yeah. Lots of garages are open then.”

“Just stay away from me, Clay.” My voice broke. “Just stay away from me, get it?”

“No problem,” he said. He didn’t say it angrily. He said it wearily, defeated. “No problem, El. I’m real sorry. I was crazy about you, you know. You want to turn me in to the police for that? Go ahead.”

He rolled up his window. Then he squealed away. I saw the policewoman at the crosswalk turn angrily and watch the SUV roar down Main Street.

I stood there at the curb, feeling dazed.

It
had
to be Clay in the black SUV last night. It
had
to be Clay crashing into us, hitting us, bumping us until we slid into the woods.

But the car would have scratches. Even a tall SUV would have marks on the bumpers, some sign of the impacts.

And if it wasn’t Clay . . .

If it wasn’t Clay . . .

Who?

I climbed back into the car. I started the engine. I was halfway out of the parking space when I realized I’d forgotten to pick up the groceries for Abby.

I pulled back into the space. I turned and saw Brandon staring at me.

“I’m sorry I was screaming back there,” I said. “I—had a misunderstanding with someone I know. You know. An argument? It was no big deal.”

His dark eyes were so wide. His slender face was so pale.

“Brandon, are you okay?” I asked.

To my shock, he unbuckled himself, scrambled onto my lap, and wrapped me in a tight hug.

I had to park on the street at the Harpers’ house. The gardeners’ truck stood halfway up the drive behind Chip’s SUV. Five or six men in sweat-drenched T-shirts were working over the front yard, weeding, trimming plants, cutting the patches of tall grass.

Brandon helped me carry the grocery bags inside. Chip met us in the front hall. “Oh, good. Here you are,” he said. “Put it in the kitchen. Abby will be home soon.”

We set the bags down on the kitchen counter. Chip slapped Brandon a high-five. “How’s it going, bud? How was the whaling museum?”

For a moment, I thought Brandon might speak. But no. He flashed his dad a thumbs-up. Then he grabbed an Oreo off a plate on the counter and hurried from the room.

Chip flashed
me
a thumbs-up. “I think Brandon liked it. That’s great. I haven’t seen him so enthusiastic in weeks.” He started pawing through one of the grocery bags; then he stopped. “Oh. I almost forgot, Ellie. They dropped off your cat.”

“Lucky’s here?”

Chip pointed to the kitchen door. “Yes. He came about an hour ago. He’s in his carrier. On the deck.”

Lucky! Yes!

I dashed out to the deck, letting the screen door slam behind me. I was so happy. I’d missed my old cat so much.

“Lucky! It’s me!” I called, running across the deck.

His travel carrier was near the steps.

“Lucky! Hey, Lucky! Remember me?”

I dropped down beside the carrier. I unlatched the door in the side.

“Lucky?”

I lowered my head to the door and peered inside.

Whoa. No cat? I saw a fuzzy, black ball.

No. Wait. Oh, wait.

The eyes. Two glassy eyes stared back at me.

Lucky’s eyes.

The mouth open, purple tongue drooping out.

Oh, Lucky.

My poor cat, my poor old cat.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop staring.

Staring at Lucky’s head on the floor of the carrier.

Just his head.

34

S
obs shook my body. I let the tears roll down my cheeks. I sat on the top step of the deck, holding myself tightly, swaying from side to side.

I shut my eyes and tried to picture Lucky alive. Tried to see him playing with his favorite toy, a little, pink-and-yellow rubber mouse. Tried to see him creeping into my lap and forcing me to put down the book I was reading and give all my attention to him. Tried to picture the delicate way he ate, his tongue carefully cleaning his mouth afterwards.

But I couldn’t picture any of that. I could see only the round, furry head, the empty eyes, the tongue hanging limp and shriveled like a dead worm.

“Who did this?”
I screamed at the top of my lungs.
“Who did this?”

And then, without even realizing it, I was on my feet and back in the kitchen, confronting a startled Chip, who was leaning into the refrigerator, rearranging things on the shelves.

“Who did this? Tell me! Who brought the cat? Who was here?” I grabbed him with both hands and spun him around.

A plastic container of fruit salad fell from his hands and splattered on the floor.

Chip stumbled back, holding on to the refrigerator door. “Ellie? What the hell?”

“My cat!” I wailed, and more sobs took my breath away. “Who brought it? Who was it?”

His eyes narrowed in confusion. “Some guy. In a Volvo station wagon. A young guy. Tall, with his head shaved and a little beard. He said he was a friend of your cousin’s.”

“But the cat is dead! Don’t you understand! My cat is dead!”

Stepping around the puddle of fruit salad, Chip crossed the room. “Ellie, calm down. Ellie, let’s deal with this.” He raised his arms to wrap me in a hug—uh, no way—I backed against the counter.

“Lucky—he—he was murdered! Someone cut off his head!”

Chip gasped. The color drained from his face. “No. That’s impossible.” He grabbed the back of a kitchen stool. “I heard the cat scratching against the case. Really. And I heard it meowing.”

“It
can’t
meow!” I screamed. “Its
head
was cut off!”

“No. That’s crazy. That’s impossible. I heard it,” he insisted. “You poor thing. You’re shaking.” He came at me again. I was trapped against the counter. He wrapped his arms around me. He smelled of coconut suntan lotion.

I let him hug me, and I cried, sobbed onto the sleeve of his polo shirt. It felt good to be held. I think he was genuinely trying to comfort me. Okay, maybe not. But I didn’t care.

I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do.

What do I do next?

Choking on my sobs, I pushed him back. I ripped some paper towels from the dispenser next to the sink and wiped my face.

He stood with his hands at his sides, watching me, biting his lips. “We have to call the police,” he said. “We have to let them know that someone . . . has struck again.”

The police haven’t been helpful at all, I thought. They ask a lot of questions and then fill out reports.

“Who was home?” I asked. “The cat was okay when it arrived? Then, who was here, Chip? Just you?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Just me. I took the carrier to the deck. I thought the cat would like fresh air until you came home. I—”

“And no one else was home?”

“No. No one. I think Abby was in Bridgehampton with Heather, and—oh, yeah. Maggie stopped by. With those two little girls. She was looking for you.”

“Maggie—?”

“She stayed only a second. She left when I told her where you were.”

“Maggie?”

My brain felt all cottony. I kept blinking, trying to clear the fog. Sunlight washed through the kitchen windows, but I felt wrapped in darkness, drowning inside a dark, swirling cloud.

Maggie wouldn’t murder my cat.

Chip was the only one home.

He says the cat was alive.
And he was the only one home.

It was too much. Too much to bear.

A scream burst from my throat. I heaved myself away from the counter, pushed past Chip, his mouth open with shock, and ran screaming to the front of the house.

“I can’t stay here! I can’t stay here!”

I heard Brandon laughing upstairs. Was he laughing at a cartoon video? He wasn’t laughing at me—
was
he?

“I can’t stay here!”

I heard Brandon’s laughter, and then I was out the front door, leaping down the stairs, and nearly knocked over one of the gardeners pruning the hedge. He cried out in surprise and dropped his hedge-cutters.

“Sorry!”

The other workers raised their heads to watch me. I ran over the flagstone walk, my chest heaving, tears burning my cheeks.

To the driveway.

Where was I going?

What was I doing?

I didn’t know. I couldn’t think. I only knew I had to run.

Run and keep running.

Someone was ruining my life. Someone hated me—hated me enough to kill me.

I had no choice. I had to run.

I reached the driveway. Behind the house, I could see two blue-and-red kites dipping and rising in the sky. Someone at the beach was having fun, flying kites in the strong ocean wind.

I want to be one of those kites, I thought. I want to fly high and free. I want to cut the string . . . sail away . . . float away from this heavy, dark fog . . . fly to sunlight.

I have to run.

But I stopped just past the SUV. Stopped and stared at the front bumper.

Chip’s SUV. A black TrailBlazer.

The bumper was scratched in several places and dented on the left side.

The glass on the left headlight was cracked.

I stopped and ran my fingers over the dent on the bumper. Flakes of red paint came off in my hand.

Red paint?

Jackson’s Passat.

Chip’s SUV was black.

Chip was the only one home today . . . and his SUV was black and dented.

I raised my eyes to the house in time to see Chip stride out the front door.

He stopped at the bottom step and called to me.

“Ellie? Can we talk?”