Frost (23 page)

In the hallway outside our rooms I said, “Do you want me to stay in there with you tonight?” It didn’t feel responsible to let her sleep alone.

“No,” she said. “It didn’t make a difference before. When we were in the same room. It was just as bad.”

“Why haven’t you asked, you know, to be moved somewhere else?”

“What would I say? People don’t just switch dorms with a month left in the semester. What could I possibly say?” Her voice was so tired.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You’re positive you don’t want me to stay with you?” If she were causing the bruises herself, somehow, maybe my presence would deter it.

“I’ve got work to do, anyway. I’ll pull an all-nighter in the common room—it hasn’t touched me in there. Yet.” She reached for her doorknob, then looked back at me. “What are you going to do?”

“Right now?”

“No. Are you going to help me, Leena?”

I smoothed down a flake of paint curling off the wall. “Did you . . . did you think you might be imagining it? At the beginning?”

“Of course,” she said. “You think it struck me as totally normal to be living in a place like this? To have all this stuff happen? Of course I thought I was crazy. I didn’t know that something like this was possible. I thought . . . you know, it was made up, in books and movies.”

“And why—I mean, how—did you decide, you know, that it’s really happening?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can just tell. It’s real, Leena. Don’t you know when something is real?”

How could she be so blind, after seeing her father today? Real was walls and flesh and DNA and brain chemistry. How could she not know that?

I shut and locked the door to my bedroom, went into the closet, and shut and locked that door, too. I sank down on the cushion, opened my cell, and pressed the glowing green buttons. The phone looked like something from outer space, some alien tool. But it wasn’t. It was a cell phone, made in China, with LED lights that lit up the buttons so I could see them here in the dark. Real.

“Miss me already?” David said.

His voice brought everything else about him—his eyes, his goofy laugh, the smell of his skin. . . . The way he takes care of his family. What was I thinking, doing this over the phone?

“Leena? You there?”

“Yeah, I . . . I just wanted to say thanks. For inviting me.”

“Everyone loved you,” he said. “And thanks for being so patient with Celeste. I’m surprised she was so upset. Dad was pretty good, all things considered.”

I tipped my head back against the wall. “I’m glad I got a chance to meet him. And your mother. She seems wonderful. Your whole family does. Anyway, I have to go. I just wanted to thank you for including me. It meant a lot.”

“I hope you didn’t think I was too pushy,” he said, “telling you to invite your dad to Thanksgiving.”

I hadn’t even remembered that. “Oh, right. I’ll think about it.”

“Because at the risk of sounding like an after-school special,” David said, “you’re really lucky you have two . . . healthy parents. And I think, someday, you might regret not . . . not trying harder.”

I breathed deeply.

“I’d love to get to know your family,” he said. “They couldn’t be all that bad if they made you.”

I smiled. “Thanks. And I’ll definitely think about it.”

After saying good night to David, I picked up Cubby, thinking I should put the new pills in her now. Then I remembered my pills weren’t in her anymore, and reached for the plastic bag. As I did, her voice rang in my head.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

More and more, the voice came on its own, without me asking any question. Like a muscle, maybe, my subconscious was getting stronger. This time, I didn’t understand what she—what
I
—meant.

You’re not the one who should try.

With my family. But . . . why? Maybe inviting my dad would be a good thing.

Stupid. Weak. Believing what David says. He doesn’t know you.

I’d do it if it made him happy. Did that make me weak?

David’s happiness. What would even be going on in his life at Thanksgiving? Where would Celeste be?

“Hello, spirit,” I said. “Are you there?” I felt like a total idiot the minute the words were out.

No answer, of course. I almost wished there had been—a diaphanous figure appearing next to me, saying, “You called?” Then I could have just convinced it to leave Celeste alone, and I wouldn’t have had to worry.

There was no ghost, though. Not now. Not ever. The whole idea of Frost House as evil was . . . unthinkable. If there was such a thing as a haunted house, it would be the type of place people write about—where you feel uneasy and scared to turn out the lights. I’d never felt anything but safe and wanted in here. It was that type of house—I’d seen it right away—the type of house that welcomes and protects. You could tell just by looking.

That much I was sure of. And while I certainly didn’t think believing in ghosts meant you were crazy, thinking one was trying to kill you, well . . . that took it to a whole other level.

I pressed my hand against the wall. I moved it slowly, as if feeling for a pulse. Or reassuring it. Good house. Good, strong house.

Celeste didn’t realize it’s what’s inside us that’s most scary. Nothing in the real world could match what our brains and bodies come up with. It’s all a matter of degrees, what we create as our demons. Some minds create scarier ones. Poor Celeste. And poor David. That sadness in his voice when he talked about losing his father. . . . Once I spoke to him, he would know perfectly well that he was losing his sister, too.

Chapter 36

I
WAS TOO ANXIOUS TO SLEEP WELL
, felt every spring of the bed frame through the mattress. Even the Tylenol PM didn’t keep me from falling in and out of bad dreams and stretches of lying awake, obsessing over what I was going to say. And in that sort of delirious half sleep, a new worry occurred to me. What if Celeste twisted the story around? What if she told David I was making it all up, that
I
was the unstable one? She could use the pill stash as proof. If she had that missing paper, maybe he would believe her.

And something else, new and confusing: if Celeste was a physical danger to herself, was she a danger to me? When she found out what I’d done, would she . . . hurt me?

At 5:15 a.m. I gave up and turned on the lights. I slipped into sweats and sneakers, before realizing that I didn’t know what time it was actually legal to leave your dorm. We had to sign in by ten, and you couldn’t leave in the middle of the night. But when was it officially “morning”? The last thing I needed was to be kicked out of school because of an early morning walk.

Instead of risking the world’s stupidest expulsion, I booted up my laptop and did research, any topic that related to anything Celeste had said. I searched for a site on hauntings that struck me as authoritative and scientific. But all they did was confirm my opinion. Photos of fuzzy shadows on staircases, presented as proof. Please! I also googled the town of Barcroft and hauntings, to see if there were any accounts of the story Celeste had mentioned. None, of course.

And students had been living in Frost House for generations. Wouldn’t there be more stories going around about it, other than those old, tepid ones of Whip’s?

If there was an infinitesimal part of my brain that wanted an explanation for all those things that Celeste mentioned—the vase, the burn, the nests—before closing the door on what I knew wasn’t true, I got it, moments before I was about to put my computer to sleep. I stumbled on one last site, after searching a new combination of terms. Finally, a rational site, that offered legitimate explanations for what lay behind some “hauntings.” What I read on it made me feel both a rush of relief and a slow creep of horror. Because it all fit together. And I was more sure than ever about what I had to tell David.

By seven a.m., I sat waiting for him on the steps of his dorm. I tore up dried leaves into little pieces and considered my approach, as if there was a good way to tell him his sister might be heading down the same path as his sick father. I’d also decided I needed to come clean about everything, just to be safe. So Celeste couldn’t manipulate the situation. I was trying not to be too nervous, but I still had the jitters. There was no telling how he would react.

Guys straggled out of the dorm, in pairs and alone, fuzzy, not-quite-awake expressions on their faces. I sat off to the side, inconspicuous. David glided right by me with his hands in his pockets, a brown-striped scarf around his neck and his black wool hat on his head. I waited, appreciating this moment in which he looked like a typical prep-school student, headed off for a normal day of classes and sports and friends on one of the most beautiful campuses during New England fall.

“Hey,” I called. “David.”

The bench on the steps of the chapel was bathed in the slanted rays of morning sunshine. We held steaming cups of Commons coffee in our hands. I’d delayed as long as I could. My pulse felt too quick and erratic, despite having taken a small dose of something to calm me. I remembered how angry he’d been when he’d found out about my Columbia interview. How was he going to react now?

“There are a couple of things—hard things—I need to tell you,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

A V of geese flapped and honked overhead in the pale blue sky.

“First,” I said, “is about me.”

I kept my eyes on the birds as they receded into the distance.

“Ever since my parents split up, I’ve been on meds. You know, psychotropic.”

I paused, took a sip of coffee. The steam fogged up my glasses.

“It started as a regular prescription thing. But then my doctor said it was time for me to stop. So, I got in the habit of finding other ways to get pills. From my parents, other people. I don’t use them every day. Just when I’m stressed, or anxious. I know it’s not ideal, but I’m really careful. And . . . I know it’s wrong, how I get them. I do feel bad about that.”

I rolled the warmth of my cup between my hands.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” I continued, “because I know you don’t like meds, and I thought you might think it’s a problem for me. But it’s really not. I’m not addicted or anything. Not at all. They just, they just make things easier. Like, emotional aspirin.” I bit the inside of my lip. “I know you might not think of me this way, but I can be really . . . unproductively emotional. Like, when my parents split. And other times . . . It scares me.”

Silence. Heart hammering, I forced myself to meet his eyes but couldn’t read their expression.

“Is this what that chart you made is about?” he said.

“You saw it?” I said, surprised.

“I found it on the floor of your room, when you were sick. With so much else going on, I haven’t asked you about it.”

David
had the paper this whole time? I couldn’t believe it. “I know you probably think it’s really irresponsible,” I said. “But I always do research. About dosages, drug interactions. That’s what the chart is for.”

His gaze moved to his coffee cup. “The thing that makes me sad,” he said, “is that you feel you need to do it.” He paused. “And, I guess, it makes me wonder if I know the real Leena.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “I only take really low doses. Just to even out. It’s not like I walk around in a haze. And I only use them when I need to, like I said.” My chest was beginning to hurt. “You do know me, David. You do.”

Sun brought out the reddish strands in his dark hair. He was quiet. I hated that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Are you mad?” I finally said.

“Mad? Of course not. I think you should stop. I think maybe you have some stuff you need to work out. But I’m not mad.” He reached over and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. Then he smiled. “Let me be your antidepressant, baby. How’s that for a song lyric?”

“Incredibly cheesy.” I leaned forward to kiss him on his cheek, overwhelmed by how well he’d taken it. I’d underestimated him.

“Was there something else?” he said. “’Cause we’ve got class in about ten minutes.”

Something else. Right. I took a sip of coffee as a momentary delay. Then began.

“This is the much, much more serious thing,” I said. “It’s Celeste. She wasn’t upset about your father yesterday.”

“Did she give you a hard time about being there?” he said. “I thought she was being more mature about—”

“No. David, I . . .” It was difficult to talk past the brick in my throat. “I’m really worried about her. More than just worried.”

“Worried?”

“You know how she’s always acted weird about the dorm? And how she switched rooms. And now she won’t use the bathtub either.”

“I know,” he said. “She told me that tub is dangerous, with her cast.”

“That’s what she told me, too, at first. But that’s not it.” I reached over and took one of his bare hands between my mittened ones. “Okay. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. She thinks . . . she thinks the dorm is haunted.”

David’s mouth curled into a questioning smile. “What?”

“She thinks it’s haunted, and that there’s some sort of evil spirit trying to hurt—trying to kill her.”

“Wait.” David pulled back his hand into his lap, tilted his chin down, and looked up at me, eyebrows raised.
“What?
”

I went on and told David the whole story—everything she blamed on the ghost, from the ripped skirt to the bruises.

“I did a little research, and it’s possible most of the things were caused by her,” I said. “I mean, not on purpose. Subconsciously. These poltergeist-type things tend to happen in houses with intense girls living there. So she really doesn’t realize that it’s in her head, because it’s actually happening. But it’s being caused by her in some way. I don’t know how this all would tie into delusions and hallucinations. I actually don’t think she has hallucinations, unless the feeling that she’s being physically hurt or whatever, unless that’s some sort of physical hallucination. But the bruises could definitely be self-inflicted. There’s a correlation between . . . between mental illness and self-harm.”

David’s left cheek twitched as I spoke. Maybe I should have printed out some of the articles I read. It’s what had affected me most—the idea that Celeste could have unknowingly done these things herself. It’s what had filled me with that strange combination of relief and terror.

“I know this is a lot to hear,” I said. “I felt sick all night, knowing I had to tell you. Well, that and worrying about her.” I reached for my coffee cup, but the heat had drained away.

“Why didn’t she tell me herself?” he said. “Why did she tell you?”

“I think . . . well, she knows how much you worry about her. That scares her. She assumed you’d think she was . . . you know. Sick. She thought I might believe her.”

David shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’d know if she was sick.” He rubbed his palms back and forth on his knees.

I took a minute to consider his choice of words. “What do you mean?”

“I’d know if she was sick,” he said. “I’d be able to tell.”

“Oh-kaay,” I said. “But you haven’t talked to her about this stuff. You haven’t heard the way she talks about it.”

“No. But still.”

“So, then . . . what’s the alternative?” I said. “If she’s not imagining stuff?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there really is something . . . weird in there.”

“Like, something evil?” I said. “Something trying to hurt Celeste? Is that what you mean?” He couldn’t.

“I don’t know. Do you really think we can understand everything about this stuff?”

“No, I guess not. But—”

“There are plenty of documented stories of hauntings.”

“David. Are you serious?” I studied his face. His stubble-covered jaw was set.

“Well, there are,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said to avoid arguing over that side issue. “But you have a history of psychosis in the family. And Celeste has the paranoid impression that someone—something—is trying to kill her. I mean, statistically—”

“I’d know if she was sick, Leena.”

I pushed my glasses up my nose. He was a mathematician; how could he be so illogical?

“Are you really saying it’s more likely that the dorm is haunted than that she’s had a psychotic break, something she’s genetically predisposed to have?” Now I couldn’t take my eyes off his profile, waiting for some sign that I wasn’t hearing what I thought I was.

“You make it sound as if having a father like ours means it will happen,” he said. “It’s a pretty low percentage, you know.”

“But, David. Are you seriously listening to yourself? Haunted. You believe the dorm is haunted.”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to assume that she’s lost it. She would tell me if she felt not right, mentally. We have a pact.”

“People don’t know!” I was having trouble keeping the frustration out of my voice. I needed to remember how hard all of this would be for him to hear. It shouldn’t have surprised me that his first response would be denial. “Don’t you see? It all seems real to her because her brain is perceiving it as being real. People don’t know when they’re delusional. I live there, David. That house is not . . . haunted. If such a thing even existed.”

“Since you don’t believe it
can
be, maybe you’re just not open to seeing it.”

“David!” I said too loudly. “I’d know if there was something wrong in the house. I’d certainly know if something was trying to kill me. And nothing bad has happened to any of my stuff, you know. Nothing.” I paused. “We have to tell the dean about this. Or maybe not the dean first. Maybe your mom. Would that be better? It should be your decision.”

He finally turned to face me. The blue of his eyes glowed radioactive in the strong sun. “And then what? They send her to some horrible place and shove her full of meds?”

So now he was throwing that back at me?

“Well, somewhere she can get help,” I said. “Of course. And yes, meds can help.”

“God! You’re not a doctor yet, Leena. Even if you treat yourself. How many psychotics have you even met? My father was probably the first, right? And he wasn’t even having an episode.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what? I
know
psychosis. I’ve lived with it. Celeste is not acting at all like my father ever acted. I’d be able to tell.”

This conversation had strayed so far from what I had anticipated. I had no idea what to say anymore. “But, David. If you listen to what Celeste is saying—”

“Celeste is rational. She doesn’t have any other symptoms.” He held out his hand and counted off on his fingers. “She’s doing her schoolwork. She’s already got all of her college apps in—did you know that? She has good personal hygiene. She hasn’t withdrawn—”

“Of course she has,” I said. “We barely ever see her anymore.”

David shook his head. “That’s because of us, because she doesn’t know how to deal with our relationship. And I see her on my own, when you’re not around.”

“I can’t believe we’re arguing over this,” I said. “If she’s not sick, then it won’t hurt to tell someone, right?”

“Leena. I’m going to talk to Celeste. Until then, don’t do anything. Anyway, waiting won’t make a difference. If you are right, if she’s sick, what’ll it matter? A few days won’t change anything. Right?”

“It’s just, if she’s sick—”

“If you are right,” he interrupted, “if she’s sick, then I promise, a day or two won’t make any difference. Nothing will change the fact that Celeste, the Celeste I know, is gone.”