Moonglow (14 page)

“Why don't you sound happy about that?” Arla asks nervously.

Archie's focus returns to the table. “Because . . .”

When it's obvious Archie can't find the right words to continue speaking, Caleb interrupts him. “Because what?”

“Because they only found part of her.”

The significance of that statement doesn't penetrate right away.
Part of her.
What's he talking about? That phrase doesn't make sense. Until Archie takes his iPhone that he's been clutching and places it on the table so we can read the news bulletin on the screen.

“The gift Napoleon gave her,” Arla says out loud.

Archie nods his head, and it's like a domino effect. It starts slowly; first Arla reacts and then Caleb and then one person after another after another in the cafeteria starts to scream. Screams mixed with words. One word, actually, as Jess's name echoes throughout the cafeteria, jumping from one table to the next. Obviously Archie isn't the only one to have uncovered this news, and anguished voices fill the lunchroom, mine among them. The only difference between me and everyone else is that they're screaming for their friend; I'm screaming for myself.

Within seconds our principal's voice comes over the loudspeaker, instructing the students and faculty to report to the gym immediately for an assembly. I watch the crowd start to move in clusters, slowly, bodies hugging awkwardly, arms wrapped around shoulders, foreheads pressed together, and I wish I were blind. I hear the choked sobs, the wailing cries of disbelief from the students, and the stern, solemn orders from the faculty to keep moving, and I wish I were deaf. I feel Caleb and Archie and Arla grab me, hold me, clutch me close to them so our individual grief can fuse together to become one giant broken heart, and I wish I were invisible. I can't be a part of this charade. My father was wrong. This isn't because of him; this is because of me. I'm the cause of everyone's pain; I'm the cause of everyone's sorrow, so I can't be a mourner as well.

I'm not proud of what I do, but I use Caleb's jealousy of Napoleon to ensure my freedom. I see Nap enter the cafeteria, like a salmon swimming against the tide, and when he's a few feet away, he stops to stare at me as usual. This time, however, I maintain his gaze. The tears I've been holding back are given their independence, and they stream down my face. As expected, Napoleon is at my side in seconds, his thin arms around me, his hands stroking my shoulders, brushing my hair off my wet cheeks, to comfort me in my time of grief. He really does feel like a butterfly, soft, wispy, and unable to keep still. A few seconds after his butterfly-touch, and Caleb is pushing Napoleon off of me, shouting, “Keep your hands off my girlfriend!” Boys really can be so predictable.

During their scuffle, I back away, and without worrying if anyone sees me, I run out of the cafeteria in the opposite direction from where the crowd is heading. I have no choice. There is absolutely no way I'm going to be able to sit in the bleachers surrounded by my shell-shocked classmates and listen to Dumbleavy and his team of lame counselors guide us through the labyrinth of our difficult-to-navigate emotions. The best way I know how to deal with these feelings that are eating away at me is to talk to someone who can't talk back.

 

For once Essie's poor job skills are to my benefit. She doesn't ask me why I'm visiting The Retreat during school hours; she merely hands me an index card with the number nineteen written on it in black Magic Marker. Today's index card color is orange, so I'm reminded of Halloween, which I think is highly appropriate since I'm masquerading as the heartbroken, innocent best friend. Well, two out of three adjectives isn't bad.

Inside my mother's room I can let the mask fall; I can be myself, whoever that person really is. I follow my usual routine so I can relax. Pull the chair next to my mother's bed, sit down, repeat my opening line: “Hey, Mom, how are you?” There's no response, which I've come to expect, but there's no calmness either, which I've come to rely upon. I take a deep breath to slow down my racing heartbeat, and when I exhale for the third time I realize the problem: I've forgotten her perfume.

Instead of filling up with lilacs and powder, the scent of her favorite Guerlinade, my lungs fill up with antiseptic and some other heavy scent that I don't recognize. Must be some cheap perfume from a nurse or maybe a housekeeper, not sure, but definitely from someone who can't handle the smell of sickness all day long so she bathes in some musky cologne. I hate the smell, but I can't blame her; it's no different from what I do.

I grab my mother's hand, and thankfully it's as smooth as ever; it's good to know some things don't change. The back of her hand feels so warm against my cheek, it's like I'm sitting in front of a roaring fire. I close my eyes, and I can see the flames dancing, orange, red, and yellow pieces of fire interwoven, leaning and bending, destroying all that's bad, all that needs to disappear, and leaving behind only remnants of sorrow, so it's easier to move forward; it's easier to keep on living. That's what my mother shares with me, the ability to move on. In the crackling of the flames I can hear her voice, the voice that I remember, the voice that reminds me I can share anything with her and she'll love me unconditionally and she'll always be able to make my world perfect again. The sound is like a lullaby, crackling and hissing and squeaking. Squeaking?

I whip my head around, but no one's there. I remain quiet for a few seconds, straining my ears to discover an intruder, but none appears. The crackling and the hissing and the squeaking are all gone. Guess that's what happens when you lose yourself in a daydream: You begin to hear things.

Turning back to my mother, I stroke her hand and am overcome by the desire to hear her once more. I want to hear her singsong voice answer my questions. Who cares what she says; who cares if she doesn't have the answers. Her voice will be enough.

“What's happening to me, Mom?”

Silence.

“Why am I different?”

More silence.

“Why am I changing?”

Suddenly, my mother's face starts to glow. It's like there's a light shining from within her body, illuminating her face to let me know that she can hear me. I'm not fooled. I know that I'm going insane; I know that this is impossible, but I find it so comforting that I ask more questions.

“Why can't I put an end to this, Mom?”

The light emanating from my mother grows softer, more like stardust floating around an angel's wings. It's impossible, but she's responding to my voice. Maybe it's because she can sense that I'm desperate to make some kind of connection, I don't know, but instead of analyzing it, I continue to talk.

“I don't like what's happening to me, but I can't do anything to stop it,” I admit. “I don't understand any of it, but my body and my mind are not the same, and they haven't been for months!”

The stardust lifts, and the light around her face is twinkling. I look away and focus on the small wooden desk in the corner of the room, focusing hard on it, and then turn back to my mother. She's still glowing. It's real; it isn't my imagination. I have absolutely no idea what's happening, but I don't care. I don't want an explanation; I just want an answer, and I'm convinced she can give me one.

I lean in close to her, an inch from her face. I'm wrapped in the glimmer of light and hope and love that is pouring out of her. “Mom,” I whisper. “Why did I kill Jess?”

For the second time in very recent memory, I see my mother's eyes. But this time they're different; they're alive. They open, and they're like two gray rainclouds with the promise of a clear blue sky behind them. They're beautiful, and they're looking at me with a kind of love I barely remember. Instinctively, I squeeze my mother's hand tighter, and I feel more than warmth; I feel movement. The light was only the beginning; my mother's starting to come alive. My temples are pounding with such excitement and surprise that I almost don't hear her speak.

“Ask your father.”

The sound of her voice stuns me so sharply that I fall back in my chair and let go of her hand. Once our physical connection is lost so is she. Her eyelids close, and her face is shrouded in shadow once again. No!!

“Mom! Mommy, come back to me!” I shout, grabbing her hand.

There's no response, only the emptiness I'm so used to. I'm left looking at a sleeping woman who looks like my mother. Where did she go?! Why did she speak to me and then leave?! And what did she mean?

Maybe if I can revive her, she'll explain what she meant. Frantically, I press the button at the side of her bed and shout into the intercom for a nurse to come. I'm still holding the device when I hear squeaking behind me again and turn around. This time I see the source of the sound.

“Nadine?!”

Somewhere in the distance I swear I can hear the buzzing of a swarm of bees.

“Is everything all right in here?” she asks.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I heard you scream and came right in,” she explains.

It's a logical explanation, but my body isn't listening to my brain, so disbelief registers on my face. As a result Nadine explains further.

“I have work-study here twice a week,” she continues. Another logical explanation, but still there's something about her calmness, something about how she's standing in front of me like a statue, her face frozen instead of curious, that convinces me she's lying. But why would she lie to me? And why would she be spying on me? Before our conversation can continue any further, a nurse I recognize bursts into the room, followed by a doctor whom I've never seen before.

“My mother woke up,” I say.

The nurse looks at me like I'm crazy, while the doctor ignores me and walks to the other side of the bed. He opens one of my mother's eyelids with his thumb and shines a light into her pupil and then repeats the task in her other eye. Roughly, he presses his finger onto the mini-flashlight's clicker and the little beam of light disappears.

“She spoke to me,” I add.

Now it's clear that the doctor agrees with the nurse, because he's looking at me like I should fill out a new patient form. Nadine, however, appears to accept every word I've said as fact. At least someone else in the room believes me.

“Miss Robineau?”

The doctor is very tall, way over six feet, so when he talks to me he looks down even from the other side of the bed. It makes what he has to say sound even more condescending. “I'm sorry, but there's no change; your mother's vital signs are the same,” he informs me. “She's still in a coma.”

“You're not looking hard enough!” I cry. “She opened her eyes. She looked right at me and spoke.”

“And what did she say?”

Now all three of them look exactly the same. They're all staring at me, anxiously waiting to see how I'll respond to the doctor's question.

“She, um, she called out my name,” I lie.

This time the doctor doesn't even try to make his tone sound anything but patronizing. “I'm sure that's exactly what you've wanted to hear her say for years.”

The doctor makes a hasty exit. He's followed by the nurse, who doesn't even bother to say anything; she just offers me a pity-smile and bows her head on her way out, leaving Nadine alone with me and my mother in the room.

“I'm sorry,” Nadine says. Her voice is filled with so much compassion, I realize I must have misjudged her. That is until she turns to leave the room, and the sound of her shoes squeaking makes my breathing stop. I wonder how much she heard of what I said.

But I can't worry about her right now. I have to get out of here and do exactly what my mother told me to do.

 

“Dad, we have to talk.”

That's the first thing I say to my father when he comes into my room. I knew if I skipped dinner and stayed in my bedroom he would eventually come in to see how I was handling the latest news about Jess. When I share with him
my
latest news, he doesn't seem the least bit surprised. I can't take his nonchalant attitude any longer.

“What is wrong with you?!” I blurt out. “You're not freaked out that Mom woke up and told me to ask
you
why I killed Jess?!”

“No, honey, I'm not.”

“And why the hell aren't you?!”

I watch my father's Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallows. “Because I've known you would do something like this from before you were born.”

I remember the conversation my father had with Louis, the one I overheard, when he assumed it would only be a matter of time before I did something wrong. And now this comment.

“How?” My voice is cautious, and it takes a moment to find its strength. “How could you know that I would kill my best friend?!”

My father doesn't move; he just stands at the foot of my bed, his arms dangling at his sides like they're too heavy to lift. “I didn't know who you would kill, but I always knew that you would kill someone.” His voice is not quite boastful, but he does sound as if he's saying he always knew I'd get into a prestigious college or that I'd marry a doctor and not that he knew I'd commit murder. “And I've always known you would do it on your sixteenth birthday.”

My body slumps on my bed, and I grab onto my flower pillow, clutching its softness with my fists. This is all too much. My father is a freak, a lunatic. He's one of those crazy people you hear about on the news. He's hidden it all these years, but finally it's come out.