Moonglow (21 page)

“Of course she did,” my father answers in an eerily calm voice. “Because that's the only thing that made sense to her at the time.”

The wrinkles slowly disappear, and I can tell that Barnaby is trying to accept what my father just told him. As much as he sometimes hates me and as frustrated and scared as he is right now, he doesn't want to believe that his big sister's capable of killing someone.

“Then what happened out there?” Barnaby asks.

I see my father grab Barnaby's hands and hold them tight; they look so small next to my father's. “We just don't know, Barnaby,” he lies.

Fighting the urge to cover up the nativity scene under the tree to protect the residents of that holy barn from such blasphemy, I retreat into the kitchen. My father was so convincing I almost believed him. Sadly I realize that since he's been lying since he was my age; he's become a master. Not only a master at lying, but at upholding tradition as well.

My father never wanted us to spend Christmas at a nursing home—and I'm sure my mother would second that decision—so we always visit her on Christmas Eve. An hour later that's where we find ourselves. And as I've said The Retreat is a first-rate facility, a go-to stop for those who need rehabilitation of the body and the mind; but it is what it is, and what it isn't, is a happy place to be on a holiday. By the look on Essie's face, she shares my opinion.

The bulk of the holiday decorating budget seems to have crash-landed on her desk, which makes for a particularly frightful sight. Sloping strands of braided garland in neon red and green hang from the edges of her desk, which itself is covered in a layer of fluffy cotton in an attempt to create a snowy panorama. Amid the puffs of cotton are lopsided trees, dancing elves, forest critters, snowmen and their snow families, and an endless variety of reindeer. Obviously Essie isn't a member of PETA. The deer make me think of my father, so when I see a few toppled over, half-hidden in the cotton drifts, I don't think that they're simply exhausted from too much holiday cheer and resting; I presume they've become some teenage hunter's bounty. Such happy thoughts fill my head. Where the hell are the sugar plum fairies this year?

The wall behind Essie's desk has been turned into a giant present. It's covered in red construction paper, with two lines of black masking tape, one horizontal and one vertical, and a green bow stuck on at the point where the lines intersect. But the most miserable-looking decoration is Essie herself.

Sitting at her desk Essie is wearing a Santa hat and a green sweater that depicts a gingerbread family all holding hands, frolicking in a winter wonderland underneath a star-filled night sky. The largest star actually twinkles, so I can only assume she's stuck a battery in her bra. The problem is Essie looks like she was held at gunpoint when she got dressed to come to work.

“Hi, Essie,” my father says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Will be when my shift's over,” she replies.

The three of us can't help but laugh at Essie's comment, but she isn't looking for any positive reinforcement. When she hands us our index cards, she looks especially surly, or perhaps it's just the contrast between her sourpuss face and the card's holiday redesign. Tonight's index card has been cut into the shape of a snowflake, and the one is written in green sparkly marker, the nine in red. There isn't a Christmas bonus large enough to make Essie do any extra work, so I'm guessing Nadine and her fellow volunteers spent hours cutting index cards into holiday shapes.

Entering my mother's room is like entering a monk's hideout after spending time in the Vatican. The only decoration on display sits on the windowsill. It's the angel that used to perch on top of our tree when my mom was alive. Well, really alive. Like my mother, the angel has blond hair; unlike my mother she's wearing a red sequined gown.

During our brief visit, my father and I take turns holding my mother's hand while Barnaby remains seated the entire time. He's never touched my mother, not once in the whole time she's been at The Retreat. He was only four when she was brought here, so his memories of her are dim and beyond his reach; to him our mother is really just a woman in a bed, nothing more. There's little connection between them, and I'm sure today's mandatory visit is a nuisance to him, not a selfless and necessary activity. Funny, I'm only two years older than Barnaby, and yet I remember my mother vividly. Honestly, I'm not sure what's worse: to be like me and miss her terribly or be like Barnaby and not remember her at all.

Less than thirty minutes later we leave. Essie is the most animated I've ever seen her in my life, I'm guessing thanks to the rum-smelling eggnog she's drinking. In between sips she hums along to some guy over the loudspeaker who's singing a very melancholy version of “White Christmas.” His voice is deep and sad, as if he were trying to burrow a hole into the ground with his notes so he could hide from the holiday.

“I miss Bing, don't you?” Essie asks.

Barnaby and I look at her with blank faces.

“Bing Crosby,” my father mutters to us. Then he responds politely to Essie. “He sure did have a beautiful voice.”

His voice could only be considered beautiful if you want to spend the Christmas holiday with the dying. And then I get a fit of the gigglaughs so uncontrollable I can't stop, not after Barnaby shoots me a dirty look, not after Essie and my father stare at me sternly, trying to telepathically remind me that such an outburst of laughter is inappropriate. But it's incredibly appropriate; they just don't get it.

Since my life may be over in two more days, I understand that Bing in his deadly serious voice is singing his sad, pathetic song just for me.

Chapter 15

From the moment it started I wanted Christmas to be over, but it felt like the day that wouldn't end.

We all got up around the same time, not too early and not too late, and my father cooked us our traditional Christmas breakfast of French toast and Canadian bacon. Edible. I know we talked at the kitchen table, but since Barnaby carried most of the conversation, it consisted of the latest technology gadget news and how he had to keep training over the holiday break in order to keep his edge as rising star of the Two W track team. Boring.

Then we moved from the kitchen into the living room where we sat in front of the Christmas tree willing ourselves to feel the joy of the season. Failure. After accepting that this Christmas was never going to crack the top ten list of Favorite Robineau Family Holidays, we proceeded to open our gifts.

I didn't get anything spectacular or worth mentioning. Well, that's not true, I might have, but I honestly can't remember what my father and Barnaby got me. All I kept thinking was that this would be my last day on earth where I wouldn't know the truth. Tomorrow all would be revealed. Either the full moon's glow is going to transform me into something subhuman, or I'm going to have to confess to the world that I possibly committed a subhuman act without any supernatural intervention. Like I said, it was not a good day. Luckily my boyfriend has the uncanny ability to know exactly when I need him.

His kisses feel wonderful. Tender and hot and when I wrap my fingers around his bicep I can tell that he just spent an hour working out in his basement. Maybe I am inappropriate—we are in my kitchen after all—but I want to lose myself in Caleb's kisses and his touch and his body. I want to run upstairs, lock my bedroom door, and give myself to him right now. For a few seconds while Caleb responds to my deep kisses, I contemplate taking him by the hand and secretly leading him upstairs. I know that Caleb would love the idea, but I'm not sure if he would give in to the passion I know is churning in his stomach. I am the daughter of the sheriff. Though he might think he had a fighting chance if he knew Sheriff Daddy's gun shoots blanks.

“Merry Christmas, Domgirl.” He sighs.

“Merry Christmas, Bells,” I reply.

Caleb pushes me away and scrutinizes me like I've done something wrong. Turns out I've said something wrong. “That's Archie's name for me,” he says. “You can't use it.” I forgot that my boyfriend kind of has a boyfriend too.

“Didn't know Archie had dibs on it.”

His expression lies somewhere between sincerity and sarcasm. “He does, so you just have to call me something else,” he informs me.

“How about Christmas Bells,” I declare.

I can tell from his expression that he'd prefer I come up with something more original, but luckily Caleb knows when he's going to lose a battle. He doesn't fight me; he just lets me have my way. It's nice to know that I can count on him to be stable when my world is wobbly and disorienting.

We join my father and Barnaby in the living room, and I'm tricked into thinking we're an ordinary family. Twinkling lights on the tree, crackling Yule log on the TV, and munching cookies on the floor. We're downright traditional.

Sitting next to Caleb, his arm brushing against mine every so often out of need and not by accident, I can tell that he wants to be alone with me. My father gets the hint as well, though it takes a bit of conniving to get Barnaby to get in step with the rest of us. Finally, my father convinces my brother to join him upstairs so they can install the new wireless router he bought for us. Barnaby is reluctant to give us some privacy, but in the end he can't resist the lure of superior technology.

When we're alone, Caleb stiffens instead of relaxing, and I wonder if he's going to break up with me for acting like such a weirdo these past few months. But no, he would never do that, not on Christmas Day. Would he?

“Merry Christmas, Dominy,” he says softly, handing me a beautifully wrapped box.

Green velvety wrapping paper with a piece of red string instead of a bow. Sort of Christmas meets
Jane Eyre
.

“It's beautiful,” I reply.

“You're not supposed to say that until you open it,” he reminds me.

As carefully as possible, I open up the package, trying my best not to damage the wrapping. It's silly I know, but it looks so pretty, it would be a crime to just tear it. When I see what it's concealing, I know I acted appropriately.

“Oh, Caleb,” I gasp. “It really is beautiful.”

A circle of diamonds on a beautiful silver mesh chain. Probably diamond chips, but I don't care. It's the first piece of jewelry Caleb's ever given me, the first piece of jewelry any boy's ever given me, and I know immediately that I'll treasure it forever. Just like I want to treasure this moment. And I will, but for all the wrong reasons.

“I was going to get you the one with three stars,” Caleb admits. “But Napoleon has a tattoo like that and no way was I getting you a gift that was going to remind you of him.”

“Napoleon has a tattoo?” I ask.

“Yeah, three stars on his leg,” Caleb explains.

“How come I've never seen it?” I ask.

“You better not have seen it,” he replies as he puts the necklace around my neck and fastens it. “It's way up his left leg, top of his thigh. I've only seen it once when he was changing after gym.”

I try to get a mental picture of nerdy Napoleon with an edgy tattoo, but the image doesn't materialize; the idea is ridiculous.

“I think he's embarrassed by it though,” Caleb continues. “He's always trying to cover it up. Anyway, I just didn't want anything to link the two of you together.”

The first kiss is quick, but the next one lasts much longer. “You have nothing to worry about,” I tell him.

Reaching behind me I find my gift for Caleb and give it to him. It's not as exquisite as my necklace, but he loves it just the same.

“How'd you know I wanted a David Humm football?”

“Because you've been dropping hints since July!” I remind him.

I don't even know who this David Humm person is, but if his autograph on a football makes my boyfriend happy, it was worth all the money I spent on the thing. Watching Caleb grip the football and make believe he's going to toss a touchdown-winning pass causes the insides of my stomach to flutter. He's so handsome and sexy and mine, and I want him to know that; I want him to know without a doubt that he's loved and appreciated. Instead I prove that I'm daddy's little girl and lie.

“Can't believe I have to go on a road trip with my dad tomorrow.”

To ensure that our mid-holiday absence doesn't arouse any suspicions, my father came up with the story that we're driving to Iowa the next day to look at colleges, when in reality we'll be camping out in the wilderness to see if the full moon has any power. I'm only a sophomore, but my father is anal-retentive and a planner, so Caleb—and everyone else we told—totally believed the story.

“You really think you might go all the way to Iowa for school?” Caleb asks, as if Iowa were Indonesia.

“Doubtful,” I reply. “I mean Bethany is a good school.”

“And it rhymes with Bettany,” Caleb says, “so you can't forget me.”

I blush a little at his comment, but I'm trying too hard to follow the logic of my lies; I don't dare return his flirt. “Briar Cliff's good too, but I don't think I'd get into either.”

Caleb can't hide his relief at my hypothetical academic shortcomings. I don't take it as an insult, since he isn't focused on my chances of getting a highly regarded higher education, but on the fact that if I cross the state border, I'll be lost to him forever. He has no idea that there are other borders that once crossed make it much more difficult to return to the world and the life that you leave behind.

“I didn't want to disappoint my dad,” I elaborate. “He's mega looking forward to this daddy-daughter road trip so we can bond.”

Caleb rubs his fingers along the nape of my neck, and the unexpected movement lifts the chain of the necklace, making the diamond circle travel over my skin. It's like he's lit a match; a current of pink heat encircles me, and I sigh. Of course Caleb takes this as further confirmation that I have no intention of ever leaving him or living outside of the Weeping Water town limits. He has no idea that it's because my lies are like a fire and are about to consume me. Always on cue, Caleb is ready with the extinguisher.

“At some point on the drive you can slip in that Big Red is a good school,” Caleb teases.

“What?!” I exclaim, suddenly feeling as cold as ice.

“Big Red,” Caleb repeats. “David Humm is one of their legendary quarterbacks, and it's my dad's alma mater, so it's probably where I'll end up going too.”

For one horrifying second I thought I had misjudged Archie and he had told Caleb all about Operation Big Red, but Big Red is the nickname for University of Nebraska, which is in Lincoln and therefore commuting distance from Weeping Water. Merely Caleb's way of suggesting that we can attend college together and never be apart. Both suffocating and sweet at the same time, but at least it isn't confirmation that Archie can't be trusted.

Caleb's hand feels so soft on one side and so rough on the other. I hold it in my hands and wonder how much longer I'll get to do just that. How much longer would Caleb want to be touched by a freak? Or worse, a murderer?

“I'll definitely slip Big Red into the conversation,” I say as if I mean to keep my promise.

Truth is I never thought much about college or leaving town or leaving Caleb for that matter. I like my life the way it is—well, the way it was—so I was in no hurry to make any changes. Yes, attending college is a given, but since Weeping Water is a small town, there are really two choices you can make: become a townie or escape. As the daughter of the town sheriff I guess everyone, including myself, always assumed I'd never break free and that I would commit to walking down that unbreakable path by attending a local college. And I guess now, as the town's youngest girl murderer, I'll never break free from my inevitable death-row prison sentence.

“You have to go,” I blurted out.

“What?” Caleb said, his voice all little-boy squeal.

“I'm sorry,” I replied. “It's getting late, and all this college talk reminded me that I still haven't packed.”

Now it was Caleb's turn to laugh. “Gonna take you all night just to fill up your makeup bag,” he said. “You and Jess carry around so much makeup all the time, you make the lunch table look like one of those makeover counters at Dillard's.”

It's not until he stops talking that we both realize he used Jess's name in the present tense. There's nothing left for us to say, nothing that Caleb thinks he can say that will make me forget Jess is no longer alive, and nothing that I can think of to say that will make me forget that I'm responsible.

On my doorstep, the cold wind does its best to separate us and pull us apart. I lie to Caleb once more and tell him that I'll be fine, that I'm not upset by his mentioning Jess, that I had been thinking about her all day. That part was true; I just didn't tell him in what context. He kisses me softly on my lips, the warmth emanating from him desperately trying to win out over the cold, but the wind and the fear churning in my stomach are too much competition. I don't think he knows that he lost out. He's too innocent to believe such a thing could happen, and I'm just the opposite.

After I unplug the Christmas tree lights, my necklace is the only thing left sparkling in the room. When I turn around I'm surprised to find my father staring at me. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. I know exactly what he's thinking; it's the same thing that's been in the back of my mind all day long. Tomorrow may be my last day of peace. When the full moon comes tomorrow night, if this curse really does control me, what kind of a life am I going to have? How will I ever live knowing each month I'm going to turn into some kind of monster? And why is Caleb knocking on our front door.

“Tell your boyfriend it's getting late,” my father says, his voice no longer sweet and pleasant.

“I'm sure he just forgot something,” I say.

But it's not Caleb knocking on the door; it's Nadine. Is she not only smart, but psychic too? Does she somehow know about my conversation with Archie and want to explain her unexplainable comment? Or does she really have a knack for showing up when least expected?

“May I come in?” she asks before I can even say hello.

“Sure,” I reply, because I can't think of anything else to say.

I'm not sure who's more surprised when they see each other, my father or Nadine.

“Sorry, I thought I might find you alone,” she stutters. Her lips continue to flutter nervously after she stops talking. The bee is a bit more like the butterfly than I thought.

“Don't mind me,” my dad says, starting upstairs. “But remember, Dominy, we have a big day tomorrow.”

When we hear my father's bedroom door close, Nadine finally speaks. “That's why I'm here,” she whispers. “To talk about tomorrow.”

So no explanation about her comment, but I'm about to get an invitation.

“If this
thing
happens like you think it might,” she starts, “you're going to need a safe place to hide out.”

“We thought we'd go down to The Retreat and shake things up,” I joke.

“What?!”

Clearly Nadine doesn't think I'm funny.

“I'm kidding,” I tell her. “My father has a plan to get us out of town. I'm not sure exactly where we're going, but we're camping out somewhere.”