The Murmurings (31 page)

The police made subsequent visits so they could complete their reports. Just when I would think the nightmare was over, more police would show up, or call. Cops. Detectives. Medical professionals. They all wanted to know about the tests, the drugs. They asked me about the basement. I told
them it was all a blur. I couldn’t tell them the truth—that some nights I don’t sleep, so sure that I’m going to close my eyes and feel my ears pop before I hear that horrible whisper.

Then, two weeks ago, the calls and visits from the police stopped. Not coincidentally, I’m sure, this cessation of interest coincided with Oakside’s disappearance from the media. After the national news mania died down, the local news buried the story under a more sensational money laundering scandal connected to some city administrator. And when the cops finally stopped asking questions, my head finally stopped hurting.

My heart still has a ways to go.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Evan asks me, his face pinched in now-familiar concern.

“Sorry. Just remembering,” I say.

That happens a lot these days.

“How’s your mom doing?” Evan asks after a long period of silence.

“Good. She’s good.” And for the first time in a really long time, I actually believe it. Mom’s been going to an AA meeting at least once a week, sometimes more if she feels like she needs it. Evan knows this. We pretty much see each other every day, and when our paths don’t cross at school, we spend hours on the phone in the evenings. It’s strange; our
relationship started with many unexpected intimacies, but we’ve had to fill in a lot of the gaps and start from scratch.

Well, maybe not from scratch. That would be impossible. But we rewound a bit, went on actual dates instead of excursions to mental institutions and far-away cities. Instead, we go to the movies now. Or the mall.

Not all parts of our relationship have slowed down, though. All those connections we had in the beginning, all the making out—there are some things you just can’t slow once they’ve started. Feeling the warmth of Evan’s lips on mine, his calloused hands on my skin, his breath—I couldn’t have stopped that if I’d wanted to. I feel an actual tug inside of me when I haven’t seen him in a day. It’s almost painful, but in the best way. And all of that pales in comparison to knowing I can talk to him about anything and he won’t think I’m a freak. He’s already seen all of my secrets.

“I’ve got a session tonight,” I say, glad I don’t have to say more.

We’ve started going to therapy—Mom, Aunt Becca, and me.

“That’s good,” he says, and we leave it at that. He’s right, it is good.

I think it might actually be helping, too. The therapy. I’m less angry these days with Mom and Aunt Becca. And I don’t hunch my shoulders in fear as much as I used to. Sometimes
my ears pop because my sinuses get stuffed up. But then there are other times that they pop, and the murmuring returns. I still see things that others don’t know are there. I am still leery of mirrors. I don’t like to look into them for too long. I know that this will never go away. Cursed or not, this is who I am. I will always be a Seer. Only now, I know that I’m not alone. And now I know how to control it.

“Deb and I go tonight too,” Evan says, and I nod.

He goes with Deb, mostly for moral support. In a lot of ways, she’s been through more than any of us have. A lot more. Evan never knew about his uncle’s abuse. He thinks his aunt must have known but was too afraid to say anything. I can only guess that’s where the therapy is starting. They’ll get to the Oakside stuff later. When she’s ready. After all, a regular psychiatrist probably isn’t going to be well-versed in the world of Takers and Seers.

Deb lives with Evan and his parents now. The courts miraculously allowed it, although I’m sure the fact that her parents turned her over to Oakside, an institution that the media successfully (and accurately) demonized, probably didn’t hurt Evan’s parents’ petition for custody. That and Deb’s plea to the court to be allowed to live with the only people she had ever really considered family.

Deb’s put on a little weight since she moved in with them,
and the space around her enormous amber eyes has plumped out, so she resembles Evan more than ever.

I watch Evan now as we round the corner toward my house.

“What?” He looks embarrassed.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Gatorade,” he says wistfully.

“Be serious,” I give him a little shove. “You looked far away.”

He scoops me close and presses me to him. “There. Can’t get much closer than that.”

He’s right.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Evan says as my house comes into view.

A tall figure leans against Evan’s car where he left it parked at the curb. A much smaller figure leans in a similar fashion beside the tall one.

As we approach, Adam pushes himself away from Evan’s white Probe and walks over, nodding formally like he’s some sort of guard in charge of my safety.

Which I suppose isn’t too far off the mark.

“Hi, Sophie,” Adam says, his voice warm and rich, like freshly steeped coffee. He rests a giant hand on my shoulder, then pries his gaze from me and extends his other hand to
Evan. Evan told me that as soon as he figured out what I was trying to tell him in Oakside, he’d sped to Jerome in search of Adam and nearly missed him. Adam was making good on his threat to find a new hiding place. A few more minutes, and he would have been gone. I still get panicky when I think about what that could have meant.

Evan and Adam look at each other now, exchanging sad but meaningful smiles. They look like war buddies.

Again, not too far off the mark. This is how they typically greet each other. Guys are strange.

“I was taking the bus home from class and found a familiar face,” Adam says, peering down at Deb. “She said she was coming to meet you, Evan. I just wanted to be sure Deb got here safely.”

“Thanks, man,” he says to Adam, then turns to Deb. “Hey, Squirt,” Evan smiles easily and puts his arm around her in a brotherly squeeze. She protests against it, but I know she loves it.

We all stand awkwardly together beside Evan’s car for a minute, a circle of battle survivors. We’re all still a little bruised. Some scars are more visible than others. Adam is still impossibly thin, though he has stopped living like a hermit. In fact, he might be more well-adjusted than the rest of us. He’s renting an apartment downtown—one with actual
running water and free coffee in the lobby every morning—and he has been accepted into the psychology program of his top-pick local university. He told me about it a few weeks ago, and I proceeded to brag about it to everyone: Evan, Deb, Mom, Aunt Becca. What I didn’t tell them was that one of Nell’s poems was why he applied: In the poem, she credited Adam for making her believe there was a purpose in her life. He helped her recognize that her life was worth living. It was that poem, he told me, that made him realize that he could inspire others. He intends to do more of that.

Once he’s earned his doctorate, Adam wants to open his own practice. And then he’ll do what Dr. Keller had promised him they’d do many years ago, only this time, Adam will do it for real. He will find Seers (he knows they’re out there from his blog, which he started up again a few months ago. He even started letting them post comments), and he will help them understand what they’re going through. He’ll make sure they’re not alone and help them realize there are ways to cope. Being a Seer isn’t always a curse, and it doesn’t always have to end hanging upside down by a toe.

I wear Nell’s ring above mine these days. Hers seems to keep mine more securely in place on my finger.

“Evan,” Deb tugs lightly on his sleeve. “I’ve got to get to my appointment.”

She gives me and Adam a quick hug, then turns to me.

“Movie marathon Friday night?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.

She smiles, gives me one more hug, then playfully punches her cousin in the shoulder before disappearing into the backseat.

“You want a ride home, man?” Evan offers to Adam.

Adam nods. “That’d be great. Thank you, Evan.”

“Dude, you can, like, start calling me bro or something.”

Adam’s face creases into a smile. His teeth are broad and a little crooked along the bottom row. A tiny dimple forms in the corner of his mouth. I decide that dimple will now be the first thing I see when I picture Adam.

Then he climbs into the passenger seat of Evan’s car, readjusting his long legs to fit.

“Call me later?” I ask Evan, knowing I sound a little needy, but I’m okay letting him know I need him now.

“Count on it,” he says, and pulls me to him, pressing his lips against mine. They linger like the scent of him. I let my lips graze over his until I’m dizzy with the contentedness of being in the arms of someone who loves every part of me, even the scary parts. I watch them drive away in Evan’s old white Ford, and I turn slowly toward my house.

Just before pulling my key from my bag, I take a moment
and breathe deeply, letting the spring air in my lungs push against my ribs, then slowly exhale. I realize it’s the first time in close to a year that I’ve been able to take a deep breath. It feels so good I almost cry.

Mom’s sitting at the dining room table when I walk in. It’s still weird to see her out of bed and dressed in the middle of the day. But weird in a good way.

“How was school?”

She’s a little unpracticed. It’s like she has to remind herself how to ask the normal “mom questions.”

“Fine,” I say, deciding to save my teaching assistantship news for later. She’ll like hearing about it over dinner. It feels good to want to tell her that kind of stuff again.

“That’s good,” she says, gripping a mug of tea between her palms. She’s concentrating on the rich brown liquid. Then the wood of the table. Then the carpet.

It’s going to take a while. She said in therapy that she still can’t look at me without seeing Nell. I’m working on not holding that against her.

“I’ll be in my—I’ll be back there,” I say, not sure I should tell her whose room I’ll be in.

I turn to leave, but as I do, Mom’s fingers brush mine. She stands from the table and pulls me into a hug so tight, it knocks the wind out of me.

“Honey.”

I swallow the thickness from my throat and put my arms around her waist. I press my ear to her chest and listen to her heart thump. It sounds like
honey, honey, honey
.

When she finally lets me go, it’s like neither of us knows what to do from there. Mom’s the first to leave, deciding her tea needs to be reheated. I tell her I’ll see her at dinner. I smile to myself when I picture her excitement at hearing I’ll be Mrs. Dodd’s aide.

In my room, I change out of my school clothes and pull on Evan’s practice jersey and a pair of shorts. I crack the door to Nell’s bedroom and flop down on her bed, reaching beneath the mattress, feeling around for the journal I’ve been reading for nearly half a year.

Pulling the composition book from its place, I open it slowly, ceremoniously, and allow my eyes to fall across the page of Nell’s swirling letters. These are the words she left behind. The words Adam carried with him when he took her away from Oakside, and later left for me to find.

I run my finger across the impressions of her script, and let the gleam of her ring and mine catch a sliver of light. For just a moment, they look joined as one band, reinforced. Stronger. I take another deep breath.

And I read the words Nell wrote that inspired her to live—the
same words that inspire those who loved her to go on living after she died. Her poetry isn’t a code to decipher anymore, but a language for her and me to share, even if she’s no longer here to speak it.

He says there’s a chance.

I say, What’s the point?

He points to me.

I feel so fortunate to have as many people to thank for their support as I have for this novel. Every author should be so lucky.

I am so grateful for my incredible editor, Annette Pollert. Thank you for your enthusiasm, warmth, and expertise throughout the whole process. When I dreamt of publishing, I always pictured an editor exactly like you. A million thanks to the entire team at Simon Pulse for your dedication to
The Murmurings
. Thank you: Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Jennifer Klonsky, Michael Strother, Lucille Rettino, Julie Christopher, Carolyn Swerdloff, Paul Crichton, Aaron Murray, Amy Bartram, Beth Adelman, Jenica Nasworthy, Jessica Handelman, Craig Adams, Mary Marotta, Christina Pecorale, Mary Faria, Brian Kelleher, Jim Conlin, Theresa Brumm, and Victor Iannone. Your eyes, minds, and hearts have made this novel possible.

To my brilliant agent, Steven Chudney—endless thanks for believing in me from the start. Your insights, intuition, and tireless efforts make me a better writer. No author could wish for a better advocate.

Professors, teachers, and mentors along the way, I am so grateful for your guidance. A very special thanks to Kathryn Reiss, Elmaz Abinader, Cornelia Nixon, Victor LaValle, Stephanie Young, and Yiyun Li. My experience at Mills College continues to sustain and nourish me.

Much, much love to my extraordinary writing group: Lizzie Brock, Laura Joyce Davis, Nina LaCour, and Teresa K. Miller. Thank you for your close readings and encouragement, and thank you for renewing and inspiring me every month. You mean so very much to me. Additional thanks to early readers Nate Davis and Liz Vachon.

To Frank Bumstead—did you think I’d forget? Thank you for making sure I didn’t have any excuse to shy away from my dreams.

Mom and Dad, thank you from my very core. You never once told me it wasn’t possible. Never once did you let on that writing might not be the most prudent endeavor. That seed has rooted me deeply, and has kept me upright when insecurity threatened to tip me over. To my brother, Matt; to Nikki, Rick, Jan, Bethany, Grandma Ruthie (of blessed memory), and Grandpa Phil: Thank you for your unceasing support and encouragement. I am humbled by your generosity of spirit, and so very lucky to call you family.

To my son, Simon, for the doors you’ve opened, even
though you don’t have the dexterity to do that yet. I promise to dedicate my life to making sure you know how much you are loved.