The Murmurings (9 page)

“No!”

I gasp awake, blinking spastically in the gray that surrounds me. At first, I only register the horizontal stripes of silver in front of me. The miniblinds, partially closed, let in cracks of moonlight, illuminating the front wall of Nell’s room.

The digital clock by her bed reads 2:36 a.m. The air is alive with the sounds of the desert night: chirping crickets, a croaking toad, and, from a distance, someone’s dog barking at all of it.

I stare foggily at the box with its big black letters:
DAVID, NELL
.

My gaze drifts over the rest of Nell’s room to the things that feel less and less like hers the longer she’s gone and more as though they belonged to someone who was never real.

I find my own reflection in the mirrored closet doors. My body, once curvy, is now sinewy-looking, and there are purplish rings sagging below my eyes, which I haven’t even bothered to brush with mascara in more than six months. I
look at my stringy hair, which is too dark for my complexion and needs brushing but instead just gets the abuse of an elastic band or clip, if it gets anything at all.

“God, what am I doing?” I’m not even sure what I mean. But at this hour, I suppose I can’t expect too much of myself.

I begin to slide off of Nell’s bed, already counting the time I have left to sleep before school, when out of the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of movement.

Movement that isn’t mine.

I stare at the far corner of the room where I saw the movement. But the only thing I see is the silvery light jutting through the half-open miniblinds.

I tell myself it was a bird or a bat flying past the window and give Nell’s room one last look before closing the door quietly behind me. I reassure myself that the little black smudge I saw on the mirrored closet door has been there forever.

I’m in my own bed and drifting back to sleep when I remember my dream. The murmuring filled my ear so insistently that I can practically feel the dampness of the breath curl the hair behind my ear.

I tell myself it was just the dream that left my ear and neck moist with sweat. Just a horrible dream that I’ll forget by morning if I keep repeating those words to myself.

It was just a dream.

Nell David

November 19

MM has been here for too long. We’ve all been here for too long, LM the longest, but MM’s the one who makes me the saddest. She doesn’t feel sorry for herself—that doesn’t seem to be her way. But she has a melancholy that’s slowly killing her, like the tide wears away at rocks over time. It’s smoothing her, sort of dulling her out. I try to make her laugh to get some of that life back, and sometimes I think it even works.

The other day, MM and I laughed so hard that the orderlies separated us. It’s like they have to snuff out any trace of humanity that we try to regain. I even got LM laughing. What a feat. I don’t even remember what I said.

But MM laughed, straight from her belly, and it was beautiful.

S
CHOOL WAS A TOTAL BUST
today. I could have saved myself a headache and a boatload of guilt over not doing a single second of homework by staying home and sleeping the day away. Mom might not have even noticed. I could have kept my bedroom door closed, pulled the sheet over my head, and created a little cocoon for myself the way she does pretty much all the time. But the need for some semblance of normalcy won out. I spent the entire day like a zombie instead.

Worst of all, I didn’t have a single Evan sighting. I even took a while getting to most of my classes (not much new there), but this time it was in hopes of being Swept by my favorite monitor. No luck.

After Saturday, I wasn’t sure I would want to see him again
and be reminded of his cousin, or of the blog he’s been reading, or of Adam, who took my sister and never brought her back—the same Adam who is the only one who could tell the police what the hell actually happened to Nell that day.

So by the time I get home, I tell myself it’s probably a good thing I didn’t see Evan. I mean, who needs a reminder of all that?

I’ve almost convinced myself of this when I feel my phone vibrating in the side pouch of my messenger bag as I unlock the front door.

As soon as I see the screen, my former resolve falls away.

“Hey, Sophie D.”

It’s taking everything I have not to ask him where he was all day.

“Anybody there?” He asks after a second. Then silence.

I wonder if Evan’s holding his breath on the other end. It takes me a second to realize that
I
am, which explains why no words are coming out.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say, shrugging even though I know he can’t see me.

“I feel bad about the other day,” he says, the awkwardness from our first phone call returning. He sounds shy; I can almost see him digging his toe into the ground while he talks to me. “I kind of avoided you today because I didn’t know what to say.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s just it. I didn’t do anything. I basically unloaded all this baggage on Saturday without warning you and then left you to think about it for the rest of the weekend. I forget that not everyone is living in my world, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” I say, knowing he can’t possibly know how much I get that.

“Anyway, I was serious about you coming over to look at those websites.”

My hands grow cold.

“I don’t know, Evan.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “You don’t know because you’re not sure you want to read about what may have been happening to your sister, or you don’t know because you’re not sure you want to hang out with me anymore?”

“The first one.” What am I going to say? Yes, please invite me to your house so I can have any excuse to be in a room alone with you?

If it’s possible, I hear him smile over the phone. And just like that, his confidence returns.

“What’re you going to do now?”

I smile. He’s not ready to hang up yet. Neither am I.

“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe watch a little TV or something.”

“What, no homework?” he teases.

“Yeah, that might be on the agenda at some point,” I say a little sheepishly.

Why do I even care if he knows I’m slacking? Because he’s perfect—that’s why. Evan Gold doesn’t ditch class. He doesn’t skip his homework. He might saunter in late sometimes, might be a little tardy with the work, but he’s so damned nice. I don’t think any of the teachers reprimand him too seriously.

“So, meet me in the parking lot after school tomorrow?”

“Okay, but you owe me a Glacier Freeze Gatorade,” I scold.

He chuckles.

“What? You practically drank my whole bottle on Saturday! I was really looking forward to it,” I say, starting to laugh a little myself, something I wasn’t sure I’d ever do on this porch again.

“Three thirty at my car,” he says, then, “Catch’ya later, Sophie D.”

I hang up, but instead of going inside, I sit on the front step and pull out the reading assignment for Mrs. Dodd’s class that I should have done over the weekend. I try to concentrate, knowing the fresh air will be better than the stale air inside my house. But it’s impossible to focus. Right now, all I want to do is enjoy the echo of Evan’s deep laugh.

Nell David

November 26

Puncture it until it pops,

Bleeds like a wound filling to the very top,

Filling like a water glass, too tall, too high,

Optimism brimming over.

I am not optimistic.

I can see for miles,

Through that puncture wound.

I can crawl out, if only for a second,

Breathe the air of something easy.

To breathe would be something easy.

Adam and I talked about trees today. It’s always about trees, or poetry, or food. He’s so funny and formal. He’s more serious than any other guy I’ve met. It’s like he was born into the wrong decade or something. He talked about roots, about how they keep trees stable and upright, how they allow a plant to feed off of the most crucial elements from the earth to survive. But roots also make trees vulnerable to harm from toxins. They’re the source, he said, of all the good and all the bad, and that’s what makes roots so beautiful.

After Adam left, Dr. Keller took me to the room with the mirrors, and all of my beautiful thoughts about trees and
roots disappeared. I tried to write about pretty things when I got back to my room, but I couldn’t.

I told Adam. I told him everything. He told me about how he grew up. About the things he’s seen, too.

E
VAN’S ROOM SMELLS LIKE DRYER
sheets. It’s way cleaner than I was expecting, given how he keeps his car. His deep-blue walls should make the room feel dark, but a giant window by his double bed (with sheets pulled so tight they threaten to bend the mattress in half) lets in the strong glare of late afternoon sun. The only thing that keeps the sunlight from blinding us both is an olive tree with pale bark and waxy leaves weaving a screen of protection. There are only two things hanging on the walls of Evan’s bedroom: a framed Arizona Diamondbacks pennant and an old Arizona State University jersey signed by Jake Plummer. His desk is clean save for a closed laptop and a mechanical pencil. His dresser drawers are closed without a single stray piece of fabric peeking out.
The carpet under my feet is a pleasant light gray, the same as the rest of the house, and vacuum marks still stripe the floor. I’m in the world’s cleanest room.

“I like to keep organized,” he says when he catches me noticing.

“I wish I was that organized,” I say. “One time, I swear to God I lost my cat in my room for three days. I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. He’s dead now, though.”

My laugh comes out like a bark, so I turn away and gaze out the window like the tree outside is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. I know I’m a freak, but why do I have to be even more freakish whenever I’m around Evan? Someone finally pays attention to me, and my mouth mutinies.

Then, out of nowhere, I can smell him. And it’s warm behind me. I turn my head slightly, and his broad shoulders are inches from my own. He’s so close to me, I can hear his nose whistling faintly as he breathes.

“My parents planted that tree two days before I was born,” he says, his voice deep and rich. I open my mouth to ask him what tree he’s talking about, but then I remember I’ve been pretending to stare at the one outside of his bedroom.

“Deb and I used to pick the olives from it and stomp them on the sidewalk, then try to make up stories about whatever we saw in the splatters. Kind of like those inkblots
shrinks use. What’re they called? Rorschach tests.” His voice is quieter now.

I can’t think of a single thing to say in response, because I know what he’s thinking about. He’s thinking about Deb and the tests she might have been subjected to wherever it was her parents sent her. I know, because I’ve wondered a million times what Nell went through at Oakside. I could probably fill an album with all the horrible images I’ve conjured—images that weren’t quite verified by her journal but I’ve imagined enough to get me thinking.

Evan’s quiet for a long time, and I actually get a little light-headed from holding my breath. I’m afraid to make a noise or even move. I am a wreck, feeling him this close to me, but I don’t want to break the moment.

“Sometimes I forget what she looked like, you know? It’s hard to believe I could, but I do. I have pictures, but whenever I think of Deb, it’s not her face I think about. It’s that tree. Stupid, huh?”

This time, I respond. “No. Not stupid at all.”

When he doesn’t say anything in return, I finally work up the courage to face him. But when I turn, I’m surprised to find Evan at his desk hunched over his open laptop, his back to me. He’s typing in a password, and before I can get self-conscious about why he wanted to get away from me, he
turns to me again, his lips parted in a smile that makes my arm hairs stand on end.

“I’ve never told anyone that before.” Instead of looking vulnerable the way a guy might on some stupid TV show after he’s just poured out his heart to the girl he suspects he’s falling in love with, he looks almost giddy. He’s finally found someone he can talk to who will understand—a freak like himself. A freak buddy. I smile and try to disguise my disappointment. I’m suddenly desperate for an excuse to leave.

“Yeah, I have that effect on people,” I say, playing the role of the self-deprecating pal.

God, what was I thinking?
Of course a guy like Evan Gold isn’t going to be into me. He’s a football player. Sure, he made that comment about my “rockin’ body” or whatever, but maybe he was just trying to lighten the mood. What’s he going to do? Explain to all his football team buddies that he’s with me because we have this deep, profound connection that only two people who have lost a family member can share? That he finds my loner behavior and the fact that I’m quite possibly on the road to a straitjacket fitting totally hot? I guess it makes perfect sense that I’d assume he liked me. Delusions are quickly becoming my specialty.

Evan has his back to me again, pulling up a search engine and clicking on a link.

“I haven’t ever shown this to anyone else. I’ve never really felt like I could—like anyone would—” he stammers, then stops himself, sounding like he did that first day he called me on the phone.

I can’t think of what to say to that, so for the second time today, I choose to say nothing. I walk to his side and shift my focus to the screen.

What I see there is less than comforting.

A page titled Truth Seekers is loading blue link after blue link, all with excerpts starting with words like “criminal,” “negligent,” “horrifying.” The familiar panic creeps in.

“So what are we looking at?” I try to sound casual but fail miserably.

“It’s a database,” Evan says, his eyes shining from the light of the monitor. “I found it about a year ago, and I’ve been following it ever since. Some of it is total crap, but some . . . ” He trails away.