The Vanishing Season (13 page)

At his house the next night, they got snacks from the fridge and a bag of cheese popcorn, and Liam led Maggie down the hall toward his room.

“Dad’s asleep. He goes to bed at eight and wakes up at five.
Old guys
.” Maggie thought that Liam looked pretty wiped out himself, and she wondered why. There were circles under his eyes, and his expression was soft and sleepy.

His room was at the end of the hall. It was neat and small and smelled like Liam, with an old model ship hanging in the window and, strung across an antique wooden desk against one wall, a bunch of tools—wire cutters, a level—things Maggie recognized from helping her dad work on their house. The gramophone was on the right side of his bed.

Liam turned to her. “Okay, you have to sit here.” He put his hands gently on her shoulders and guided her to his bed, then waited for her to sit and settle against the pillows he’d already propped up.

“Okay,” he said again, nodding, biting his lip. He walked around the bed and crouched toward what looked like a speaker that sat on the floor near the gramophone, propped up diagonally against the wall. The speaker was covered with a material of some kind that he’d taped on at the sides, and a mirror was glued or taped on top of the material, right in the middle. Liam checked the tape, touched the corners of the mirror, and then stood and pulled something tiny off his desk. Finally he turned to the gramophone.

“So this has been the big part, modifying the gramophone to connect to the speaker,” he said, glancing at her. “Lots of soldering.” He raised his eyebrows at her as if this were mock-impressive. “I stayed up pretty late.” He wound the gramophone and then set the needle down. A jazzy, old record began to play through the speaker. It was Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.”

Liam sank onto the bed beside her, against the other pillows. She looked at him quizzically. “It’s a random song, I know. I just thought it was festive.”

He turned out the light beside his bed, held out the small, silver thing in his hand—which Maggie now saw was a laser pointer—and turned it on, pointing it at the mirror on the speaker. Then he leaned over and turned up the speaker.

Suddenly red lights appeared on the ceiling, bouncing off the mirror, as it was tilted upward, and splitting apart. Maggie stared up at them, confused, amazed. And then the lights began to dance.

They danced in rhythm with the beats from the speaker, leaping up at the low notes, getting lower at the high notes, jerking and swaying, depending on the speed of the notes.

Beside her, Liam was careful not to rub arms with her, but he kept looking over at her to see what she thought.

Maggie felt a lump of gratitude forming in her throat. It was hard to swallow. Life felt suddenly so beautiful.

“You remembered what I said about capturing the dots,” she said.

Liam smiled. “I just thought, this is your first New Year’s away from Chicago, and possibly your first belated New Year’s ever. I don’t want you to feel that it doesn’t measure up. Especially since Pauline isn’t here. I thought maybe you’d be happy if I caught some dots for you.”

“It measures up,” Maggie said, watching the lights dance across the ceiling like little red stars, like Mexican jumping beans. “It’s the best, Liam. Thank you.”

They sat in silence until the song was over. Maggie clapped. Liam looked sheepish but happy. “There’s only one song on each side of the record,” he explained.

“That was perfect,” Maggie said.

“I guess it’s kinda weird. I mean, I guess it lives up to how people think me and my dad are so weird, when we do stuff like this.”

“Every village has got a few idiots,” Maggie offered. “Don’t worry about them.”

Liam looked slightly convinced. They scooted down farther, so that they were lying down, staring at the now-still dots on the ceiling.

She could hear him breathing.

He looked at her in the dark. “She still hasn’t written,” Liam said. “I miss her.”

Maggie wasn’t surprised he’d said it. And she meant it when she replied, “I miss her too.”

Soon his breath slowed, and he drifted off to sleep. Maggie wanted with all her being to stay, but instead she slipped out of the covers, her heart thudding as she moved away from his warm body, and hiked home under the stars.

14

THURSDAY EVENING, BECAUSE MAGGIE WAS GOING STIR-CRAZY, HER DAD SAID she could go into town to the library to pick up some books they had on hold.

“We can’t keep her home all the time,” he said to her mom, who looked up from some papers she’d brought home from work. “We’re practically
pushing
her into the arms of the mysterious Liam Witte, who we’ve never even met.”

Maggie felt her face flame red. Her dad seemed delighted at this reaction.

“The past couple years, I was thinking you might be gay,” her dad said. “To be honest, I was kind of hoping you were gay. I was a teenage boy once. I know what they’re thinking.”

“Oh my God, Dad, stop talking.” Her mom stifled a laugh. She handed Maggie her keys and shooed her out the door. Maybe that had been her dad’s plan all along.

Maggie drove slightly below the speed limit, because she’d learned that you never knew when you might hit an ice slick. She was becoming an expert at navigating the wintry, country roads. Downtown was the proverbial ghost town: Only the library and the convenience store were open. Maggie parked in the lot at the far end of Main Street and started walking, pulling her coat tighter against her and cursing herself for not bringing her hat. The hood of her coat just wasn’t cutting it; cold air slipped in through the sides and gnawed at her ears.

At the end of Main, the library was lit up like a beacon, still festooned with evergreen garlands and red ribbons and silver bells. It was corny, but Maggie was getting used to the quaintness of downtown; she kind of liked it.

Inside she picked up her mom’s books from Lillian the librarian, who—by now—knew her by name, and then turned and hurried back down Main Street. She decided to veer off to the left to the convenience store to get a Snickers, and then she cut down the side street that led diagonally back to Main.

The sound of footsteps off to the left behind her made her halt for a moment and look over her shoulder, but she figured it must just be the echo of her feet, because there was no one there, just garbage cans, dark windows, empty shops. The trees along the front of some of the storefronts swayed in the frigid breeze. She started up again, a little faster, a bit spooked but knowing she was just being twitchy.

She turned right, and behind her the footsteps continued. They sounded too slightly off to be just the echoes of her own footfalls, but whenever she looked back, the street was empty.
This is what mass hysteria feels like
, she told herself. She thought of Elsa. Elsa thought she was being followed or stalked practically four days out of seven.

Maggie took the next left, cutting away from Main, not sure why, except that she had some vague idea she didn’t want to end up at the parking lot alone if someone really was following her. She threw another glance back over her shoulder—nothing but the glare of a streetlight and an empty block. Still, she felt like someone was there, just beyond the trees.

She walked faster. Up ahead the Emporium came into view, and Maggie suddenly remembered the hidden key. She walked as if she’d planned to pass the building, but at the last moment cut left, down the sidewalk that was sheltered on one side by big holly bushes.

Darting around to the side door and looking behind her, she crouched near the landscaping rocks which were dusted in snow, turning them over one by one. Which one had it been?
Which one?

She pulled off her mittens to get a better grip, her hands prickling and trembling.

Her breath hissed in relief as she revealed, under the fifth rock she tried, the key, clumped with dirt. Glancing down the sidewalk and through the cracks of holly bushes (which revealed nothing), she scrambled up to the door and quietly turned the key in the lock, letting out her breath when it turned easily. Within a moment she was inside and locking the door behind her.

She crouched in the dark and then ducked over behind a display table, where she could look out the window from beside a large, old, brass clock that still, she knew from the vendor, kept perfect time. “You’re being ridiculous,” she whispered to herself. She watched through the window as the snow fell lightly. Nothing. She looked around behind her. The shadows of all the old things stuck up in crooked angles. Elsa had covered some of the stalls in drop cloths, so that only dim outlines of the shapes underneath showed through.

Outside, Main Street remained empty. She was beginning to feel like a complete moron. If only someone normal would walk by, then she could slip out with them. She could get back in her car and write off the whole thing as the insulated-town-induced paranoia it probably was. Even she, Maggie Larsen the realist, was not immune.

And then she heard it, the light tapping of glass. Inside the Emporium.

Maggie felt physically unable to move. She turned her neck, ever so slightly, toward the noise. A shadow was sliding back and forth, up and down the third, winding aisle. It reached forward, flicking a switch, and suddenly the corner was flooded with light, falling on the form of Elsa with a coffeepot in her hand.

“Elsa!” Maggie breathed in relief. Elsa jumped and simultaneously threw her hand over her heart. The coffeepot dropped and landed against a drop cloth with a
thwap
, miraculously staying intact.

“Oh my God, you scared me!” she said.

“You scared
me
.” Maggie straightened up.

“What are you doing in here, honey?” Elsa turned on another lamp, then another. There was no shortage of available light in an antiques store.

Maggie looked outside. Had she imagined the footsteps? The presence following her? “I got spooked. And I knew where the key was.”

“Oh, honey, I understand
that.
” Elsa lifted up a retro mannequin and moved it to her left. “I had to come get this to ship because it sold on eBay. What do you think? Why do you think anyone would want this horrible, old thing?”

Maggie shrugged and smiled, relief flooding her. Elsa turned on more lights, flicking switches by the register, and each light that came on seemed to dispel the fear until it was gone. Maggie was finding tempests in teacups, as her dad liked to say about her mom whenever she stressed out too much over things that were mostly in her mind.

“Let’s have some coffee,” Elsa said. It was her answer to everything. Soon the pot was percolating and bubbling and filling the room with the comforting smell, and when Elsa handed Maggie a cup, she took it gladly, even though she didn’t normally like Elsa’s coffee.

“So what have you been up to?”

“Not much. Schoolwork.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it?”

“Well, you’re sixteen! Surely there’s some drama.”

“Elsa, all the sixteen-year-olds are trapped indoors. There’s zero drama. I mean, there’s . . .”

She thought about Liam and the sauna and the night in his bed with the laser show, and it must have been written on her face, because Elsa grinned.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“Nobody. Nothing is happening. Zero.” Maggie looked over at one of the antique clocks, and even though it didn’t tell the right time, she pretended to gauge it. “Well, I’d better get home. My parents will be wondering.” Just as she turned to go, Elsa spoke.

“Maggie, I’ll tell you this: Things don’t just land in your lap. You have to throw yourself out there. If you just hang back protecting yourself, one day you’ll find yourself my age, with a really nice garden and a really nice shop and not much else to show for it.”

“I like this shop. You seem to have a pretty good life.”

Elsa gave her a knowing look, waiting for the truth.

“It’s nothing,” Maggie said. “Really.”

For a moment Elsa had started to seem like some kind of cipher of wisdom. But now she pulled out an old
Us Weekly
and began to flip through it as if she had nowhere else better to be.

“It better not be your friend Liam Witte,” she said absently. “My friend Mary said she saw Mr. Witte burying a small animal over by the church. And you know killing small animals is always a stepping-stone to . . .” Elsa made a slit with her hand across her neck.

Maggie sighed. No ciphers of wisdom here.

That night she slipped outside while her parents were watching TV and went for a walk. She stood outside Liam’s house with her heart pumping, Abe at her side, willing herself to knock on his window.

Her cell vibrated. For the first time seemingly ever, she had a signal. She bit down hard on her lip in surprise. It was Liam.

“Hey,” he said, when she answered. His voice sounded soft, like he was lying on his couch.

“Hey,” Maggie said.

They were both silent for a few seconds. “What are you doing?” Liam asked.

“Watching TV.” Maggie stared around at the dark forest. “What are you doing?”

“Same.”

More silence. Maggie thought about what Elsa had said, about ending up with comfort and safety but nothing else to show for it.

“Well, actually, sorry, I gotta go, my mom wants me,” she said. The quiet of the woods enveloped her. “See you later?”

“Okay. See you later.”

“Okay.”

The next night her mom and dad sat in the living room watching
Antiques Roadshow
while she cooked dinner. Thursdays were her night to cook, and she always made pasta with tomato sauce and melted goat cheese and red pepper flakes, something she’d invented one night by throwing random things in the saucepan.

“Honey, they have a lamp just like that horrid one at Elsa’s. Come look!”

Maggie delivered steaming plates of pasta perched on wooden trays to her parents, and watched the announcer give the value of the lamp. The lamp’s owner looked duly surprised, delighted, and humbled. Maggie’s mom and dad were engrossed as they dug into their food, muttering things like “Can you imagine?” and “Payday.” Sometimes she envied her parents, the way they were so streamlined with each other, how they watched the same shows every night and how a lot of things—though obviously not all—seemed settled for them, instead of so unpredictable as it was for her.