Towering (24 page)

The voice said, “Let me in!”

Imagination! Way too vivid, for sure. With one hand, I searched the nightstand for my earbuds, to muffle the sound. I couldn’t find them. In doing so, I knocked over a glass of water, soaking my bed and probably the earbuds I was looking for. I stood and walked across the room, searching for the light switch for the ceiling lamp.

Across the hall, the banging continued, and the voice. “Let me in!”

I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by a strange bluish-white light. As I entered, I heard glass breaking. I looked to the window.

It was Danielle. She looked just as she had the first night I had arrived. But, this time, she didn’t wait for me. Instead, she reached through with one glowing hand, unlatched the window, opened it, and stepped through.

“Whoah!” I said.

She shook her head, then pressed her finger to her lips. She started toward me.

Instinctively, I knew I must step aside, must follow her. Now, I would pursue wherever she went. I felt an icy chill as she passed, but maybe it was just the wind through the broken window.

She went only to my own room. Once there, she surveyed the unkempt bed, the messy desk, the spilled water, until she found what she sought.

Beside my bed was the plain brown bag from Hemingway’s. She slid her hand inside it and brought out the hairbrush. She ran her finger across the flower pattern, as if to make certain it was the right brush.

Then, she began to take down her hair. It had been in a ponytail, but once down, it was very long, almost as long as Rachel’s hair, but dark instead of blonde.

She brushed her hair. As she did, the hairbrush opened to reveal that it was, in fact, a box. Carefully, she held it up, then turned it over.

Out fell an object. She tried to catch it in her hand, but it tumbled onto the floor.

From her glow, I could see that it was a key.

I leaned to pick it up.

She handed me the hairbrush and motioned that I should replace the key inside it.

I did and closed the box. She watched as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to open it. It wouldn’t budge. She took it from my hand, brushed her hair, and repeated the process, then handed it back to me. I closed it and placed it on my nightstand.

She started to walk away.

“Wait!” I said. “What’s it for?”

She didn’t answer, which was maddening. I knew she could speak. I’d heard her screaming just moments before. But she merely continued to walk away.

“Wait!” I said.

Again, she pressed fingers to lips. “Shh, you’ll wake my mother again.”

“But . . .”

She shrugged and continued out the door.

Blackness began to swirl around me. I didn’t, couldn’t pursue her. I was suddenly so tired, more tired than I had ever been before. I fell to the bed and didn’t even see her cross the threshold of my room.

In the morning, I woke comfortably tucked into bed. I looked at the nightstand. It was dry, and my earbuds were where they belonged. The hairbrush wasn’t there.

I checked the hallway for Mrs. Greenwood. No sign of her.

Slowly, careful not to make a sound, I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room.

Had I expected to see broken glass? A mess where snow had made its way in? I wasn’t sure. In any case, I didn’t see any of it. I peered out the window.

In the circle of lamplight, I could see that footprints dotted the doorstep. I couldn’t tell where they started, but they definitely ended at the door.

Had Danielle returned last night?

Or was it someone else?

Again, checking carefully, I traversed the hall. I spied the Hemingway’s bag on the floor. I reached inside.

The brush was there, as it had been last night in my dream . . . vision . . . visitation. I drew it out, as Danielle had then. I tried to open it.

It didn’t work.

I drew it through my own hair. Nothing. Still, when I shook the brush, I could hear the key rattling inside.

I gasped.

I understood. I thought. Rachel would be able to open the box by brushing her hair. That’s what Danielle had been telling me.

I took the brush with me.

It was cold even inside the house, so I put on a sweater, grabbed my coat and gloves, and went downstairs.

Mrs. Greenwood’s car keys weren’t where I’d left them. Strange. I finally found them, then left a note for her, saying I’d gone skiing.

I thought about calling Rachel before I left, but it was too early. I’d see her later. And by then, I’d know about Zach, her father.

I got into the car and drove down the still-dark road to the expressway. I drove slow because something about the day was dangerous. I could barely make out the snow-dappled boulders that lined the road. I imagined myself running off it, dashing against those rocks, no one knowing who I was, where I’d come from.

And Rachel would never know what happened to me.

I slowed further and moved to a different lane.

In the first morning light, I thought I heard a voice, Rachel’s voice, saying, “Call me.” Crazy. But I didn’t have my phone anyway, and I’d be there soon. Aloud, I said, “I’ll be there soon. An hour, maybe.”

Finally, I reached Gatskill. The streets were deserted. I passed the library, then almost missed the Red Fox Inn. As I was about to pass it, I noticed something. A light in a window. Someone was there.

With a deep breath, I pulled into what was left of the parking lot and got out of the car. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling them like dead bones. Its whistle was almost a warning. Almost. I reminded myself that the real danger was in the place I had just left. I trudged toward the door. The snow was high here, as if the wind had collected it. I left footprints where there had been none.

I hesitated. Last chance to leave.

Before I could knock, the door opened.

“Are you Wyatt?”

I stepped back, but I nodded.

The man was just as old as his brother, maybe eighty, maybe more. Like his brother, he had startling bright blue eyes.

“I’m Carl.” He held out his hand. “Come in.”

“I’d rather not.” Even as I said it, the wind kicked up, and a chill ran from the bones in my shoulders down my body to the ground. “I’d rather stay out here.”

The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s cold out there, and you said you wanted information on Zach.”

“You said you knew where to find him.”

“I might. But first, I need to know why you’re looking for him.”

I looked down. “No reason. I mean, nothing bad.”

“Are you sure?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been completely truthful so far. I mean, you told Henry you were staying with the Brewers, but that’s not true, is it?”

I shook my head no.

“Didn’t think so. You’re really staying with Celeste Greenwood.”

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “But how did you know?”

He laughed. “Little thing called Caller ID.”

“Oh. I forgot they had that here. So many other things are a little . . . retro.” I could feel the warmth coming from inside. In fact, he had a fire going. Somehow, that made it seem even colder out.

“So why are you looking for Zach?”

“I know someone who wants to see him.”

“Who? Old girlfriend? Or creditors?”

“No, nothing like that. No one who wants anything from him, just someone who liked him once, a girl, a friend.”

“A girl and a friend, but not a girlfriend?”

I decided to lie. This guy would never know. I could tell the truth when I met the real Zach. “My mother, Emily Hill, she was a friend from school.”

The guy opened the door farther, taunting me with the heat. “So you’re saying Zach is your father?”

“No, n-nothing like that.” I could barely keep my teeth from chattering. “J-just a friend.”

“Why don’t you come in? If I was wanting to kill you, deserted as it is here, I could have done it by now. Or the cold would do it for me.”

I looked inside. The fire was inviting, and there was a dog lying by it, wagging its tail, almost like Josh’s hardware store.

I stepped forward.

The door slammed behind me.

From behind a pillar, the guy I’d met on the first day, Henry, stepped forward.

“Okay, Wyatt, why don’t you tell me why you’re really looking for Zach?”

After Mama left, I lay in bed, missing Wyatt, but I knew it was too late to call. Wyatt had told me that the phone in his house would ring and wake everyone. That’s why I had to wait for him to call me.

I was sorry. For all the disadvantages of my upbringing, the one advantage was that I had never missed anyone. Now, I did.

Since I couldn’t call Wyatt, and I couldn’t sleep, I did the only thing that interested me.

I took out the letter.

It was surprisingly crisp looking considering the date on it was almost eighteen years ago. It was written on white paper with blue lines and stuffed in an envelope that was the wrong size. The handwriting was pretty, in purple ink.

After reading the letter four times, I fell asleep.

I woke to the morning’s first light, and I said, aloud, “Call me.”

It may have been my imagination, but I thought I heard him say, “I’ll be there soon. An hour, maybe.”

But by eight o’clock, I still hadn’t heard from him. Perhaps, I thought, I could simply call and, if the old lady answered, hang up (that’s what Wyatt had called it) or say I had made a mistake dialing the number. Did people do that? And then, Wyatt might realize it was me and call. Probably.

I knew! I’d say I was a friend of his, if the woman answered, a friend from town.

I turned on the telephone and touched the square that said, “Phone.” A list of names and numbers showed up, Mom, Josh, Astrid. Who was Astrid? Celeste Greenwood. I touched that number. The phone began to make a noise, more like rattling than ringing. It did it twice, then someone said, “Hello.” I drew in my breath.

It was not Wyatt.

I had meant, if someone who was not Wyatt answered, to remain calm, to simply say, “Hello?” and ask to speak to him. That would, I suspected, be a perfectly normal thing to do.

Instead, I sat, mouth slightly open, listening to the voice on the other side of the phone, saying, “Hello? Hello? Who is this?”

The thing is, I knew that voice. It was too familiar not to recognize. And I knew if I recognized her voice, she would also recognize mine.

I touched the part of the screen that said, “End call.”