The Ghosts of Now Page 6

  “I’m sorry if you’re sick,” I tell her. “If you’d like to get back in bed, I’ll be glad to talk to you in your room. What I want to ask you won’t take long.”

  “Okay,” she says, looking at her mother instead of at me. “Mama, you don’t need to come with us. We don’t have much to say to each other. Angie will be leaving in a few minutes.”

  As I follow Debbie up the stairs, her mother scuttles into another room. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?” Debbie’s words are flat and angry, taking me off guard.

  “Do what?”

  “Hassle me at school. I heard what you said to Mama.”

  “I don’t want to hassle you. What makes you think I’d try to do a think like that?”

  At the top of the staircase Debbie doesn’t pause. She just heads down the hall and into a room to the left. It’s the one I had seen from the street.

  Debbie flops on her bed, leaning against the padded, pastel-flowered headboard. “Tom Fergus called Daddy about your trip to the police station. He told him what you said.”

  I stand by the door, watching her. “And he told us your excuse—your explanation,” I say.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Trying to find out the truth.”

  “What Daddy told him is the truth.”

  “You really want me to believe that after your car was stolen your father would rush like that to get the body work done on it?”

  “I need my car to get back and forth to school.”

  “One of your friends could have picked you up.”

  “I don’t want to be dependent on my friends.”

  I take two steps closer to Debbie, and she flattens against the headboard. “Don’t lie to me. I believe that you were in that car, that you hit my brother.”

  “No,” she says. “I’m going to tell you where I was, and you aren’t going to like it. Not a little bit. But the way you’re acting, you deserve it.”

  She sits upright, and her eyes glitter as she smiles. “Last night,” she says, “I was out with your friend Del Scully.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I hope she can’t see how she’s shaken me. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Del’s not in your social group. He’s—”

  She interrupts with a slow laugh that rolls huskily from deep in her throat. “Sometimes that doesn’t matter. He’s very good-looking. Don’t you agree?”

  I hate myself for blushing. I try to act as calmly as possible, because I realize that I’ve let her get me off the track. “Someone phoned me,” I say. “Was it you?”

  She drops the pose. “What are you talking about?”

  “About a phone call I got from a coward who whispered ‘Your brother is dead’ and hung up.”

  I watch her carefully, but I can’t tell if what I said surprised her or she’s just reacting to hearing me say the words. There’s a quick intake of breath and her eyes widen. “Why do you think I’d make a phone call like that?”

  “Because I think it was your car that hit my brother.”

  “My car was stolen.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you.” She’s leaning forward, and her shoulders are trembling.

  I step a little closer to her. I’m shaking, too, but it’s because I’m so angry. “Maybe you were driving your car, maybe not. If you weren’t, then I think you know who was, and that makes you equally guilty. My brother is still unconscious. He’s badly hurt. And I’m not going to let the hit-and-run driver get away. If that creep is also the whisperer, then there’s even more to answer for.”

  “Get out of here!” Her voice is so tight the words seem to scratch her throat.

  “Okay—for now. But I won’t give up.”

  “Leave me alone!”

  I don’t answer. I just give her one long stare before I turn and walk out of her bedroom. Her mother is standing at the bottom of the stairs like a watchdog who’s ready to go for the throat. I wonder how much of our conversation she’s overheard. There’s nothing to say to her, so I just pass her and walk across the entrance hall to the front door. She’s right behind me, and I hear the dead bolt click as the door shuts almost against my back.

  She has turned off the porch light, so I stand without moving for a few moments, waiting to get my bearings.

  My car isn’t the only one on the street, but I’m not aware of that until I’m inside my car and pulling away from the curb. Then I realize that another car started up when mine did. Could it be a coincidence?

  I’m not sure, so I circle the block. So does the other car. I pick up speed. The best place for me to be is on one of the main streets, not a residential street. It’s hard to breathe and my hands are clammy. I keep glancing from the street to my rearview mirror and back again.

  A cross street that can be counted on to have the Fairlie version of traffic is just half a block ahead when a cherry suddenly flashes on top of the car that’s following me, and it quickly slides up beside me.

  I move to the edge of the curb, and the police car pulls just in front of me, blocking my way forward. A tall, lanky officer climbs out of the car and walks back toward mine, so I roll down the window. In the glare of red flashes and bounced-off light from my headlights against his car, I recognize him as the same policeman who questioned me in the hospital.

  “Hi,” I say, and I lean back against the seat feeling weak with relief. “Thank goodness it’s you. When I saw I was being followed it scared me.”

  He looks uncomfortable. “Got your driver’s license handy? I need to see it,” he says. “Your proof-of-insurance card too.”

  “Sure.” I fumble in my handbag for my wallet, pull out my license and the card and hand them to him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Routine,” he says. He studies the license.

  “Why were you following me? What’s going on?”

  He hands back my license and insurance card and leans his arms on the frame of my open door window, arching his neck and bending awkwardly like a long-necked crane so that his face is down on a level with mine. “Look,” he says. “A few years ago my brother-in-law was in a bad smash-up. Drunk driver caused it. The drunk walked away from it, but my brother-in-law died and left my sister a widow with two little kids to support. I hated that drunk so bad I could have killed him. Almost did.”

  He pauses, and I say, “I’m sorry. But I don’t understand what’s happening now. Here and right now.”

  “I’m trying to say I know how you feel about what all went down with your brother. But what you’re doin’, runnin’ around hassling people, won’t help any.”

  “I wasn’t hassling anybody.”

  “Miz Hughes felt different. She put in a call. You’re probably a good kid who’s a lot upset. It’s just that you make a pest of yourself and you’re gonna get watched.”

  I understand what he’s trying to tell me. My body feels numb from the shock, and I wiggle my fingers as though they’ve gone to sleep. “Nothing is going to get done,” I’m mumbling to myself, but he picks up the words.

  “Hit ’n’ runs are hard to prove.”

  I put my hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tightly. “I get the picture. Can I go home now?”

  “Sure,” he says. He straightens, hunching his shoulders up and down and stretching to get out the kinks. “I’ll just follow along to make sure you get home all right.”

  He moves back to his car with long, slow strides and climbs in, flipping off the red cherry. He moves forward to give me space, waiting for me to take off.

  I’ve got to think. There’s so much to think about. I try to pretend he’s not there, and as I pull up on the driveway I ignore him.

  Dad has heard the back door open and close. He comes into the kitchen, a pencil in his hand, his shirtsleeves rolled up. His reading glasses have slid crookedly on his nose, and he takes them off, blinking at me like a surprised owl. “I thought you were in b
ed, Angie.”

  “I just went out for a few minutes.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “You were busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Fear suddenly shivers across his face and is gone before I can be sure that I’ve seen it. He reaches to hug me, holding me against his shoulder and saying, “Angie, we must know where you are—especially after dark. We don’t want anything else—” He can’t finish the sentence.

  I suddenly feel protective toward my father and hug him back, awkwardly patting his shoulder. “Okay, Dad. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

  He straightens, holding me off and giving me a little shake and a smile. “Fine,” he says, and he’s back to the father I know. “It’s time we headed for bed. Your mother has been asleep for hours.”

  I think of Del, and in the confusion of my feelings I blurt out, “Did anyone call me?”

  “No,” Dad says. “Of course not, or I would have known you weren’t here.”

  To cover up I reach for a glass and get a drink of water.

  “Were you expecting a call?” Dad asks.

  “No,” I answer, gulping down the lukewarm water and wiping my mouth on the back of my arm.

  Who cares about you, Del? I’m astounded at the jealousy I feel, the hurt because I was beginning to trust him. I try to be rational. There’s been nothing between Del and me. Nothing to give me a reason for aching like this. I slap at my hair with a hairbrush and viciously scrub my teeth. I squirm between the sheets, tugging at my twisting pajamas, and lie there in the dark. Del, I think, why didn’t you tell me you were out with Debbie?

  Sleep is an eraser. It’s like one of those magic tablets I had when I was a kid, with the black stuff under a heavy sheet of plastic. I could write on the plastic and the words would show, then zip! Pull it up and everything I’d written had disappeared. It was only later, when I’d look closely at the black part, that I could see the imprint of the words still imbedded there.

  In the morning I come out of a dream where I’m with Meredith. The black stuff with the deeply cut words shows up, and I remember.

  I swing my feet over the edge of the bed. I want to go to the hospital right away to see Jeremy. I have a plan.

  Mom and Dad are still asleep, so I dress as quietly as I can and—remembering my promise to Dad—leave a note against the salt shaker on the kitchen table as I swallow a slice of bread and a small glass of milk.

  In just a few minutes I’m at the hospital, walking into Jeremy’s room. Another woman sits by his bed. Same gray hair, same encouraging smile, even the same knitting—only pink, instead of yellow.

  I introduce myself, and she says, “He rested well all night.” She glances around the room. “I’ll get another chair.”

  “I’ll be right here,” I say, “if you want to go to the ladies’ room or get something to eat or go outside for a smoke.”

  That was the magic button. “Well,” she says, “as long as someone’s with him. That’s what your father wants.”

  She leaves, and I hitch the chair a little closer to the bed. Again I take Jeremy’s hand and stroke the back of it. For a few moments we sit there silently.

  Finally I say, “I couldn’t wait to get here to talk to you, Jeremy, and now I don’t know what to talk about!”

  Naturally he doesn’t answer. I knew he wouldn’t, even though I waited as if he would. “I mean I’ve read about some people who’ve talked to people in their families who were unconscious, and sometimes it’s helped to bring them back. I’m going to do that with you, but I honestly don’t know what you’re interested in. You’re my brother, and I don’t know anything about you. Should I talk to you about your friends? I guess I don’t know any of your friends, except Boyd. You play tennis, and I don’t know anything about the school tennis team. And none of us knows where you were Friday night.”

  His hand moves slightly in mine, and I lean forward, holding my breath. “Jeremy? Can you hear me?”

  But Jeremy sleeps.

  “Listen, Jeremy,” I try again. “I wouldn’t like it if anyone went through the stuff in my room—especially my brother. So I hope you’re not going to get mad at me or anything, but I’m going to check out the things in your desk. Please don’t mind too much, Jeremy.”

  I stroke his hand again. “All this time I thought of you as only somebody living in the same house, and I never thought about what you needed or thought of or wanted. Does that make any sense?”

  “It does to me.”

  The voice comes from right behind me, and I jump straight out of the chair. “Mom! You scared me!”

  There are tears in her eyes, and she says, “Angie, I didn’t mean to listen in. But you were so wrapped up in what you were saying to Jeremy that I couldn’t interrupt you.”

  “It’s okay.” I pull the chair toward her. “Come on. Sit down.”

  “No, that’s your chair.”

  “Mom, sit down. I’ll get another chair.”

  I walk into the empty room across the hall, wishing that this place didn’t smell so strongly of pine-scented cleanser. Pines should be woods and glens and damp places with rotted bark and curling ferns—not hospital floors. It’s a terrible way to cheat. I pick up a chair and carry it back, placing it on the other side of Jeremy’s bed.

  Neither of us says anything for a while. The room is quiet enough for me to hear the tiny rhythmic drips of the I.V. feeding Jeremy’s arm. Mom’s perfume floats over to me, adding a comforting softness to the room.

  I want Mom to understand what I’m doing, so I tell her. “I believe that Jeremy can hear us. I think if we talk to him we can reach through and pull him back.”

  “Do you?” She’s hopeful as she glances back at Jeremy. “What should we say to him, Angie? Should we tell him how much we love him?”

  She looks as lost as I feel, so I reach across the bed and put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you tell him about the tennis matches on national TV?”

  She blinks at me. “I don’t even know who’s playing.”

  “Well,” I say, “I know a couple of them, but I have no idea about the scores.”

  Mom starts getting fidgety. She squirms in her chair and brushes invisible crumbs off the blanket and throws little side glances at Jeremy as though she’s not sure she’s ever seen him before. When she looks at her watch the second time I say, “It’s too early for a drink.”

  I guess it came out harder than I’d meant it to, because she looks hurt and says, “I wasn’t thinking of having a drink, Angie. You act as though I’m an alcoholic.”

  I mumble, “I’m sorry. It’s just that you do seem to drink a lot.”

  There’s a long pause, and she says, “Sometimes it helps.”

  “You said that before, Mom. I don’t know what it helps.”

  She looks at me with eyes so much the dark blue color of my own; yet I feel she’s talking not to me but to herself. “Each place we go, I start over,” she says. “I join clubs and smile at strangers. I belong to study groups and study things I haven’t the vaguest interest in. Or is it ‘in which I haven’t the vaguest’? Oh, well. I go to dinner parties and luncheons given by people who’ve asked me just because my husband’s job is more important than their husbands’ jobs.”

  “Listen, Mom, I didn’t mean to—”

  “You complain about missing friends each time we’ve been transferred. Don’t you think it’s the same with me? I learned a long time ago to put up barriers, to never allow myself to cry over a friend I might never see again.”

  I feel so weird hearing all this from my mother. I don’t know what to answer. I don’t know if she even expects an answer. Awkwardly I pat the hand she has resting on the bed and stumble to my feet. “I’d better get back to the house. I never did get my French assignment finished.”

  She just gives me a vacant smile as though she’s traveled somewhere I’m not allowed and says, “I’ll stay with Jeremy a while, Angie. Your father will probably be here soon too.�
��

  “Want me to start something for dinner?”

  “We can go somewhere later. I don’t know. There must be a restaurant nearby.”

  We stare at each other, and she adds, “Well, there’s always the club.”

  I stoop to kiss the top of her head and pause, looking at Jeremy. I have got to reach through to him. And I’ve got to find out what happened. It’s a strange feeling, as though if I don’t find out, Jeremy won’t ever come back. “Good-bye, Jeremy,” I murmur. “I’ll see you later.”

  I think I see his arm move, just slightly. Mom doesn’t react, so maybe it’s just my imagination.

  My feelings about Jeremy are so strong that when I come into the empty house I make straight for his room, stopping at the doorway because I feel like an intruder. Papers and books are mounded on his desk, and the dark red-plaid spread on his bed is pulled askew over lumps and bumps in the blanket. I step over his tennis shoes as I walk to his desk, and pick up a few papers that have slipped to the floor.

  I pull out the chair that’s tucked into the kneehole in Jeremy’s desk and sit in it. I divide the books and papers into two sections: books neatly to the left, papers to the right. I glance through the papers. School assignments. A bookmark hangs from one of the books. Jeremy’s reading Captain Horatio Hornblower? I wonder if it’s an assignment or if it’s a story he’s really into.

  I slide open the center top drawer. It’s a jumple of broken pencils, gum wrappers, even an old yo-yo. But there’s a slender book on top of the mess. It’s the size of a ledger, with a deep brown cover. I reach for it as though I’ve been told to do so, and as I open the cover I hold my breath.

  Poetry by J. D. Dupree.

  Jeremy writes poetry?

  I turn the page gingerly, terrified at stumbling into Jeremy’s secrets.

  I soon forget that I’m an intruder. The first few poems wouldn’t even be a threat to Rod McKuen; but the literary quality doesn’t matter. It’s Jeremy’s thoughts that are on these pages, and I’m discovering a brother I hadn’t known existed. He writes of loneliness, of the terrors of moving to new places. He writes of feelings I can share, and I’m ashamed that I thought those feelings were mine alone. But there’s a hopelessness in some of the poems that frightens me. I read one of them aloud, and the words hang shivering long after I’ve spoken them: