Beautiful Lies (23 page)

I need more light. I walk along the wall, running my hand against the wood, until my fingers find another switch.
I turn it on; a bulb a few feet ahead of me glows to life in its socket, crackles loudly, and burns out almost before I have a chance to get a better look at the inside of the barn.

Almost. In the few seconds that I can see more clearly, my gaze shifts toward the hay loft, where the rustling sound seems to be coming from. And I see something: hunched, waiting, watching me: it’s a person. A girl.

As my arms go limp, the jars I’ve been carrying fall to the floor, shattering at my feet. But I don’t care; I barely even notice. Standing in the darkness, I don’t have to see the person above me in the light to know exactly what she looks like.

It’s Rachel.

Something is wrong. As I rush toward the hayloft, frantic, my sister tries to crawl toward the edge on her hands and knees, but she’s having trouble; she shuffles forward a few inches and then stops, pulls herself into a tight ball, and rocks gently back and forth. She’s wearing the same outfit from the night she vanished: denim skirt, tank top, leggings—but her feet are bare, their soles black with dirt, and her clothes are filthy. But she’s here. She’s alone. If I can only get to her somehow, I can bring her home.

“Where’s the ladder?” My voice is high and scratchy, echoing off the walls. She doesn’t speak, responding instead by shaking her head and pressing two fingers to her lips. Her hands are clasped, like an invisible cord is binding them together.

“Say something!” I plead, pacing back and forth beneath the periphery of the loft, searching for a way to reach her. I
don’t see the ladder anywhere; I have no idea how she could have gotten up there by herself.

She presses a hand to her throat, her eyes wide and frightened, and shakes her head.

“What’s the matter? Why can’t you talk to me?”

Her fingertips flutter against her neck; she’s lost her voice.

“Rachel, what are you doing up there? Where have you been? Why did you leave me?” She’s so close to me, but I feel an oppressive sense of urgency, like if I don’t find some way to get to her
right now,
it might be too late.

Her gaze shifts back and forth across the barn, like she’s searching for an answer. She gives me another helpless look as she points toward the door.

“Does Grandma know you’re in here?”

Another shake of her head.

“Can you get down? Kimber’s with me. We have her car, Rachel. We can take you home right now. Everything will be okay.” I reach upward, extending my arms as far as I can, standing on my tiptoes, urging her to come closer, even though the distance between us is too far to make contact.

“I have to get a ladder. I’ll be right back,” I tell her, stepping away, preparing to run toward the house for help.

She doesn’t want me to leave; that much is clear. Her gaze is pleading, desperate, as she falls onto all fours again and scrambles along the edge of the loft. I can hear her knees
scraping against the old wooden boards, the heels of her hands dragging across the dull, splintered surface as she struggles to crawl closer to me.

“I’ll be back in five minutes,” I tell her, “I promise.” But I can’t bring myself to leave her alone. I glance toward the door again, at my grandma’s house on the hill. Why do I feel so afraid right now? Why do I feel like I shouldn’t go, like she’ll be gone when I return?

Sitting back on her heels again, my sister opens her mouth wide and gestures to her teeth, tapping her fingernails against her incisors. With her thumb and forefinger, she begins to wiggle one of them. I can tell the tooth is already loose as she tugs it back and forth, but the act is still hard to watch.

“What are you doing?” I shriek. “Stop it!”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing; it’s almost like I’m watching a movie play out on a screen. Her form seems to flicker right before my eyes; the light, which is already dim, recedes further, until I can hardly see anything at all. In the darkness, I can only make out her teeth now; they seem to glow as she pulls, twisting her fingers back and forth until her mouth is smeared with blood.

Rachel yanks out her tooth. My stomach curdles. I clap a hand to my mouth, muffling my scream as I gag.

She reaches into her mouth, peeling her upper lip back to expose the newly formed gap between her teeth. The act is so grotesque, so unbearable to witness, that my steps stutter backward as I turn away, running toward the door.

The tip of my shoe catches on something bumping up from the dirt floor, and I trip, falling hard. I don’t have enough time to brace myself against the fall; my body hits the ground with a hard
thump,
knocking the wind out of me for the second time today. As I struggle to pull a breath into my lungs, bursts of blackness appear like inkblots in my line of vision.

Finally, I find air. But I remain crouched on the ground for a moment longer, waiting for the black dots and my dizziness to dissipate, blinking as I try to regain my sense of balance. Climbing to my feet, I look around in confusion that quickly tunnels into stunned disbelief.

The barn—so dark and unsettling just a moment ago—is brightly lit now, the atmosphere cheerful and innocuous; I look up to see two rows of fluorescent bulbs running along the highest point in the ceiling, buzzing softly as they glow.

I’m still a little dizzy and confused from my fall, but I’m not
that
confused; I know what I saw before the lights somehow came on. I know Rachel was here. I glance toward the loft, which is bare except for several piles of hay.

What just happened?
Rachel was here; I’m certain of it. But where did she go? The only explanation I can come up with is that she’s crawled behind the hay, that she’s hidden herself from me for some reason.

“Rachel!” I shout, hurrying toward the edge. “Rachel, where are you?”

But there’s no answer. Everything is still. She must be up
there, I know, but she doesn’t want to come down. It doesn’t make any sense.

I should get help. As much as I don’t want to leave my sister alone in here, I have no way of getting to her on my own. Leaving the lights on—I can’t bear the thought of shutting them off and abandoning her in the darkness—I run outside, up the hill toward my grandma’s house, barely pausing to regain my footing even as I stumble through the doorway, rushing down the hall and into the kitchen.

My grandmother leans against the counter as she takes leisurely puffs from a cigarette. Her clothing is covered in blackberry juice, her hands stained a deep shade of purple. Empty mason jars are lined up against the wall behind her. A huge silver pot filled with dark-purple goo simmers on the stove. The room smells so sweet that it’s almost overwhelming. She’s making jelly.

Something isn’t right; I can tell. Neither Kimber or my grandma seem the least bit startled by my breathless appearance, even as I gaze back and forth at them in confusion.

“I know it’s not like me to cook,” my grandma says, dragging on her cigarette, gesturing to the mess all around her, “but what was I supposed to do? Jack Allen’s wife, Louise, passed away a few weeks ago, and Jack is already moving up to Pine Ridge—that’s an assisted-living facility—so he’s clearing out the house, including everything from Louise’s gardens. He told me he thought Louise would want me to have the berries. Ha! I took them—just to be polite, you
know—but how the hell am I going to eat them? So I figured I’d make jam.” She pauses, frowning. “Or maybe it’s actually jelly. I don’t know the difference.” She gives us a conspiratorial giggle. “I have a special recipe, though. This is medicinal jelly. I’m thinking about selling it at the senior center. I could make a killing.” She pauses. “Well—so to speak.”

“What makes it medicinal?” Kimber asks, glancing at me. All I can do is stare at them. Their words sound hollow and tinny, like there’s an echo in the room.

“You don’t know? You’re a teenager, aren’t you?” my grandma replies, grinning. “It’s pot jelly.”

What the hell is going on? Why is this happening again? It’s like the record has skipped, and I’m the only one who noticed. Even as I speak, trying to sound calm and normal despite how disturbed I feel, the words seem like they’re not mine as they’re coming from my mouth.

“You’re kidding, Grandma,” I say weakly. “It’s not pot jelly.”

“Fine. Believe what you want.” My grandma grinds her cigarette out in an ashtray. “But I’ll tell you both, that’s the wonderful thing about being old. You can get away with just about anything.”

“Grandma—” I begin, but she interrupts me.

“I know why you’re here, kiddo.” She fans the smoke in the air. “You’re trying to find your sister. Isn’t that right?”

This is impossible. It’s like some kind of sick joke. Why would they do this to me? But what other explanation could
there be? Don’t they realize we just had almost the exact same conversation?

Before I can continue, my grandma presses half a dozen jars of jelly into my arms. “We’ll talk about this soon,” she says. “But first I want you to take these into the barn real quick for me, okay? Find some room on the shelves.”

“Here,” Kimber says. “I’ll help you, Rachel.”

“Oh no. Stay here with me, would you?” my grandma asks. “I love having company. I get so lonely all by myself here, day after day.”

Kimber presses her lips together, doing her best not to pout.
I have to go back to the barn,
I think.
She’ll be there.

“You should stay,” I tell Kimber, backing out of the room with my arms full of jars. “I’ll be quick.”

Kimber shoots me a desperate look. She can’t possibly be messing around with me, could she? Maybe my grandma convinced her it would be funny. But I’m obviously not laughing—so why are they continuing to act this way?

As I’m walking down the hall, I hear Kimber ask, “So this woman who passed away—Louise—were the two of you close?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” my grandma says. “She was a bore.”

“Oh.” Pause. “May I ask how she …?”

“How did she die? Well, she was in her eighties, so it should be obvious, shouldn’t it?”

“I see,” Kimber says. “Was she in poor health?”

“No,” my grandma replies, “she was fine.” A match hisses
to life as she lights another cigarette. “Her parachute didn’t open.”

The barn is fully illuminated, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It seems empty. As I place the jars on a shelf—there is no trace of the shattered ones from just a few moments earlier—they feel oddly heavy; I have to tighten my grip to keep them from sliding out of my hand.

I stare up at the loft, expecting to see Rachel. She isn’t there. But she
was
—wasn’t she? Why can’t I think straight? I’m
exhausted
; I almost feel like I could curl up right here on the dirt floor and go to sleep.

There’s nobody here except me, I know. I can feel a goose egg forming on the side of my head; I must have bumped it when I tripped and fell earlier. Maybe I blacked out for a few seconds.

There was no ladder before, but there’s one now: silver and sturdy, leading toward the loft. I rush toward it and climb two rungs at a time, so rushed and shaky that my feet slip a few times on my way up.

She isn’t here. Not anymore, at least. But where could she have gone so quickly? How did she get the ladder? Was there someone else here, helping her?

I squeeze my eyes shut, struggling to recover my memory. In my mind, I see Rachel crouched in the loft. It’s dark. I see her pulling her tooth, twisting it back and forth before
she finally yanks it out, the look on her face pleased and hopeful even as I back away, horrified.

She was here; it really happened. Why would I imagine something like that?

I take another long look around, waiting, hoping she’ll step out from behind a corner in the barn beneath me or somehow materialize in the loft, but I’m so
tired
all of a sudden—all I can think about is going home and getting some rest. Even if she’s still in here, hiding somewhere, she obviously doesn’t want to come home yet. Maybe I should leave her alone, give her some time. At least I know she’s safe for the moment.