Siren's Song (5 page)

“How was your first day of school?” she asks.

“Okay, but…I want you to come home.” She kisses my forehead.

“Julietta,” Dad starts.

“Max,” Mom says, her voice strong, “let me talk to her alone.” Dad hesitates, but the doctor nods and they leave the room. Mom pushes my hair back from my cheeks. “I want to come home, believe me.” She shakes her head slowly. “I can't protect you when I'm in here.” Her eyes swim with unshed tears and fear.

“Protect me from what?” I whisper, knowing that this could open a can of worms I don't want opened.

“The Ashes.”

“They are our friends. They've always been our friends.” I feel panic tighten in my stomach. I thought Mom was getting better. “You and Patricia, me and Carly.” I think of Carly sitting out in the waiting room.

She shakes her head and winces as if she has a headache. She touches her temples. “They aren't what they seem.”

Her lips are tight as she searches my eyes, as if she's wondering if she should tell me a big secret. Her face relaxes and her eyes blink shut for a moment. “I went into their library when I was watering Patricia's violets while they were out of town. I guess I was snooping a bit. Richard had said Patricia was researching their family, but she'd never mentioned it to me, even when I showed her our family tree. So I thought maybe I'd find a book or family outline of the Ashes.” Mom swallows hard. I hand her a cup of something yellow-looking. Lemonade? She sips and sets it on the tray.

“I was pulling out some books on the built-in shelves, and the shelves moved.” She lowers her voice. “There was a space big enough for me to fit through, into another room.”

“A secret room?” I whisper back and she nods. Her eyes are wide but sane.

“It's small, but full of papers, charts, pictures…” She captures my hand. Her fingers feel cold, and I clasp them in between both of my hands, though mine are probably just as cold. “Hundreds of pictures.”

“What were the pictures of?” I whisper, but as I think of her hysterical arrival home, throwing my clothes into a suitcase to ship me off somewhere, I know. But I have to hear it. “Mom,
who
are the pictures of?”

Mom glances up at the ceiling and then back at me. Her eyes are steady, strong, full of conviction even though fear lurks there.

“Mom, the pictures. Who are they of?”

Her eyes plead with me to believe her. “You.”

“Me?”

She nods, her lips tight. “Since you were a baby, Julietta. And there are pictures of me and my sister, the one who died when she was a teenager. There are pictures of my mother and grandmother, and older pictures, too. All of women.”

I stare at her. My heart races and my chest hurts from lack of breathing. God, I want her to be better, but this sounds crazy. I briefly wonder which I'd prefer. For Mom to be sane and this to be true, or for her to be as nuts as everyone thinks.

“Julietta, most of them were of you.”

“Why don't you want me to sing?” I whisper somehow. My voice sounds altered, like I'm someone else acting in a psychological thriller. I glance around, suddenly paranoid that there is a camera recording us. Is paranoia contagious?

Mom clutches my hand tighter. “Most of the pictures are of us singing. My performances, your plays, even the little productions you and Carly did in the backyard for us.”

“All okay in here?” Dad asks as he sticks his head into the room.

Mom throws out a little laugh. “I was just complaining about the god-awful tapioca they serve.” Her face transforms back into a serene mask, even though I still can't move my lips. Could a truly crazy person lie so well? Mom's eyes move back to mine. “It will be all right,
Carissima
. I'll be home soon. I'm much better, now that I see you.”

I nod and force my lips to meet in a smile.

The doctor and Dad stand, discussing Mom's food choices. “I'll bring in meals from her favorite restaurants.” Mom glances at the clock and squeezes me tight.

“You have homework to do, don't you?” she says. “You'd better go.”

I nod, though I hate to leave her. “I love you, Mom. And sing some. It will make you feel better faster.”

She nods. “Be careful.”

“I will.” I'll try to figure that one out later. Right now, it seems the right thing to say.

* * *

Carly slows her car at my driveway and then rolls past. A shadow of panic tightens my already-primed stomach.

“Where are you taking me?”

Carly giggles. “You make it sound like I'm kidnapping you.”

I breathe deep. “I thought you were taking me home.”

“Well, your dad isn't home, and he's probably going to eat with your mom.” She looks sideways at me. She's right, of course. “So, I'm taking you home with me for a homemade dinner.”

“Won't your mom mind?”

“Naw. I think she's missing Eric, now that he's moved back to school. She's ‘missing her kids.'” Carly does air-quotes with one hand. “
And
she invited you when I called her.”

We pull into Carly's circular drive before their cheerful yellow house. She parks next to a red Camry. I focus on my slow inhale and exhale.

“I thought you said Eric's not at home anymore?”

“Huh? Must be visiting to pilfer first day of school treats.” She shrugs. “Don't worry, Mom always makes extra.”

Hundreds of pictures of me. Hidden room
. Mom's words replay in my mind like a commercial jingle I can't shake. Okay, so Eric's home. I mean, I've spent the night with Carly when Eric's home, probably a hundred times. He's my best friend's grumpy brother. Through the years, he's treated me like a little sister.

Stay away from Eric, his father, too, all of them
. My mom's words filter up through the rubble I try to mound over them.

Mom seemed so normal this afternoon. Scared and weak, but my normal, non-crazy mom. No hysterical screaming and terror. Maybe she was too tired, overstressed about whatever parents worry about, and then she saw something and snapped for one day.

The part about the Ashes must be a huge misunderstanding. They are family to us. Even as I tell myself this, I feel the pounding in my chest as my heart wars against my brain. It's hard not to take Mom seriously after I've been listening to her logic all my life.
Buckle up. Look both ways. Not so much soda. Don't wear dark-blue eye shadow during the day
.

“Come on,” Carly calls as I drag my feet toward the back kitchen door, through the little gardens of herbs and late annuals her mother grooms constantly. The smell of basil mixes with peppermint and oregano as I walk by.

“I'm home,” Carly calls as she throws her book bag in the corner of the kitchen and heads right to the fridge. “I've brought Jule home for dinner.”

Richard Ashe walks around the corner into the kitchen. He still has his Cougar coaching shirt on. “Hi, Jule. Long time no see.” He smiles as he plops a handful of mail on the counter. His look turns more concerned. I don't like how his gaze keeps mine locked to his. “How's it going at home?”

He comes closer and for a moment I think he might try to hug me. Instead, he squeezes my shoulder and continues by to grab a soda out of the fridge.

“It's…quiet.” That is an understatement. When Mom was home, there was always music somewhere in the house. Whether it was her singing through her past performances or humming along to some opera on the surround sound, or one of her students belting out various notes while my mother made them lie on the ground with their legs against the wall (which built their singing muscles), the Welsh house was always loud. The soundtrack of home.

Richard turns, pops the lid on the soda and leans back against the counter. Carly hands me a warm mug of hot cocoa piled high with whipped cream and pushes me onto one of the bar stools. There is a plate of homemade cookies under plastic wrap in the middle of the counter. She snags two for us.

“Yeah,” Richard says, “things will be different for a bit. You're welcome to stay here any time, Jule. You've always been part of this family, too.”

He smiles warmly, but he seems to study me. Does he know what Mom said about him? Unless my dad has told them, or they have some sort of nanny cam set up that recorded Mom's reality snapping, the Ashes shouldn't know anything more than the rest of the world. Isabella Welsh had a nervous breakdown and is resting in a mental facility until she is capable of dealing with the real world again.

“Thanks,” I say.

He squeezes my shoulder again as he walks by. Carly downs the rest of her cocoa and looks at my half-filled cup. “Mom won't let food upstairs.” She rolls her eyes. “When you're done, let's go up and get your homework out of the way.” Which makes me wonder if I've even brought home the right books. “And,” she continues, “if you want to tell me what happened earlier today, you can.” She smiles. “Or not.” And she means it. Carly is so okay with not knowing details. No pressure with her. I always spill anyway, although not about my mother. I don't think I will ever tell her about that.

* * *

“Gangs?” Carly repeats as we lie across her hot-pink comforter. She rolls onto her elbow and studies me. “I don't think there are any gangs here.” She giggles. “Maybe the Future Farmers of America gang. What would they be called? The pork-rind bloods!” She laughs at her own bad joke.

“Luke comes from Boston,” I defend. “There are gangs in Boston.”

“Well, he does have tattoos,” Carly says.

“You saw them!” I jump up to my knees.

“Yeah,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Well, he didn't have them at school today.”

Her brow wrinkles. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I was with him in practically every class, and his locker is next to mine. I even asked him about them and he said it was just some grease from his motorcycle on his arms.” My words tumble out.

“Maybe he's just embarrassed about being caught wearing temporary tattoos, you know, like some kid,” Carly suggests.

I huff. “He doesn't seem like someone who would be embarrassed about anything.”

Carly shrugs. “Okay,” she draws out. “So, he doesn't have tattoos. Don't gang members get tattoos together or something?”

“Maybe they're somewhere under his clothes.”

“Mmmm…” Carly hums. “I'll volunteer to check under his clothes.” She breaks into a round of giggles, but when I don't join in she scrunches her face into a serious look. “Okay. Why do you think he might have been in a gang in Boston?

I shake my head. “I don't know. I just…well, I overheard him talking to Taylin and Matt Kenzie by my locker.”

“So he knows Matt, too?”

“Yeah. Matt called Luke ‘brother.' Don't gang members call each other brothers?”

“Matt's lived here since he was born,” Carly says, her eyes narrowed in thought. “And I haven't seen any tattoos on Matt.” Carly would know. She had a fast and furious fling with Matt last summer, even though she knew Matt had a reputation as a player. We don't talk about it.

“Now, Taylin,” Carly continues her assessment, “I could totally see her in a gang. Those piercings and black eyeliner. Probably does drugs.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what did they say?” Carly asks.

I lower my voice. “Taylin said…something about Luke not killing someone.”

“Killing someone!”

I glance around like I'm expecting her parents to leap out of the closet. “Yeah. He cut her off before she could say much, and just said that he wasn't going to kill anyone.”

“Thank God!”

“But why would she even mention him killing someone? Maybe he's done it before.”

Carly swallows hard. “Did they see you?”

I shake my head. “I don't think so.”

“They sure were staring at us when we drove away from school.”

I nod, my eyes wide. We sit in silence. I trace the swirls on her bedspread with my fingertip.

“He seemed totally normal today,” Carly breaks the reflective silence. “Not like yesterday. If you'd told me this yesterday, I'd have totally believed he could kill someone, with those tattoos and that…glare, scowl, whatever it was.” She shivers. “He was scary. But today, when he smiled and walked next to you, he seemed pretty normal.” Her words run together fast. “Okay, so he is hotter than any normal teenage boy. Those deep, dark eyes. Ripe for the tasting biceps. Thick, wavy dark hair.” She rolls her eyes dramatically, then blinks while throwing in some shallow panting. I grin; I can't help it. Leave it to Carly to make me laugh when we are talking about people whispering about “not” killing someone.

I throw a decorative pillow shaped like the letter “C” at her. She falls back on the bed, laughing.

“Dinner!” Carly's mom calls up.

“Come on. I smell lasagna,” Carly says. When Carly opens her bedroom door, we inhale together. I feel the tension fading from my shoulders at the familiar feeling of being in this house with Carly and her family, smelling her mom's notoriously fabulous cooking. Maybe I can bury my worry under lasagna. We head downstairs to the neat dining room. I sit in my usual spot next to Carly.

“Welcome, Jule,” Patricia says with a warm smile. “Eric, pass Jule some bread.” Frowning, Eric passes me the handcrafted pottery dish holding the garlic bread.

“So, how's your new roomie?” Carly asks. Eric is in his second year at NC State and recently moved off-campus into a two-bedroom apartment. “Is he cute?”

Eric smirks at her. “If you think a chemistry major with thick glasses is cute.”

Carly scrunches up her face.

“I'm sure he's a nice boy,” Patricia says. “Don't judge a book by its cover.”

I have to smile over that one. Patricia loves using old sayings. The lasagna is wonderful, as usual, and the Ashes' cheerful talk about mundane, non-crazy things begins to unknot my stomach. This is familiar. Except for Richard's sideways glance when his wife casually asks about Mom, and Eric's awkward refusal to meet my eyes, everything seems normal. Carly's brother has always treated me like a pesky little kid he was asked to babysit, but something about him seems tense today.