A gray powder rings the burners. I pinch it, rubbing it between my fingers. Ash. Paper. She's burning her notes, again. It's one of the weirder things my mom does. She will spend hours writing things in paranoid gibberish. The pages look like some word version of Sudoku. And then the voices in her head tell her to burn them.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and check the answering machine by the fridge. There are three messages. And although Drew knows not to say anything about being at Titus's, I turn down the volume anyway, just in case.
The first message is Bessie Marchant. A woman from our church, Mrs. Marchant seems like a nice person, but I've noticed everything she says is like a string of Southern euphemisms. The message goes on about how she's hoping to see Nadine in church on Sunday, how much all the ladies miss her,
etc.
etc.
But to me it sounds like: "We all know you're bat-guano crazy, Nadine, but we still want to help because we're supposed to as Christians." I give Bessie points for even calling.
The second message is from my dad, phoning home during a court recess. He just wanted to say he loves her. My heart literally aches hearing the tenderness in his voice, especially when he came home to notes burning on the stove.
I hold my breath for the last message, praying it's Drew.
"Hi, I'm calling for Raleigh."
It's not Drew. It's a guy.
"This is DeMott." He pauses. "DeMott Fielding. From church?"
Like we wouldn't know who DeMott is, after seeing him every week for the last ten years.
"I, uh, just wanted to remind Raleigh about the dance. Tonight. At St. Catherine's. Hope to see her there. Okay." Another pause. "Goodbye."
I stare down at the machine, which has replaced the red three with a big zero. And I keep staring, like some idiot who is totally in denial of reality, that there must be a fourth message, from Drew, telling me why she didn't show up and where she really is. After a long moment, it hits me how I might be doing this because I don't even want to think about why DeMott Fielding is calling me about that stupid dance. Everybody not living in an abandoned train tunnel knows the guy's got a girlfriend, and that same girlfriend is organizing that same dance. What the—?
"Somebody switched her, David."
I freeze. They are in his office.
"Honey." His voice sounds pleading. "Raleigh's never given us a moment's trouble."
"She’s not Raleigh. I checked her feet."
I start to go numb, starting with my fingers. Seconds later, I hear the pocket doors to his office slide closed.
I tiptoe down the hall. The room that’s now my dad's office used to be the smoking parlor, back when this huge house was a gathering place for Richmond society. I lean into the mahogany door, balancing carefully so I don't touch it and give myself away.
"—and she put a lock on her door," my mom is saying. "Raleigh would never lock her door."
Before she left for Yale, Helen gifted me the lock from her door. My sister and I aren't friends, but we look out for each other, soldiers in the same trench.
"Why is she suddenly locking her door?"
The pause that follows makes my back prickle with sweat.
"You're right," he says. "It's not Raleigh."
"You knew this?!"
"Nadine, I need to tell you the truth. Are you ready to hear it?"
"Tell me!"
"Our perfect daughter, Raleigh? She’s gone. She's been kidnapped."
My mother gasps.
"Puberty," he says. "Puberty abducted Raleigh. And now we have a teenager."
"David, I am not joking."
"Neither am I. Let's kick her out of the house."
"Stop it."
"Think about how much money we'd save—in food alone? Raleigh eats for six people."
"David, listen to me. This girl is up to something."
But I hear the softening in her voice. Once again, my dad's managed to chide away some of the paranoia. And yet, as I back away from the door, moving down the hall, my eyes are burning.
This is not the end of it.
Not by a long shot.
***
I step outside and creep down the stone steps into the cellar.
Our house has sixteen rooms—not including the apartment over the carriage house—and they're all big and formal and kinda cool in a historical way. But the one room I hate is down here, in the cellar. The laundry room.
For eight decades, the Harmons sent their clothes out to be "laundered." But around 1980, my dad's parents took a stab at modernity: they installed a washer and dryer.
The maids never complained about the laundry room being under house, accessible only by going outside. But now the maids are gone, because when the woman of the house is full of paranoid delusions, maids create more problems than they take away. I started doing all my own laundry when my mom started this “You're not my daughter” thing. She only said it a couple times to Helen. For one thing, Helen's always been her favorite. But for another, Helen always replied: "Promise me I'm not your daughter."
I lunge for the string connected to the light bulb then wait on the stairs. In case anything scurries into the dark corners. Then I run to the washer and kick off my All Stars and throw them into the machine with my clothes. I shake the soil from my socks into the floor drain, constantly glancing over my shoulder. Man, I hate the dark.
Shivering in my undies, I find a pair of my sweats and an old sweatshirt in the dryer—washed yesterday after I ran downtown to find the entrance to the tunnel, so there would be no more excuses for not going inside. As I pour the soap in, I can hear my parents’ footsteps on the floor above me. They're in the kitchen. I hold the washer's knob, wondering whether to start it now or wait. If she hears the machine now, she'll think I snuck down here. Which I did. It might be the definition of crazy: I lead a secret life because my mom thinks I'm leading a second life, thus proving I'm apparently not me.
Crazy.
And sometimes I wonder if I'm going to go crazy too.
My hand is still on the knob when something squeaks behind me. I jump, spinning around, expecting rats.
But it's my dad.
He's opened the cellar door and is coming down the stairs. He's so tall he takes each step sideways, shoulders hunched because of the low ceiling.
He looks at me standing in sweats and says, "What happened?"
"Drew didn't show up for dinner.”
"I meant your mother—what upset her this time?"
I turn around, yank the machine's knob and glare at the tub, relishing the whooshing loudness of the water.
"Raleigh?"
The sound of splashing water echoes on the stone walls.
He comes around the side, trying to look at my face. "Your mother's upset."
"What am I—my mother's keeper?"
"Why are you so angry?"
"Because it's always about her."
"No," he says. "And yes."
I flick the washer's lid, letting it slam down on the machine.
"Alright," he says. "I get it. What happened with Drew?"
"She didn't show up."
"For Burgers and Brains?"
"For
dinner
," I correct him. My dad is the only person still using our silly nickname. Back in seventh grade, when Drew and I started meeting on Friday nights, we decided to call it Burgers & Brains because we ate burgers and tried to outsmart each other. We like the fact that it creeped out her mom, Jayne, too.
"She didn't show up for dinner, at her own house?" He looks puzzled.
"No, she wasn't at—" I catch myself. My dad, the judge, can sniff out lies in any testimony. "—school. Her bike wasn't at school either, and Jayne said she hasn't seen her since breakfast."
"You mean,
Mrs. Levinson
."
"Dad, she makes me call her Jayne."
"Not in this house she doesn't."
"Okay, whatever. The point is, Drew's never late, and she didn't tell me she wasn't coming for dinner."
He nods. But he keeps glancing up the stairs. He's left the cellar door open, framing the dark sky above our patio. I can feel the evening wind swirling down the stairs. It makes a hollow sound, like someone blowing over a bottle opening.
"Hello," I say irritated. "Earth to Dad?"
"I'm listening."
"She's never done this before."
"Drew's a wonderful friend, Raleigh. But . . ." He tilts his head back and forth.
"But what?"
"She's run away before."
"That was a long time ago."
"Really?" He lifts an eyebrow. My dad has this way of being skeptical without making you feel like a total moron. He just plants some doubt and lets you pluck the leaves from it.
"She didn't run away," I blurt out.
"You're sure?"
The washing machine water goes into the agitation cycle, filling the silence with swishing water. But it's not loud enough to drown out the accusation hanging in the air.
"Here's a better question," he says, smiling. "When does Drew turn sixteen?"
"January. First." Yes, the girl totally obsessed with numbers was born in the first month on the first day at 1:11 a.m. Like God knew what she’d be like before she even appeared.
"January," he says. "That's three months away. Then she can petition family court and ask to live with her dad. I can't see any judge denying her request, given that she's brilliant and capable."
"You're positive?"
"Ninety-nine point four percent." His eyes twinkle. Even down here in the dim light, the blue in his eyes is as luminous as stained glass. "Drew will want to calculate the percentage herself, I'm sure."
I don't say anything. The very same quality that makes my dad a judge everyone admires is the same thing that annoys me. He's too rational sometimes. Like he doesn't get why people are emotional about things. Which always makes me wonder if he's grasping the seriousness of any situation. My mom's insanity or Drew's absence—and yet I can't exactly explain this to him right now because he doesn't even know we're eating at Big Man's Burger. He'd never let me go into that neighborhood.
He raises the eyebrow again. "Do you need me to say I'm one hundred percent certain?"
"No, forget it." I start folding my dry clothes. "But if she was going to run away, she would've told me."
"People keep secrets," he says. "You ought to know that better than most."
I stop, mid-fold. "What?"
"Pardon," he corrects me.
"Pardon?"
"Your mother thinks you're hiding something."
Before I can stop the heat, it rises up my throat. When I feel the blush heading to my face, I bend down, pretending to sort through yesterday's de-criminalized clothes. I am taking forever to do this, but he still doesn't leave.
"Are you?"
"What."
"Raleigh, we're Virginians. We say 'pardon.' "
"Okay, pardon, no, I'm not hiding anything, are we done?"
"You're not hiding anything?"
I glance up. He's the judge and my dad and it's all in his stare—truth and mercy and love. The silence grows tighter, like the walls are marching toward us. I don't see how guilty people walk into his courtroom and don’t fling themselves on the floor screaming, "I did it!"
But I do know how: they lie.
"Right now I'm just really worried about my friend, and the last thing I need is the third degree, Your Honor."
He draws a deep breath, then nods. "Did I ever tell you what Chesterton said?"
"I don't care what—"
"Chesterton said an optimist looks at the situation and sees it's serious but not hopeless. The Christian looks at the same situation and says it's hopeless but not serious."
I stare at him. Now I'm ticked off. "I have no idea what you're talking about. But that Chesterton guy's wrong. The situation
is
serious. She didn't show up, didn't call, didn't stay at school, and now it's dark out and her drunken mother—"
"Whose mother is drunk?"
We both spin toward the door. My mom stands in the opening.
"Oh, hello, honey." My dad walks toward her, opening his arms like we've been waiting for her the whole time. "Raleigh's feeling frustrated. She can't find her math teacher."
The patio lights half her face. The expression I see there is not comforting.
"What does her math teacher have to do with someone's drunken mother?" she asks.
Now we've stepped in it.
"Well, to be perfectly honest," he says, "Raleigh doesn't know the math teacher's mother that well. But the teacher is burdened by having to take care of her."
"The mother? Who drinks?"
"Yes, you see how complicated it is? We didn't want to bore you, honey." He smiles. "It's one of those times when life gets written up as an algebraic equation. All those unknown Xs and Ys."