The Unquiet (38 page)

They’ll keep me safe from Annaliese. But they’ll also keep me safe from myself
.

“Swear,” Mom suggests. “Swear on your grandmother’s soul.”

Like the word “goddamn,” this is something Real Mom wouldn’t dream of saying.

I recite it, anyway. “I swear on Nana’s soul.”

She hands me the pills. I examine each one before washing them down.

“Good girl,” the Mom says with a wooden smile.

I’d bark for her if I were in a better mood.

The phone rings. Mom ignores it. I pick it up, and it’s Millie. But Mom shakes her head.

“It’s
Millie
,” I stress, waving the receiver.

“I don’t want to talk to her now.”

Flabbergasted, I whisper, “What should I tell her?”

“Tell her to go to hell!” Mom shouts back.

I don’t have to repeat the message; Millie hears, and hangs up immediately.

And Mom’s already out the door.

I don’t know if Mom broke the news, or if someone else discovered the pool room wasn’t locked—but Mr. Solomon’s rant over the PA lasts longer than homeroom. He does all but threaten to post an armed guard at the door. Plus, he adds, when we return from winter break, contractors will be tearing the whole pool room down. Therefore, the tunnel itself will no longer exist. An emergency exit will be constructed in the gym.

My wave of relief leaves me giddy. No pool room! No tunnel, either!

Thank you, thank you!

It’s another lonely day for me. I spend lunch in the library,
wishing again that I’d been smart enough to make more friends. After school, we rehearse with Mr. Chenoweth for the concert this Friday, the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Cecilia’s a bit friendlier now, and we chat a bit. Nobody else goes out of their way to talk to me, though.

I’m driftwood again.

When Nate and I walk home after rehearsal, I consider telling him about the creaking rope I heard the other night. And the toppled-over chair with the disappearing footprints. Not to mention my two Moms.

But Nate picks up his pace—it’s below 20 degrees and snowing hard—and I have to struggle to keep up. As we round the corner of our street, a vicious gale slaps my breath away. Snow crystals sting my watery eyes.

“I hate snow!” I shout. “I hate this stupid, frickin’ Ohio weather. I want sun. Sun! Stop laughing at me,” I add when his shoulders shake with laughter. I snatch that awful fur cap off his head and fling it to the curb. “You bunny killer, you.”

My boots leave the sidewalk when Nate spins me in a circle. His hot breath thaws me. He kisses me hard, forcing my mouth open, meeting my tongue. My knees melt and he has to hold me up. He laughs again when I stick my cold hand down his shirt. He does the same to me.

Maybe I’m not driftwood, after all.

Maybe I’m me again.

Tuesday, December 16

I know my drug levels are back to normal when I actually nod off in class. No rehearsal tonight; Mr. Chenoweth has an emergency dental appointment. Eager for a nap, I rush home without Nate, who cut out early to drive to the stable to plow a foot of new snow. I can’t believe people in River Hills think nothing of this weather, that they drive around with chains on their tires and throw snow-shoveling parties.

I do need sunshine. Or at least a tanning booth.

Puffing ice through my teeth, I push open my front door—and there is Frank, sitting with Mom on the sofa. He’s holding a beer, Mom a glass of wine.

I stare, mesmerized.

“Hey, Rinn.” He grins through his trademark gray beard. “How’s it goin’?”

“You’re here,” I say stupidly.

Mom smiles, too, but thinly. “He flew in just this morning.”

“Why?”

Frank downs what’s left of his beer in a one gulp. “A couple of reasons.”

I kick off my boots, slink into the dining room, and drop my book bag in its usual place. I notice the official-looking papers spread over the table, and a manila envelope with the name of a San Diego law firm.

Shocked, I face them. “You’re getting divorced?” So much for Mom and me
ever
moving back to La Jolla, where it’s warm and sunny and people don’t put chains on their cars.

So much for us being a family again.

Mom tenses visibly. “It’s just a legal separation for now.”

Frank scratches his beard, pats his leather jacket for a cigarette, and lights up. Mom, on cue, lights one of her own. Frank glowers. “When did you start smoking again?”

“I don’t remember,” Mom admits.

I butt in, “You said this was temporary. You said you guys needed time to
think
.”

“We have thought about it,” Mom says quietly. “And it might be temporary, though I’m thinking”—face pained, she directs this at Frank—“maybe it’s better to just go ahead and end it.”

I twist my fingers, realizing I guessed the truth from the start: when Mom said we all needed some time apart, what she really meant was that Frank needed time away from
me
. To do what? To decide if he still wants to be my dad?

“What about me?” I ask.

Mom and Frank speak at the same time, uncannily reminding me of that two-Mom business. Frank wins. “Uh, we both think it’d be best if you stay here with your mom.”

Well, duh. “What about vacations? Summers?”

“It’s too difficult,” Mom says tersely. “The logistics, I mean.”

Frank’s flash of surprise isn’t lost on me. “Monica, I don’t think we—”

“Besides, honey,” Mom interrupts, “we really just got here. We should wait till you’re more settled in before we start jerking you around.”

“I am settled in.” Well, unsettled, actually, with a frigging ghost on the loose. Does this mean no more beaches? No more jamming with Frank? I don’t even get to see my old room one more time? A room
without
a Hanging Beam, thank you.

“You need a routine,” Mom says. “Maybe later down the line we can work something out, but for now, no. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t want me to visit.” I aim this at Frank. “I know you hate me.”

“Hate you?” Frank repeats, unhooking his wary eyes from Mom.

“Yes!” That’s when I lose it, with no warning whatsoever. “You hate me for everything. For what I did to Nana. For ruining you and Mom.” Tears, real tears, spring from my eyes again. I guess I haven’t been back on my meds long enough to keep this from happening. “I kept all my promises! I take my meds, I go to school, I stay out of trouble. Tell him,” I plead with Mom. “Tell him it’s true.”

A pall settles. Mom stubs out her half-smoked cigarette. She starts to speak, but again Frank beats her to it. “Rinn, listen. This, the whole separation thing is between me and your mom. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Liar! I said I was sorry a million times and I am.
I am!
How many times can I say it?” He frowns at the floor. “See? You can’t even look at me! Because every time you do you think about
Nana. Every time I walked into a room, you’d walk right out. You hardly said a word to me for three whole months!” The words fly from my lips, uncontainable. “You wanted to send me to boarding school. You wanted me out of your life!
That’s
why Mom and I left. Because no matter what I say, no matter what I do,
I’m
the one who killed Nana. And I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry!
”

I sink to the floor, sobbing into my knees. A minute or so later I sense a heavy presence and catch a whiff of tobacco and aftershave. It’s Frank, now crouching beside me. Just the smell of him makes me cry harder.

“Rinn.” He rests his big hand on my arm. “I don’t hate you. I never hated you.” I shake my head, a pathetic protest, and he plops down on floor like a big furry bear. “I loved my mom.” He pulls me into a hug. “I
loved
her. And I miss her like hell.”

“Me, too,” I whimper.

“The only thing I thought about all this time was
me
.” He rocks me hard in his arms. “I couldn’t get my head around the fact that my mom was gone. I was all torn up, and yeah, I was pissed. But not because of what happened to your grandma. Because …”

He breaks off. I realize with pure shock that Frank, big, tough
Frank
, the dad I loved and looked up to almost my whole life, is crying right along with me, though not as sloppily.

“Because of
how
it happened. Because I sent you there, knowing you were sick, knowing we were taking a big chance. I gave up on you, darlin’. I mean, hell, I’m your dad! Dads fix things, right? But I couldn’t fix
you
. So I just threw you away.” Frank’s thick fingers brush my turtleneck collar. “Right when you needed me,” he finishes, choking up again.

I shake my head. “You didn’t throw me away. I loved Nana.
I could’ve stayed there forever if—if I hadn’t messed everything up.”

“You didn’t mess up. I messed up. We
both
messed up,” Frank adds with a meaningful look at Mom. No response; she sits there like an ice sculpture, hands folded in her hap. Frank hugs me tighter. “What happened, darlin’, was not your fault.” He pushes my face up. “You hear me? You were sick. It
wasn’t
your
fault
.”

God, God, God, I waited
so
long to hear this. As I gaze up into his weathered face, something clutches my heart with hands bigger and warmer than his.
He means it. He does!
I fall back into his chest, marveling at this odd, delightful sensation growing inside me. Hope, maybe. Or something like it.

But before I can decide, the smell of Frank disappears. In its place, something more familiar, more sinister:
chlorine
.

I sit up and meet Mom’s accusing stare. Her features blur; am I seeing double again? The taste of pool water sears my tongue. I cover my mouth and focus hard on
one
of the two shimmering faces of my mom.

The one that chills me the most.

The one that stares back with smug recognition.

“You can’t fool me,” I scream through my fingers. “You are
not
my
mother
!”

Thursday, December 18

Frank’s staying at a motel in Westfield so he can hang around for tomorrow’s concert. Mom didn’t ask him to stay with us. I doubt Frank would appreciate her all-night piano pounding. Yes, last night she did it again.

Now, creeping exhaustedly downstairs, I hear Mom on the phone, voice husky from cigarettes and her own lack of sleep: “—told you, she’s been like this for days … Of
course
she’s depressed about her friends … Yes, she’s taking them—I watch her every morning.”

Liar. You never watch me anymore
.

Mom says sarcastically, “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve had a chance to
think
about it, now that our daughter’s so convinced you hate her guts! … Oh, please. Don’t go there.”

Go where? What does he want?
I remember Frank’s surprise when Mom said I won’t be visiting him. Her idea? I doubt she consulted him.

“How would I know? I told you what she said, all that stuff about ghosts stealing souls and killing off her friends.
You
heard what she said to me yesterday. She’s delusional, Frank.”

“No, I’m not,” I whisper.

Mom’s voice rises. “What do you mean I’m not trying? I’ve been trying for
weeks
to get her in! … You did what?” Silence. “When? Okay, well … thank you, then.”

Spotting me, she jumps, hangs up on him, and delivers a phony smile.

One face. One smile.

“What did Frank do?” I ask.

“He took it upon himself to find you a new doctor. Your appointment’s on Saturday. He agrees,” she adds before I can argue, “you need therapy. Something more than a handful of pills every day.”

“The pills work,” I protest.

“
When
you take them.”

“I take them! I take them!”

“Then maybe they’re not the right ones. If they worked that well, you wouldn’t be so tempted to go off them.”

Crap, crap, crap. I can’t see a psychiatrist now! If I slip up and say one careless word about Annaliese, I’ll never again see the light of day.