Thin Space (18 page)

“Nothing. Just, you sound like my brother. He asked Mrs. Hansel stuff like that too.” I shrug. “He was the logical one in the family.”

“Hmm,” she says. “What did she tell him?”

“She didn’t know how it worked exactly—the technical part of it—just that it did.” My boots tromp through slush. Maddie’s probably right. It’s weird. It’s impossible if you really think about it. But I’ve become a master lately of not thinking about stuff too deeply. “Mrs. Hansel believed it,” I say. “How she talked about—that story she told, about when she was a little girl—maybe if you’d heard her—”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I know.” I feel the image slithering through, Mrs. Hansel sunk into the pillows. It’s the moment I keep coming back to, the moment that gives me hope. But how can I explain this to Maddie? I don’t even understand it myself.

She’s quiet on the bus home. We found nothing at the convalescent home, which, to tell the truth, doesn’t shock me, but I’m trying not to dwell on it.

“You’re a genius,” I say. “Telling the receptionist we wanted to gather oral histories of Andover. How’d you come up with that?”

She tugs my thick hat off her head, smooths her hair. “I was just trying to think of a way to get inside the rooms.”

“Well, it was inspiring.”

“It was a lie. We tricked them.”

“Nah,” I say, waving a hand. “Those old people liked talking to us. You could tell.”

“That’s what I mean.” Her hair’s all static-y and she pats at it, but since she’s wearing gloves, it just makes it fly out more. “They thought we really wanted to know their stories. But we didn’t.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But
they
didn’t know that.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. It was wrong. We shouldn’t have done it.”

Why do I feel like I’ve had this conversation before? The bus lurches forward. The jerky movement, the odor of gas and smoke—and I remember. My head clenches up and I
try to let it go. I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, but the stupid memory slams into me anyway.

Logan was curled up next to me. “Put your seatbelt on,” I snapped. I felt her flinch but I kept my eyes straight ahead. I didn’t know what my brother and Kate were doing in the backseat. I didn’t want to know.
What the hell?
I kept thinking, the whole time getting more and more pissed off.

The second we dumped the girls off, I tore into him, “How could you?”

He just shrugged, smirked. “Well, that went well.”

If I hadn’t been driving, if I didn’t have to keep my hands on the wheel, I would’ve—

“Marsh?” Maddie’s patting my knee with her gloved hand. “Are you okay?”

I nod, try to adjust my face so I don’t look deranged.

“Zoning out on me again,” she says.

“Sorry about that.” I try to concentrate on Maddie’s gloves—my gloves, on her hands. They’re way too big for her and dangle around her wrists. She’s still tapping my knee. “So what’s next on our list?”

She pulls one of her gloves off, gets the list out of her jeans pocket. “The hospital. But that’s going to take more time.”

And more lies,
I think as I get a flicker of my brother’s glaring face. He tells me to let him out. He yells,
When are you going to get over it?
He unbuckles his seatbelt—

I have to stop reliving this.

“Maddie.” I say her name slowly, try to anchor myself to the present. “You never told me. Who do you want to see in the thin space?”

She doesn’t answer. The bus lumbers into downtown Andover, stops on the corner of Main Street. Maddie pushes the hat back onto her head, clasps the collar of her coat tight against her neck. I follow her down the bus aisle, out onto the frigid street.

“Who?” I say. Maybe she doesn’t want to tell me. Usually I’m not the type of guy who would force something like this, but I can’t help it.

She blinks up at me. “My father.”

“Oh.” I don’t know why this surprises me. I know her mother is a single parent, but I remember her saying something about a divorce. Everything else is kind of hazy. Probably because she’s right: a lot of the time, I have been zoning out on her.

“That story Mrs. Hansel told you,” she says, and her breath puffs out around her mouth, “about her father dying when she was a little girl—it’s kind of the same for me. After my father died, things got kind of messed up for my family too.”

“Oh,” I say again. I’m not good with these kinds of conversations. What are you supposed to say? Nothing really. Of all people, I know that. When someone dies, there’s not much you can say that’s going to make a difference. The situation seems to call for something, though. So I fall back on one of the lines people liked to throw at me after the accident. “I’m sorry, uh, for your loss.”

She sighs. “It’s not that big a deal. He died when I was six. I hardly remember him.”

“How’d he die?”

“Cancer. It was a long, drawn-out thing. Half my life, it seemed like he was sick.”

“Sorry,” I mumble again, and I sort of get why people say it. Maybe it’s just a way of telling a person,
Hey, I hear you
. Which is kind of ironic, now that I think about it—because I really haven’t been listening to Maddie all that much.

We hike together down the center of the street, past the movie theater, and I pointedly ignore it. The sky’s a big smudge of gray dumped out over us. No sign at all of the sun. Maybe I hallucinated it this morning.

“Do you think that’s stupid?” Maddie says. The hat droops over her eyes and she nudges it up. “Wanting to see someone you didn’t really know?”

“You must’ve known him a little,” I say.

“Not really. If I didn’t have any pictures of him, I don’t know if I’d remember anything. And sometimes I think it’s just the pictures I remember and not real memories.” Her voice is so low I have to lean closer to hear her. “I have this one picture where he’s helping me button up my coat. I can see his fingers on the buttons, you know, and his face bending toward me. He had this very pronounced Adam’s apple and a pointed chin. But here’s the thing—that’s all in the picture. So do I really remember him or am I just imagining I do?”

“It sounds like a real memory,” I tell her.

“Maybe.” But it doesn’t sound like she believes me.

When we hit the turnoff into our neighborhood, I realize I don’t want Maddie to stop talking. I think it’s her soft, drawling voice. Or maybe it’s just that she’s talking about something that has nothing to do with me.

“So, what else do you remember?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. I’ve heard a lot of stuff about him—stories from Sam, because he remembers a little more than I do, but it’s not the same thing as knowing a person yourself. And it bugs me, how I’ll never be able to know him myself.”

“But he knew you.”

She lifts her head. “Do you think so?”

“Well, yeah. He was your father.” My voice comes out louder than I mean for it to. “He’d know you.”

This is probably a lie, though. Because lately it’s pretty clear to me that people don’t know each other as well as they think they do.

She’s staring at me. For a minute I think she’s going to start crying, and I try to mentally prepare myself for it. Instead, her mouth slips into a half smile. “That’s what I’ve been hoping.”

We trek past Mrs. Golden’s house. I shoot a glance at her front windows, half expecting to see her pouf-ball yellow head plastered to the glass. Then we veer into Maddie’s driveway and she pulls off the hat and gloves.

“Maddie,” I say, because I’m still not ready for her to leave me. “You said before that things were kind of messed up after your father died.”

One arm’s out of her coat and she stops. “Yeah. It’s a long story.”

“I have time,” I say. I clutch the coat, helping her back into it.

“Well.” She hesitates for a few seconds then sighs. “After my father died, my mother remarried two more times. Sam
and I, we never really liked those guys, and my mother, she was like Mrs. Hansel’s mother. Not really . . . involved with us anymore. I think that’s why Sam’s the way he is, you know? Because he feels sort of responsible for me . . . ”

“Which explains why he doesn’t want you hanging around the school lunatic,” I say, winking at her. “Right?”

Maddie grins. “Actually, he thinks
I’m
the lunatic. At least since we moved here. I’ve been having these horrible dreams. Every night practically, I wake up and think someone’s in my room.” She shudders. “Talk about crazy, right? Maybe it’s the house. It’s like it’s haunted or something. It gives me the creeps. Ever since I found out Mrs. Hansel died there.”

“I guess that’s my fault.”

She shakes her head. “No. It was Mrs. Golden. Remember? She told us about it the day we moved in. That night I woke up and there was a man in my room. It was so real. I mean he was just standing there at the foot of my bed. I screamed and Sam freaked out. He came running in with his lacrosse stick. He thought someone had broken in. But it was nothing. Just a nightmare.”

“Jeez, nightmares,” I say because I’m not sure what the proper response is.

“Yeah, and every night it’s a different person. A man kneeling. This old white-haired lady.” She stutters out a laugh. “Sam thinks I’m losing my mind. It’s probably why he’s in such a cruddy mood. Because of me, waking him up every night.”

She takes off my coat, presses it over my arm. “So there I go again, talking your ear off. Half the time you’re not even listening, but whatever. That’s okay.”

“No,” I tell her, and this is a truthful statement, “I am listening.” Today at least. But I don’t tell her that part.

She hands me my hat and gloves. “That’s pretty much my messed up life story, I guess. Now you know everything. If you want to run away screaming, I’ll understand.”

“You’re the one who’d run away screaming,” I tell her, “if you knew my messed up story.”

“Marsh,” she says, drawling out the word, “whatever you think you’ve done that’s so terrible, it’s probably way worse in your head than in reality.”

I let out a snort. Because wouldn’t that be nice if it were true? I want to say something else to her.
Thank you
, maybe, because I can’t remember the last time I had a few hours like this, where I’m just me, and there’s no anger or guilt or disgust. But two things happen right then that put an end to that sentiment.

One, Mrs. Golden glides across the street holding a cake.

And two, Sam bursts out the front door.

T
hey both start talking at once.

“Madison, what’s going on?” says Sam.

“I thought you’d like to try my German chocolate cake. It’s an old family recipe,” says Mrs. Golden. “Is this a bad time? Should I come back later?”

“We were just out walking,” Maddie says quickly. The arctic wind blasting our faces makes that statement seem absurd. Especially now that Maddie’s not even wearing a coat.

“My heavens, it’s cold out here.” Mrs. Golden squints at me, bobs her head. “Hello there, Marsh. It’s nice to see our little talk the other day . . . has resonated.” I’m getting the distinct impression she’s checking out Maddie’s and my feet. Satisfied, that we aren’t totally nuts, she turns to Sam. “Is your mother at home? I would love to say hello to her.”

“Yeah. Uh. Sure,” he says. He glowers at me, and Maddie gives me a little wave then darts across the yard.

When I get home, I’m relieved to find that my parents aren’t there. My head’s spinning, but in a different way from normal. It’s churning with things that Maddie has told me. I can picture it, like a movie in my head. A younger, pig-tailed version of Maddie. A man buttoning her coat. Shadowy figures swaying at the foot of her bed. Sam racing around the cold house swinging his lacrosse stick.

I shed my winter gear, plunk it in the hallway, and head upstairs, tired suddenly, as more of Maddie swirls around in my mind.

I must’ve fallen asleep. The room is dark, shadowy, when I jolt awake. I blink at the rocket ship on the ceiling, the swirl of smoke puffing out behind it. I’m stiff, bleary-eyed when I climb out of bed. My mind’s still pulsing with the day. The convalescent home. The bus. But mostly I see Maddie. Her gloved hands waving around as she talked. My wool hat pushed down on her head.

We’re walking around the hospital tomorrow. That’s the plan anyway, unless Sam decides to have a conniption about it. But I don’t let myself go there. Maddie’s a determined person. At least she seems like that to me. If anything, she’s just as into finding a thin space as I am.

I pad down the hall, rubbing my eyes. No idea what time it is or if anyone’s home. I stop outside my old room, peer inside out of habit, and my heart sputters because someone’s lying on my bed. I get a creepy flash of Maddie’s nightmares—of people breaking into her room—before I realize it’s my mother.

She’s on her side, curved around a couple of open boxes, eyes closed. Even in the dark I can see her body shaking.
She’s got something bunched up in her hands, and I can’t help it, I take a step into the room.

She twitches, blinks. “Marsh?” she says.

I see what’s in her hands now. One of those stupid blown-up photos. I can just make out an eye, half a lip, the looped letters:
AUS
. My mother pulls herself up, perches unsteadily at the edge of the bed and a box tips off, clunks to the floor.