Beautiful Lies (24 page)

Before I climb down, I crawl around on my hands and knees, studying the patterns on the dusty floor, searching for any sign of her.

“Please come home, Rachel,” I say out loud. “I miss you. Everyone is worried about you. I love you. We all love you so much.”

Silence.

I breathe a shaky sigh as I bring myself to a sitting position, frustrated by her lack of response, grudgingly accepting of the fact that she isn’t ready to leave yet, for some reason. “I love you,” I repeat, trying not to cry. “Whatever’s going on, you can tell me. I’ll understand.”

No response.

I bite my bottom lip hard. I’m still disoriented and incredibly tired, my fatigue so overwhelming that I almost feel like I’ve been drugged. The loft feels so much higher than it did just a second ago; the simple act of climbing down the ladder seems dangerous and intimidating.

As I’m crawling toward the edge, I feel something small and rounded beneath my right palm. I pull my hand away, expecting to see a pebble or a piece of glass in the dirt.

I look down. My body twitches with a jolt of adrenaline as I stare, leaning over to pluck the object from the floor. It is shiny and white in my palm, bigger than I would have expected, its pulpy roots fresh with life, their edges rough and bloody.

It’s a tooth.

More than that, though, it’s
proof
: Rachel was up here. And she’s still around somewhere hiding, unwilling to answer me. For some reason, the fact brings me little comfort.

Before I leave the barn, I slip the tooth into my pocket. As I pull the heavy wooden door shut behind me, I wince at the sunlight, which feels almost painful on my skin. I have no energy; it seems to take effort just to breathe, to walk back up the hill to my grandma’s house. I know she and Kimber are inside, waiting for me; I know my grandma expects to talk about my sister. She claims she wants to help me, but I’m not so sure now. She must know that Rachel is out here. Maybe this is all entertainment to her. It’s possible, I think, that her mind has deteriorated to the point that
she’s nothing but crazy now, bored and alone here in this big house, desperate for a way to keep life interesting. It doesn’t make much sense to me, but it’s the best explanation I can come up with at the moment.

At first I can’t find my grandma or Kimber anywhere. The farmhouse is huge—it has sixteen rooms in total—but the ceilings are low and my grandma doesn’t clean much, so the house tends to be cluttered and dark. After I wander around the downstairs for a minute, listening, I finally hear snippets of Kimber’s voice coming from somewhere upstairs.

I find them standing in the hallway outside the only bathroom in the house. Kimber’s face is pale, her expression horrified, as my grandmother leans against the wall while she pets an enormous Saint Bernard sitting beside the bathroom door.

“There she is.” My grandma winks at me. “I was just introducing your friend to the Captain.” She means the dog. I wince, shooting an apologetic glance at Kimber. The Captain belonged to my grandma years ago. After he died, my grandma had him stuffed and placed in the hallway like it
was the most normal thing in the world. She still pets him, talks to him, tells him good night and good morning every day. The fur between his shoulder blades is worn thin from so many years of her touch. Even I know that it’s creepy, but I’ve gotten used to it over time. I can’t imagine what Kimber must be thinking right now.

“Did you take care of the jam?” My grandma asks the question like it’s important.

“Yes,” I say. I tug Kimber’s arm. “We should go, Grandma. I feel bad showing up out of nowhere. You’re in the middle of … something.” My tone has a harsh edge to it. I don’t want to play this game anymore. I could confront her about what’s just happened, but I get the feeling she’d only lie to me.

“Right. You girls really interrupted my day.” My grandma scratches the top of the Captain’s head. “Kimber asked how the Captain died. Do you want to tell her?”

“She asked how he died?” I echo. First it was what happened to my grandma’s friend Louise, and now this?

“Go ahead,” she says, examining a strand of her red hair for split ends. “Tell her.”

I press my lips together, trying to suppress my agitation. There’s no way I’m telling this story.

“What’s the matter?” my grandma asks.

“Nothing. I don’t remember, that’s all. It was natural causes, right? He was old.”

“Old and sick,” my grandma agrees, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“It’s getting late,” Kimber interjects. “Rachel is right. We should probably go.”

“All right. Go ahead.” My grandma stands up straight, and the three of us start to walk toward the stairs. As Kimber moves past her, my grandma reaches out in a quick motion and grasps her by the arm. Her eyes narrow. The hall seems to tunnel. I stop breathing for a second, staring.

She gets like this sometimes. The person I’ve known all my life slips away and is replaced by someone completely different. I’ve seen it happen countless times, but I never get used to it. Her typically bright eyes take on a thick glassiness, making them seem almost cloudy. When she speaks, even though her voice has the same tone and pitch, it is somehow different. It seems older. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, and I’m not sure if it’s more her madness than it is her gift.

Maybe it’s both. Like my mom said, it’s a blurry line.

Kimber is frozen, staring at my grandmother. I can tell she’s scared. She looks ready to cry.

“You’re hurting me,” she says, the words coming out in a whisper.

The edges of my grandma’s mouth curl upward in a slight smile. “There are things much worse than death,” she says. “You remember that. Things much worse.”

Kimber yanks her arm away. She stands there, rubbing her skin where my grandma took hold, speechless with horror, her breathing shaky and shallow. I wasn’t expecting anything like this to happen, but considering everything else
that’s going on right now, I should have known better than to bring her here. Even though it’s been a long time since my grandma has slipped away like this—months, maybe close to a year—it’s always a possibility.

And then, all of a sudden, Kimber breaks away from us and runs down the stairs. From the window in the landing, my grandma and I can see her as she rushes toward her car and climbs inside.

“Why’d you do that?” I demand. “You scared the hell out of her.”

My grandma gives a shudder. She shakes her head, coming back into herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. What did I say to her just now?”

I pause. “You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head. “I never do, sweetie.”

“You said, ‘There are worse things than death.’”

“Oh my.” She feigns embarrassment, but I can tell she’s half amused by all the fuss over what is, to her, a normal occurrence. “I’m sorry. Go after her, then. What a thing to say.”

I stare at her. “Grandma, are you okay? Are you taking your pills?” I regret the question immediately. I sound exactly like my aunt.

But my grandma doesn’t seem to mind. She simply ignores it, glancing down at the Captain. She gives him a pat on the head. “I think I’ll take a nap, sweetheart. We can talk more later. Okay?”

Again, I feel the urge to confront her, but it feels like the wrong time. As weird as it sounds, I’m just too
tired
. “Okay,” I agree. “We’ll talk soon.”

She stands in the hallway, watching as I move down the stairs. Just as I’m reaching the front door, she calls out to me. “Rachel?”

I pause. “Yes?” I ask, not turning around.

“It’s true, sweetie. There are worse things. You know that.”

What is that even supposed to mean? Does it mean anything at all? Or is it just the ramblings of an old woman, her brain misfiring to form thoughts that make no sense at all, insanity in action?

There is so much that I want to say to her right now, so many questions to ask. But I don’t; I’m too afraid of what her answers might be, of where they might lead me. It’s like I’ve got a loose thread, and something is tugging at it, pulling just hard enough to make me certain that one good yank could make everything unravel, and I’d never be able to put things back together again. Not the way they were.

Kimber sits alone in her car, hands gripping the wheel at ten and two, staring straight ahead at my grandma’s house. Except she isn’t really looking at it; her mind is obviously elsewhere.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m fine.” She turns her head so quickly that her long hair whips through the space between us. “What’s the matter with her?”

I don’t have the energy to explain my family’s history of mental illness right now. I am so exhausted that all I can think about is getting some sleep. My body is so weak that I can barely pull my door shut. “She’s old,” I say. “She gets confused sometimes, that’s all. We should leave.” I glance at the barn, resting wide and still against the horizon, and picture my sister inside, alone, maybe peeking out one of the windows, watching us. Why wouldn’t she speak to me? Why won’t she come home?

Kimber won’t let it go. “No,” she says, shaking her head. Her hands, I notice, are gripping the steering wheel tightly. “It was like she became somebody else. I’ve never seen anything like that, not in my whole life.”

“She’s sick,” I say. “You know, emotionally. She takes medication for it. It makes her strange.” All of this is sort of true. Except that it’s not. The medication is supposed to make her normal, not the other way around.

Kimber stares at me. “Sick,” she echoes.

“Yes.”

“Mentally ill.”

“
Yes.
”

Kimber starts the car. She nudges the gearstick into reverse and begins to back down the long gravel driveway.
With her head turned, almost nonchalantly, she says, “That kind of stuff runs in families, Rachel. Doesn’t it?”

We’re sitting at the intersection of the driveway and the road. I know what she’s getting at. Has my sister talked to her about this, or is it something that everyone is talking about behind my back?

“I guess so,” I say. Even my voice is weak; the words come out like they’ve been rolled in gravel.

“Okay. So maybe Alice is having similar problems. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

She’s wrong. Maybe my grandmother slipped over the edge at some point, but I’m not even close. What does Rachel think, though? The idea that she might doubt my sanity is a stinging possibility. She’s never said anything like that, not to me, and the thought that she might choose to confide in Kimber, of all people, feels like a betrayal. If she had concerns, she should have told me directly. She would have told me.

As Kimber drives slowly through town, I have to fight to keep my eyes open. When we reach my house, we see that my aunt’s car is parked outside on the street, but I can’t even muster the energy to care that I’m going to get in trouble.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” she offers, even though it’s obvious she’d rather not.

“That’s okay.” My legs are shaky as I get out of the car; I would almost rather crawl inside than have to stay upright.

Kimber seems oblivious to my fatigue. “Will you be at work tonight?”

Work. Shit, shit, shit. I’d totally forgotten about work. Mr. Hahn is hardly ever at the restaurant in the evenings, but what if he shows up tonight? How am I supposed to act around him? If I don’t go at all, will that seem even stranger? The idea of having to remain conscious, waiting tables and chatting with customers, seems impossible. I feel like I could sleep for days and still be exhausted.

“Sure,” I manage, even though I’m anything but certain. “I’ll be there.” Kimber works as a server at the Yellow Moon too.

“All right. Then I’ll see you later.” She looks at my house, then at me. She gives me a bright smile. “Good luck in there.”

The house is oddly quiet as I step inside. All the downstairs lights are on, and the television is turned to the midday local news, but the sound is off. From the hallway, I can see my aunt’s purse sitting on the kitchen counter. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock is the only sound breaking the silence, but even its noise is overwhelming; the room throbs with each passing second. I feel so weak that even climbing the stairs seems unmanageable.