“She lost her son.”
“Lost him?”
“He died.”
Heath absorbed this. Dropped his napkin. He hadn’t eaten any more than a few bites of the cake. “How did it happen?” His voice was calm but he was watching me intently.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Weren’t you curious?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Not necessarily.”
He met my gaze. “Everybody’s curious about death—how it happens, what it feels like.”
“I guess.”
“Doesn’t a small part of you wish you could’ve been there at the bottom of the cliff at the moment Chantal died? At the exact moment her spirit left her body?”
“Are you serious?” I stared at him.
“I’m just being honest, Daphne. It doesn’t make you a bad person to admit you have a touch of darkness inside you. We’re all just hanging out together, here in the morally ambiguous quagmire. You don’t need to be afraid of the darkness in yourself. Or in me. We’re in this together, right?”
“Right,” I said. Because that was what I always said. But this time I didn’t feel it. In fact, I felt more alone than ever right now. Our favorite phrase, always us—what did it actually mean? Would we really always be us? Always the same? Always together?
We finished our meal in silence. I left the tray outside our door. The hallway was deserted. No people, no trays, even, but the pocket door leading to Dr. Cerny’s suite was half-opened. I leaned out, peering into the darkness beyond. I couldn’t see a thing. It would only take a few seconds to run up the small stairs to the attic and check on Glenys on the monitors.
“Come to bed.” In the open doorway, Heath’s hand settled on my shoulder. The other one snaked under my sweatshirt and around my bare waist. I tensed. When I turned, his face was tilted toward me, so close that I could smell the wine on his breath.
“What about if something happened to her on the mountain?” I said. “What if she’s lost? Or hurt?”
“Cerny’s a doctor. He’s not gunning for a lawsuit, I promise you that.”
I thought of Jessica Kyung’s card. Her clipped voice on the phone. I would encourage you to go to our site.
“I’m sure your friend is fine.” His fingers traced the outline of my ribs. “Come to bed. We don’t have to do anything. I’ll give you a back rub.”
I let him lead me back into the room. He lifted my sweatshirt over my head, then I stretched out on the comforter. He lay down beside me, molding his body to mine. He planted one kiss on my temple, but nothing more, then started kneading my knotted shoulders. I closed my eyes.
I could feel my tension lifting, feel myself drifting. When I looked through the windows, the light outside had gone dusky purple, and Heath’s hand had slowed to a tickle that traveled the curve of my neck. I was so blissed out by the pill, the food, and his expert touch, I knew I wasn’t going to get up. I closed my eyes again, telling my body to wake up at ten.
My internal clock must’ve been in good working order, because I woke at 9:58. I scrubbed away the grit in my eyes, letting them get adjusted to the dark. Only two minutes until the cameras went down. Perfect. I slipped out from under Heath’s arm and snagged a small pad and pen from my purse.
Faint light from downstairs illuminated the hallway. Hopefully, Mr. Cellphone was still up, texting merrily away while his clueless wife slept. I moved closer to the stairs, flipped open the pad of paper, and jotted the message I’d formulated hours earlier.
Mr. McAdam,
I think one of the other patients, Glenys Sieffert, may have gone missing. I realize this may sound strange, but last night, I believe she was on the verge of hurting herself—maybe even jumping out her bedroom window. Now I can’t find her anywhere. I think she may be in trouble. I know you have a phone, I’ve seen it on the monitors (I apologize for the invasion of your privacy). Will you please call 911—ask the police to please come up here and make sure she’s okay? I swear I won’t mention who made the call.
Thank you,
Daphne Amos
I ripped the note out of the pad, carefully folded it, and headed to the McAdams’ door. I slid the note under the door, then tiptoed to Glenys’s door. I paused, straining my ears, but there was nothing—no sounds, no light—so I returned to our room. Back in bed, I burrowed against Heath but couldn’t settle my scattershot pulse.
I kept seeing Glenys, the way she looked the other night on the monitor. Poised on her window ledge, her nightgown rippling in the breeze, her face an etching of grief and despair.
Heath was right, as it turned out. I did wonder if Chantal’s face looked the same the moment before she had died.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mr. Cleve let me skip school for Chantal’s funeral, even though it was only supposed to be for the eighth graders and up.
“It’ll give you closure. Since you girls shared a room and all,” Mr. Cleve explained when he came to see how I was settling in at the new house. The word closure seemed like it didn’t fit in his mouth. It looked like somebody else had told him to say it. Probably the psychologist.
I didn’t have a proper dress to wear to the service, so Mrs. Waylene, my new housemother, said I could go back to the brown brick house and look in the castoff closet there. I found a dark-green sweaterdress one of the Super Tramps had ditched and some maroon tights from Chantal’s drawer, and I changed in our old room. Her black clogs, still arranged under the bed, were too big for me, but I slid my feet in them anyway.
When I got back, Mrs. Waylene made a clucking sound.
“Should I not wear the clogs?” I asked.
“No, honey. You look just great,” she said and went to call the rest of the girls.
The group of us drove to Hollyhock Community Church in silence. They’d set up the white casket on some kind of stand that had been covered with a white cloth. Vases of plastic flowers and pots of greenery ringed the casket. I was pretty sure they’d gathered them from the houses at the ranch. I recognized a big potted palm Mrs. Bobbie kept in our old dining room.
Mrs. Bobbie and the other house moms were bustling back in the fellowship hall, setting out deviled eggs and ham rolls and sugar cookies for after the service. Somebody said Chantal’s aunt and uncle were there, and there were a few grown-ups sitting in the pews who I didn’t recognize, but I couldn’t say for sure. As far as I knew, Omega’s story was the gospel truth: Chantal’s parents were dead, and she had been alone in the world. Part of me did hope her whole family was gone, so there would be no one to see me there, walking around in her clogs.
The top half of the white casket was propped open, and the preacher quietly announced to all the kids that we were to view the body. Everybody was extra quiet and reverent and got in line without the usual rowdiness. Then we all filed down the aisle. The choir director was playing the piano, something really sad and pretty, and there was only a low murmur of the kids’ voices under that. When it was my turn to walk past the casket, I looked down at Chantal.
She lay nestled in swaths of white satin, her eyes closed, hands folded over her chest. She had on a lot of foundation and even pencil on her eyebrows, which I’d never seen on her when she was alive. Her greenish hair had been curled and fanned out around her. She didn’t look alive, not at all. She looked more like a Chantal mannequin. A Chantal doll.