Until now.
“You can do this,” Astrid says. “We’ve seen what you can do, remember?” I shiver when Astrid says this, because I know it means I won’t be able to just pull Marla out by the wrist or elbow. I think Marla has to want to come out, and I’m not sure she does.
But a small part of me thinks maybe Astrid’s right. That if anyone can help, it’s me. I remember Astrid not being able to get onto the petals of the tulips and Marla not able to get on the boat in the fairy tale in my closet, and the way the memory closet shifted when I wanted it to, even though Marla didn’t want it to. And maybe I am something special. Maybe I can do something, finally, to help.
“I’m coming in, Marla,” I say. Astrid and Eleanor visibly relax.
“Silly? That’s you?” Marla’s voice is closer again. She must be near the door, but still under a canopy of black, wilting, aggressive trees. My eyes sting with the beginnings of tears. I want to be brave enough to do this.
“Just me,” I say, and turn the doorknob. The knob spins, but the door doesn’t open.
I pull again, harder. Twist harder. Twist and pull at the same time. Twist first, pull second. Pull first, twist second. I don’t know if my magic is supposed to open it, or Marla’s want for me to be there, but nothing has changed.
The door doesn’t budge. I use both my hands and reach down in my stomach for the world’s biggest grunt, and pull so hard I worry my shoulders will break away from my arms. At first, I’m almost pleased. If the door doesn’t open, I don’t have to go inside. My shoulders relax. My eyes stop watering. My mouth lets me swallow again.
It takes only a few seconds, though, before I realize not being able to get inside is the worst thing, not the best. If the door still won’t open, it means Marla doesn’t really want me in there with her. She wants to be alone. She wants to be trapped.
“Why aren’t you opening the door?” Astrid says. “Marla wants you inside. You should be able to get inside. Marla said—”
“Marla doesn’t know that much either!” I say. The twins have forgotten that none of us know that much. That we’re all still figuring it out. They want to believe one of us knows something Special and Important. But we don’t.
“I’m trying,” I say. I pull again, this time with my knees bent, and I jiggle the knob back and forth. I sort of know it won’t work, but I can’t stop doing it.
“That’s not working,” Eleanor says, like she has figured everything out.
“Hello?” Marla says in a small voice. The knob is alternately hot and cold, but never turning.
“Fine, you try,” I say. I don’t know why I am suddenly angry with Eleanor and Astrid, but it’s easier than being angry at the door.
Eleanor and Astrid look at each other again. I’m getting tired of knowing that they have a plan that I’m not in on.
“What?” I say, loud and annoyed this time.
“Are you coming in?” Marla says. She sounds like she is moments away from sleep.
“Maybe you can let me in?” I say. I don’t want to alarm her. But I’m pretty sure that only she can choose to let me in. And I’m pretty sure she’s choosing to not let me in. Somehow she doesn’t know it herself.
Stuck, stuck, stuck, the scared voice in my head says. That voice sounds a whole lot like Mom.
“Mmmmm,” Marla says. The door shudders a little but doesn’t open.
“Don’t fall asleep! Are you falling asleep?” I shout through the door.
“It won’t open . . . ,” Marla says in her sleepiest voice. Singsongy. “You do it.”
“We’re, um, trying,” I say. “It’s like before, Marla. When I was in there with you. You said that happens sometimes, right? Sometimes it won’t open, but then it does, so let’s just wait a second. But don’t fall asleep. You sound like you’re falling asleep.” I pull the door again, lightly, like that might make all the difference.
“Before?” Astrid says.
“You got stuck before?” Eleanor says. “When you went in there, you couldn’t get out?”
“For a second. A minute. Then it let us out,” I say.
“You didn’t tell us that part,” Eleanor says. “The closet shouldn’t be able to keep you in there. Not ever.”
I nod. And shrug. And blush. And trip myself up over an explanation for why I didn’t mention it.
“But it was fine,” I say. “This happens. And it’s fine. It will open in a minute. Or like ten, I bet. Ten minutes. Bam.” I want Eleanor and Astrid to nod enthusiastically, believing me.
They don’t. But we wait ten minutes anyway. We try to keep Marla awake by singing snippets of songs we know she likes, and forcing her to sing along on the other side of the door. But partway through, her voice gets even quieter and slower and stranger.