41
Wyatt
I couldn’t call Rachel because, of course, Mama might still be there. The phone was on vibrate, but around here, it was so still, so quiet, that even vibrate was loud. So, instead, I went upstairs. Through Mrs. Greenwood’s door, I could hear the TV, still blasting, another sitcom. How could she sleep through that? But maybe her hearing wasn’t good. I thought about going in and turning it off, but seeing her in her jammies would be . . . awkward.
I couldn’t sleep anyway. What had the letter said? And what would I say to Zach when I met him. “Hey, dude, you know you fathered a child seventeen years ago, and she’s, like, locked in a tower?” Maybe he was a total waste case from all the drugs he’d taken.
In the darkness, I swore I could hear Rachel singing. I wondered if she ever heard me.
It was weird, when you thought about it, my mother moving to Long Island and getting pregnant at almost exactly the same time her dear friend Danielle. Rachel didn’t know her birthday or anything about her parents, but if the dates in Danielle’s diary—the date her mother had met Zach and the date he’d left—were true, her birthday was very close to mine.
I thought about that a while, listening to a late-night show with a comedian who must have been hilarious. Then, the audience laughter turned into the drone of an infomercial which, thankfully, I could only hear if I tried. Finally, Mrs. Greenwood must have gotten up and shut off the TV because I couldn’t hear anything.
I could not sleep. I fell asleep, then woke an hour later, slept then woke again. Outside my window, the wind howled and rattled the glass. When I finally went into something approaching REM sleep, I was roused from it once again, violently, like my mother shaking me when I was late to school. I heard a tapping noise, like someone banging at the window, and a voice crying. Was it Rachel? No, just the wind. I pulled my pillow over my head, ignoring it.
The voice said, “Let me in!”
Imagination! Way too vivid, for sure. With one hand, I searched the nightstand for my earbuds, to muffle the sound. I couldn’t find them. In doing so, I knocked over a glass of water, soaking my bed and probably the earbuds I was looking for. I stood and walked across the room, searching for the light switch for the ceiling lamp.
Across the hall, the banging continued, and the voice. “Let me in!”
I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t need to. The room was illuminated by a strange bluish-white light. As I entered, I heard glass breaking. I looked to the window.
It was Danielle. She looked just as she had the first night I had arrived. But, this time, she didn’t wait for me. Instead, she reached through with one glowing hand, unlatched the window, opened it, and stepped through.
“Whoah!” I said.
She shook her head, then pressed her finger to her lips. She started toward me.
Instinctively, I knew I must step aside, must follow her. Now, I would pursue wherever she went. I felt an icy chill as she passed, but maybe it was just the wind through the broken window.
She went only to my own room. Once there, she surveyed the unkempt bed, the messy desk, the spilled water, until she found what she sought.
Beside my bed was the plain brown bag from Hemingway’s. She slid her hand inside it and brought out the hairbrush. She ran her finger across the flower pattern, as if to make certain it was the right brush.
Then, she began to take down her hair. It had been in a ponytail, but once down, it was very long, almost as long as Rachel’s hair, but dark instead of blonde.
She brushed her hair. As she did, the hairbrush opened to reveal that it was, in fact, a box. Carefully, she held it up, then turned it over.
Out fell an object. She tried to catch it in her hand, but it tumbled onto the floor.
From her glow, I could see that it was a key.
I leaned to pick it up.
She handed me the hairbrush and motioned that I should replace the key inside it.
I did and closed the box. She watched as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to open it. It wouldn’t budge. She took it from my hand, brushed her hair, and repeated the process, then handed it back to me. I closed it and placed it on my nightstand.
She started to walk away.
“Wait!” I said. “What’s it for?”
She didn’t answer, which was maddening. I knew she could speak. I’d heard her screaming just moments before. But she merely continued to walk away.
“Wait!” I said.
Again, she pressed fingers to lips. “Shh, you’ll wake my mother again.”
“But . . .”
She shrugged and continued out the door.
Blackness began to swirl around me. I didn’t, couldn’t pursue her. I was suddenly so tired, more tired than I had ever been before. I fell to the bed and didn’t even see her cross the threshold of my room.
In the morning, I woke comfortably tucked into bed. I looked at the nightstand. It was dry, and my earbuds were where they belonged. The hairbrush wasn’t there.
I checked the hallway for Mrs. Greenwood. No sign of her.
Slowly, careful not to make a sound, I crossed the hallway to Danielle’s room.
Had I expected to see broken glass? A mess where snow had made its way in? I wasn’t sure. In any case, I didn’t see any of it. I peered out the window.
In the circle of lamplight, I could see that footprints dotted the doorstep. I couldn’t tell where they started, but they definitely ended at the door.
Had Danielle returned last night?
Or was it someone else?
Again, checking carefully, I traversed the hall. I spied the Hemingway’s bag on the floor. I reached inside.
The brush was there, as it had been last night in my dream . . . vision . . . visitation. I drew it out, as Danielle had then. I tried to open it.
It didn’t work.
I drew it through my own hair. Nothing. Still, when I shook the brush, I could hear the key rattling inside.
I gasped.
I understood. I thought. Rachel would be able to open the box by brushing her hair. That’s what Danielle had been telling me.
I took the brush with me.
It was cold even inside the house, so I put on a sweater, grabbed my coat and gloves, and went downstairs.
Mrs. Greenwood’s car keys weren’t where I’d left them. Strange. I finally found them, then left a note for her, saying I’d gone skiing.
I thought about calling Rachel before I left, but it was too early. I’d see her later. And by then, I’d know about Zach, her father.
I got into the car and drove down the still-dark road to the expressway. I drove slow because something about the day was dangerous. I could barely make out the snow-dappled boulders that lined the road. I imagined myself running off it, dashing against those rocks, no one knowing who I was, where I’d come from.
And Rachel would never know what happened to me.
I slowed further and moved to a different lane.
In the first morning light, I thought I heard a voice, Rachel’s voice, saying, “Call me.” Crazy. But I didn’t have my phone anyway, and I’d be there soon. Aloud, I said, “I’ll be there soon. An hour, maybe.”
Finally, I reached Gatskill. The streets were deserted. I passed the library, then almost missed the Red Fox Inn. As I was about to pass it, I noticed something. A light in a window. Someone was there.
With a deep breath, I pulled into what was left of the parking lot and got out of the car. The wind whipped through the trees, rattling them like dead bones. Its whistle was almost a warning. Almost. I reminded myself that the real danger was in the place I had just left. I trudged toward the door. The snow was high here, as if the wind had collected it. I left footprints where there had been none.
I hesitated. Last chance to leave.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
“Are you Wyatt?”
I stepped back, but I nodded.
The man was just as old as his brother, maybe eighty, maybe more. Like his brother, he had startling bright blue eyes.
“I’m Carl.” He held out his hand. “Come in.”
“I’d rather not.” Even as I said it, the wind kicked up, and a chill ran from the bones in my shoulders down my body to the ground. “I’d rather stay out here.”
The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s cold out there, and you said you wanted information on Zach.”
“You said you knew where to find him.”
“I might. But first, I need to know why you’re looking for him.”
I looked down. “No reason. I mean, nothing bad.”
“Are you sure?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been completely truthful so far. I mean, you told Henry you were staying with the Brewers, but that’s not true, is it?”
I shook my head no.
“Didn’t think so. You’re really staying with Celeste Greenwood.”
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “But how did you know?”
He laughed. “Little thing called Caller ID.”
“Oh. I forgot they had that here. So many other things are a little . . . retro.” I could feel the warmth coming from inside. In fact, he had a fire going. Somehow, that made it seem even colder out.
“So why are you looking for Zach?”
“I know someone who wants to see him.”
“Who? Old girlfriend? Or creditors?”
“No, nothing like that. No one who wants anything from him, just someone who liked him once, a girl, a friend.”
“A girl and a friend, but not a girlfriend?”
I decided to lie. This guy would never know. I could tell the truth when I met the real Zach. “My mother, Emily Hill, she was a friend from school.”
The guy opened the door farther, taunting me with the heat. “So you’re saying Zach is your father?”
“No, n-nothing like that.” I could barely keep my teeth from chattering. “J-just a friend.”
“Why don’t you come in? If I was wanting to kill you, deserted as it is here, I could have done it by now. Or the cold would do it for me.”
I looked inside. The fire was inviting, and there was a dog lying by it, wagging its tail, almost like Josh’s hardware store.
I stepped forward.
The door slammed behind me.
From behind a pillar, the guy I’d met on the first day, Henry, stepped forward.
“Okay, Wyatt, why don’t you tell me why you’re really looking for Zach?”