Don't Tell ds-2 Page 6
“When I told that to folks here at the bank, they laughed.”
Small wonder, I thought.
“When I told the police, they said I read too many paperbacks. But the real reason they didn’t believe me was Jule. She’s golden around here. The Ingram family, they’re like the Scarboroughs, Wisteria’s royalty.”
“I see.”
“Just between you and me,” the teller said, peering at me, her eyes magnified by her glasses, “why was your mama paying off Jule?”
“She was just helping out,” I replied, “like I’m doing.”
The old woman gazed at me doubtfully.
I wondered if my mother had been in the habit of lending money to Aunt Jule, and if my godmother had become dependent on her. I knew my mother was good at manipulating others with her wealth — I’d heard my father tell her that more than once. Perhaps money was the cause of her and Aunt Jule’s arguments that summer.
The teller stamped my check and handed me a receipt.
As I turned to leave, I heard raised voices in one of the bank’s offices. A door with frosted glass swung open and Frank emerged, his face red with anger. He didn’t see me and, given his scarlet color and indignant gait, I thought he might not want me to see him. I turned aside and took my time putting my bankbook away, mulling over what I had learned from the teller.
My mother and godmother had been best friends since their middle-school years at Birch Hill and probably had known each other’s deepest secrets. But the teller’s suggestion of blackmail was absurd. So was my idea that my mother was controlling my godmother with money, for Aunt Jule had nothing to offer her in return.
Besides, my mother had loved Aunt Jule. In the will Frank had drawn up for my mother that summer, she had left her entire estate to me, to be inherited at the age of eighteen.
But if I died before then, my inheritance was to go to Aunt Jule. Obviously my mother trusted her; there was no reason for me to doubt their relationship now.
“Lauren, you found us,” Holly said, sounding pleased.
“Everyone, this is Lauren Brandt.”
Kids looked up from two rows of computer screens, greeting me with a chorus of hellos. Nick sat at a drawing table fifteen feet away, ink on his fingers and balled-up sheets of paper ringing his chair. He flashed me one of those smiles a girl could believe was just for her; I was smart enough not to. I tried to spread my smile to him and those around him, then turned to Holly.
“You look like you’re busy. I’ll come by at a better time.”
“No, no, stay,” she replied. “Karen, would you show Lauren around the office, introduce her to people, and tell her what’s going on?”
A girl pushed back from her desk, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and obliged. I felt self-conscious, like I was playing my father touring a factory. Nick looked across the room at me and winked.
The walls of the yearbook room were covered with schedules, posters, photos of school events, and cartoons — Nick’s, I figured. My father was the star of several of his pieces. In the cartoon that hung above Nick’s table, my dad’s tooth-filled smile bloomed over a podium as he announced, “I promise to lead Maryland in the Industrial Evolution.” Smokestacks rose in the background; threelegged frogs and two-headed geese applauded.
Nick caught me studying it, and I quickly glanced away.
When I looked back, he turned away, both of us pretending that I hadn’t noticed the drawing.
Holly saw us and her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh, Lauren, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I replied, moving on hurriedly to sports photos.
“I didn’t even think about it,” she explained. “After a while, you forget what’s hanging up.”
Everyone in the room started checking the walls to see what was hanging up.
“No problem,” I assured her.
Holly bit her lip and looked at Nick. So did everyone else, figuring out that it was something of his. Luckily, a guy with funky red hair and a lot of freckles came in right then and saved me from further embarrassment.
“Well, boys and girls, I’m back from the Queen,” he announced loudly, then threw himself down in a chair as if he’d just swum the distance from England. “Got it all scoped out,” he told Holly.
She turned to him, and Karen filled me in: “Our prom is tonight at the Queen Victoria Hotel. Steve’s a photographer.”
“So give me a list of your shots,” Holly said to Steve.
“They’re in my head.”
“Put them on paper,” she told him. “How’s the entrance looking?”
“Very rosy,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “It clashes with my hair, but then, I’m not part of the scene.”
“You mean it’s red?” Holly exclaimed. “I told them to make the archway white or pastel.”
“That’s what happens when you’re not running everything,” he remarked. I heard a muffled laugh in the corner of the room.
“But we need contrast for the photos,” she insisted. “I told them that They’ll be sorry when they see their spread.”
“There’s always Adobe Photoshop,” Nick suggested.
“Yes, of course,” Holly replied, “but that will take time.”
Nick smiled at her. “I was joking, Holly. This is a yearbook. We’re supposed to be preserving memories, not creating them.”
“Some people just don’t get it,” she said. “Well, I warned them.” She leaned back against a desk and drummed her fingers.
“Listen, Holly,” I interrupted, “I have a few more things to do.”
She hopped up. “I’ll walk you out.” When we got outside the room, she asked, “So, how’s it going today?”
“Pretty good.”
“Have you visited your mom’s grave yet?”
“That’s where I’m going next,” I replied.
“Want me to go with you?”
I was surprised and touched by her offer. “Thanks, but no.”
“I’ve got time,” she told me. “The cemetery is right across the street. Don’t get snowed by my busy editor-in-chief act. It just makes me feel important,” she added, laughing. “Why don’t I go?”
“Thanks, but this time I’d rather be by myself.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Oh, and I transferred the money.”
She grabbed my hand. “You’re a lifesaver!”
“So I’ll see you at home.” I turned to walk away.
“Holly,” one of the kids called from inside. “Holly, tell Lauren to wait. We’ve got a great idea!”
Holly raised an eyebrow at me, then stuck her head through the door.
“We’re going to fix her up with Jason,” a girl said. “What do you think?’ Holly was quiet for a moment, then smiled. “I think it’s brilliant.”
“They’ll look good under the arch, red roses or not,” the photographer needled.
Holly ignored him. “I’ll dig up a dress for you, Lauren, so don’t worry about that. Shoes, too. One of us will have something from last year that’ll work.” To the group she announced, “I’m taking one-night donations — formals and shoes.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute, what are we talking about?” I said, stepping into the doorway.
Karen, my guide, pointed to a photo of a great-looking guy in a basketball uniform. “Jason Deere. Star forward for W.H., just ditched by his yearlong girlfriend. He needs a date for tonight’s prom.”
“Well, thanks, but I’m busy,” I said.
“Doing what?” Holly asked. “Come on, Lauren. It will be good for you.”
“It will be better for Jason,” Nick observed.
I glanced at him.
“You date, don’t you?” Nick asked with a sly smile.
“I go to dances.”
“What’s Jason’s cell-phone number?” a guy hollered.
“Wait a minute,” I protested.
He picked up the phone and someone called out a number.
“If he wants to, fine,” I told Holly, walking away as fast as I could. “Tell me when you get home.”
Just before the hall’s double doors closed between us, she gave me the thumbs-up sign and called out, “I’ll pick up an extra boutonniere.”
My car was parked on the church side of Scarborough Road. I stopped there just long enough to open the trunk and throw in my purse, then followed a brick path that led past the church to the cemetery beside it. Grace Presbyterian, built in the 1800s, had a deep sloping roof and a simple bell tower on one corner. On a sunny day its graveyard, shaded by a huge copper beech and tall, lacy cedars, felt ten degrees cooler than the street.
My mother had been buried here because Aunt Jule had said it was her wish. The day of the funeral I’d been too upset to notice anything about her plot, including where it was. I knew the church office would have a map for locating graves, but I wandered up and down the rows, reading names and dates. The dappled light fell gently on stones smoothed by decades of rain. Old trees rustled soft as angel wings. I suddenly felt hot tears in my eyes. If only my mother could have known this kind of peace when she was alive.
At last I came upon her grave, a polished granite stone, and knelt in the grass beside it. For a moment I hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. My heart felt squeezed into a small, sharp rock. Then the feeling passed. I wiped away tears I hadn’t realized I was shedding.
I sagged back against the marker next to my mother’s.
How cold these stones felt on a summer day, I thought. I ran my fingers over her name, then turned to see who was lying next to her, for the marker was very close. It was pink granite and slightly smaller than hers.
DAUGHTER, I read.
Daughter! Me! This was to be my grave.
I felt as I did when I was a child — smothered by her. It was just like her, not caring who else might be in my life, counting on my coming back to her.
When had she made these arrangements? I wondered.
When she wrote the new will? That had been a week or two before she died.
A terrifying idea crept into my mind. What if my mother’s fears were not as groundless as we had thought? What if someone really had been after her and she, with no one to believe or protect her, had made these preparations?
That’s crazy, I told myself, rising to my feet, heading back to the car. There was another explanation for the grave. My mother had given birth to me here, having left my father for a time and run to the sanctuary of Aunt Jule’s arms. Perhaps she had made the arrangements then.
When I reached my car, I retrieved my purse from the trunk, then opened the driver-side door. A sheet of white paper lay folded on the front seat. I gazed at it, puzzled, until I realized I had left my window cracked for air. Someone must have slipped the paper through. I picked up the note and flipped it open. The message, written in block letters, was simple: YOU’RE NEXT.
eight
I spun around to see if someone was watching from behind, then quickly surveyed the street, church lawn, and school area. Several groups of kids lingered on the school steps.
Two people dressed like teachers leaned on a parked car, talking. No one appeared to be interested in me.
I stared at the note. Was it just a prank or a warning to be taken seriously? Was it Nora’s?
She knew I was coming here, but then so did Aunt Jule and Holly, and I wasn’t eager to blame either of them.
Perhaps I was being unfair to Nora. Perhaps, but Aunt Jule and Holly hadn’t locked me in the boathouse. They didn’t keep a cache of my mother’s things and didn’t silently stand by as I fell from a swing.
I refolded the note and placed it in my purse.
When we were children, Nora had been a gentle friend; I could easily believe she was harmless — harmless in her heart. But people act according to how they see the world outside them, and she saw it in a very distorted way. In her mental state, would she understand the real-life consequences of her actions? Had Nora pushed my mother in anger and watched her float in the river, not comprehending the finality of what she had done until it was too late?
If that were true, I’d learn to come to grips with it and accept that Nora wasn’t mentally responsible. But that wasn’t the only thing troubling me now. How did Nora see me? What if I were an unnerving reminder of my mother and she needed to get rid of me, too, without comprehending all of what that meant?
I was more shaken than I realized — it took several tries to insert my key in the ignition. At the grocery store I had to check and recheck my list, unable to concentrate on the task. When I finally arrived home, I didn’t see Nora in the garden or greenhouse. I called for her in the house but it was Aunt Jule who responded, saying she was somewhere outside.
Aunt Jule eyed the bags I’d hauled into the kitchen. “Good lord, what have you done?”
“Picked up some things.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Lauren.”
“I wanted to,” I said, and began to put the groceries away.
“Is Holly home yet?”
“No, after yearbook stuff she has a manicure appointment.” Aunt Jule helped unpack the bags, setting boxes randomly on shelves, placing soap powder between instant potatoes and tea. “Tonight’s the prom, you know.”
I nodded.
“So what do you think of Nick?” she asked.
“Some of those boxes are upside down,” I pointed out.
“Honestly, you’re as compulsive as Holly,” she said.
“Soon you’ll be reminding me to turn off the lights.” Then she smiled slyly. “Or maybe you’re just wiggling out of my question. What do you think of the grownup Nick?”
“He’s gotten taller.”
“He’s gotten terrifically handsome,” she said. “And either you’re blind or you’re faking it.”
I laughed. “There’s no need for you to be shopping guys for me, Aunt Jule. I stopped by to see Holly and was drafted to go to the prom with some jock-one that’s terrifically handsome, as you’d say.”
“You were always such cute little pals, you and Nick,” Aunt Jule went on. “I loved watching you play together. You were friends from the start.”
“It’s nice to see that Holly and he are good friends now,” I replied, reminding her of Holly’s interest.
She nodded without enthusiasm, then picked up a basket of fresh strawberries and poured them into a colander.
“Listen, Aunt Jule, we really do need to talk about Nora.
She needs psychiatric help.”
My godmother carried the colander to the sink, turning her back on me.
“She needs it now.”
“That’s your opinion,” Aunt Jule replied as she washed the berries.
“And Holly’s, and Frank’s. Frank says Nora is out of touch with reality and that it’s dangerous. He said one of these days she’s going to—”
“If you ask me, people out of touch with reality aren’t nearly as dangerous as lawyers like him who manipulate it.”
“At least have her evaluated by a professional,” I pleaded, “then we can decide from there.”
“We? You’ve become quite the grown-up, Lauren,” she observed.
“I meant you. But I’ll pay for it.”
“How nice of you!” she replied sarcastically.
I was baffled by her attitude.
She shook the water hard from the colander of berries.
“You stay away for seven years, Lauren, and after one day back, you start telling me how to fix things. You’re here for twenty-four hours and you’re cocksure you know what Nora needs.”
“All I’m saying is get her checked out. If a doctor says she needs treatment, I’ll pay for it, all of it.”
“Will you now? Sometimes, Lauren, you act just like Sondra, believing your money makes you superior, using your money to make other people do what you think they should do.”
“You’re just like Sondra,” Aunt Jule went on, “deciding how other people should lead their lives, deciding what’s normal, what isn’t, what’s to be admired, what’s to be scorned. There are more ways to do it than your way.”
“But—”
“You walk like Sondra. You talk like Sondra. I hate it when you act like her.”
The bitterness I heard in Aunt Jule’s voice amazed me. I felt torn between insisting that I wasn’t like my mother — I had tried hard not to be — and defending her.
“Well, there is one thing my mother and I share,” I told her.
“Nora’s intense dislike for us.”
My godmother twisted plastic bags in her hands, then balled them up.
“Aunt Jule, have you ever thought about the fact that it was Nora who summoned us, Nora who said she found my mother floating in the water?”
I steeled myself, figuring my godmother would be furious at what I was suggesting, but she answered with a flick of her hand. “Of course I have. Sondra’s reckless death traumatized Nora as well as you, and I still haven’t forgiven her for that.”
I realized then that Aunt Jule would never consider the possibility that her daughter was responsible in some way.
Pressing the issue wouldn’t bring my mother back or get Nora the help she needed.
“Last night, after I was asleep, I thought I heard someone calling my name, calling it the same way my mother did. The door to the room where my mother had stayed was ajar and I went in. I found old tabloid pictures of her in the dresser, photos from that summer, her earrings, and her scarf, mixed in with items that belonged to Nora. Why would Nora have these things? Why would she think my mother is in the river or asleep in the boathouse? Don’t you see? She is obsessed with her. She needs—”
“Perhaps you’re the one obsessed,” Aunt Jule countered icily, “hearing Sondra’s voice calling you, reading into insignificant comments. It’s time to move on, Lauren, and clearly you haven’t.”
I wouldn’t give up. “Nora and I used to play together. We used to be friends. Why does she hate me now?”
“She doesn’t hate you.”