Deadly Little Lessons (21 page)

S
ASHA’S BEDROOM
couldn’t look more perfect, right down to the powder blue dust ruffle on her bed and the vase of fresh roses on her night table (to match the rose pattern of her bed linens).

“Did she always keep her room this neat?” I ask.

“Hardly. Most recently, after she found out the truth, she was leaving her room a mess. Just another way to show her anger, I suppose.” Mrs. Beckerman points to a gallon of paint by the door. “It’s black,” she explains. “Sasha had said she was going to paint her room, but I suppose she never got around to it.”

“Can I see the suitcase she packed?”

“The police took it. They said they needed to study the contents.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say. “Is there any chance someone could’ve staged the suitcase—someone aside from Sasha, I mean—to make it look like she ran away?”

“The police asked the same thing, but her father and I are very strict. We only invite friends in that we approve of, certainly not the disrespectful clan she started to bring around, kids who smoked on my lawn and used my flower beds as ashtrays.”

I take a seat on Sasha’s bed. “Do you mind?”

Mrs. Beckerman turns away slightly, as if she does indeed mind, but I’m assuming she’s willing to overlook it. I’m assuming her hope that I can sense something more trumps any irritation she may feel that I’m touching her daughter’s things. And so I lean back on the bed and close my eyes. There’s a sweet candy smell in the air, like I just walked into a chocolate shop. I pull Sasha’s coverlet over me and grab one of her many stuffed frogs, trying to get inside her head. I spend several minutes rolling over from side to side and breathing into her pillow.

“Are you getting any vibes?” Mrs. Beckerman asks.

“My power doesn’t work that way,” I say, realizing how confident I sound. “I’m mostly here to get inspired, so that I can sculpt out a clue later.” I get up and move over to Sasha’s dresser. There’s an empty jewelry dish sitting on top of it. I pick it up, feeling the smooth, glazed surface.

“Does she normally keep a watch in here?” I ask, picturing one inside my head. “Is it purple with an extra-long strap?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Beckerman says. “Her father gave it to Sasha for her birthday. He had it engraved
To Sasha, with
love
.”

“She was wearing it that night, wasn’t she?” I ask. “The night that she disappeared?”

“She hardly ever took it off.” Mrs. Beckerman crosses the room to stand right in front of me. “Did you see her that night? Is that how you know about the watch?”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“Would
you
?” Her lower lip trembles. “If you were in my shoes, would you be able to trust anyone?”

“I’ll only be another minute.” I open the drawer of Sasha’s night table, wishing that Mrs. Beckerman would leave me alone to concentrate.

There’s a notepad sitting inside. I pull it out and flip through the pages. It seems to be a mishmash of stuff: lists of things she needed to do and some notes she jotted down for a project she’d been assigned in history class.

“Sasha was always writing something down,” Mrs. Beckerman says.

I’m just about to put the notepad away when, flipping to the back page, I notice the name Tommy written across it. There’s doodling all around it: butterflies, floating hearts, boxes, and a checkerboard grid.

I show the page to Mrs. Beckerman. “Tommy,” I say. “That’s the name we got from the bartender at the Blue Raven. Who is he?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Beckerman shakes her head and covers her mouth again. “But she liked to doodle when she was on the phone.”

Meaning that Sasha possibly talked to him? Or maybe someone was talking to her about him? “Did you know the people that she went to the party with?” I ask, wondering if I should go to the abandoned sewing factory where it was held. There were pictures of it online. A sign carrying the plant’s logo—a dressmaker’s mannequin—still hangs outside.

“Sasha went with a girl named Misery, but Misery was already questioned and cleared by the police.”

I nod, remembering having read that a lot of kids from that night were questioned. Misery claimed that Sasha was being difficult that night, angry at her for lying about the evening’s festivities, and refusing to spend any time with Misery once she got to the party. Misery said that Sasha started talking to some loner guy sitting at the end of the bar. The next thing she knew, both Sasha and the guy were gone.

“Do you know Misery?” I ask. “Could you give me her phone number?”

Mrs. Beckerman reaches into her pocket for her cell phone, looks up Misery’s phone number, then scribbles it across a page of the notebook. “I don’t really know her. It wasn’t until after Sasha’s disappearance that we ever had a conversation.”

“Can I take this notebook?” I ask, surprised that the police didn’t spot it.

“Take whatever you want. Just bring my daughter back.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, about to leave the room, but she stops me.

“Wait,” she says. Her face is moist with tears. “I need to know why you’re doing this. My husband thinks it’s for money, but—”

“I feel a certain connection to Sasha,” I explain. “Like I said before, she’s in my head.… I hear her crying voice.”

“Yes, but
why
do you feel a connection?”

“Because I was adopted, too,” I tell her. “At least I think that’s why. And, like Sasha, I found out by accident.”

“I see,” Mrs. Beckerman says, taking a moment to study my face, perhaps deciding whether or not to believe me.

“At first I was really heartbroken that my parents had kept the news a secret,” I continue. “But now, having learned more about Sasha’s story, I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened to me—what I would’ve done or how I would’ve reacted—if I’d have found out the news earlier.”

“I see,” she repeats, tears in her eyes. “You’re glad you’re not Sasha.”

“I’m glad I’m able to help Sasha,” I say.

“Well, parents are human, too, you know,” she says between clenched teeth. “They have the same fears, the same insecurities.… There isn’t a day that goes by that her father and I don’t regret our decision not to raise her with the truth. Imagine having to live with the guilt that what you did—keeping a secret—is the reason your daughter disappeared.”

“You didn’t do this to her.”

“No, but I drove her to it. Her father and I paved the way.”

“You need to stop blaming yourself.”

“Is that what you want your parents to do?” she asks, staring straight into my eyes.

I take a deep breath, considering the question, and thinking how, like Sasha, I wanted to run away. And in some respect, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

“We were afraid to tell Sasha who her real parents were,” she continues, “because her real parents didn’t want any contact.”

“You really don’t need to expla—”

“Do you know who
your
real parents are?” she asks, cutting me off.

I nod.

“And can you understand why your parents kept the truth a secret?”

“I can now,” I tell her, having finally come full circle. My parents didn’t want to tell me that my real mother was suicidal, that she’d been in and out of mental institutions for most of her life, and that she’d never acknowledged my birth. How would I ever have been able to handle that truth at four, eight, or twelve years old, when I’m barely able to handle it now?

“We all have our reasons, don’t we?” Mrs. Beckerman says. “All the ways we justify our lies.” She moves over to Sasha’s bed, crawls beneath the covers, and snuggles up against a frog-shaped pillow. She starts mumbling to herself about how short life is and that nothing else matters. Her voice sounds deflated, as if someone had cut a hole in her heart and drained out all the hope.

“Mrs. Beckerman?” I say, feeling awkward for standing there.

She doesn’t answer, just continues to mumble. And so, notepad in hand, I decide to let myself out.

I look down at my fingernails, where only a few chips of polish remain: navy blue, to match the dark mood I was in the night I was taken. My parents had told me to stay in. I responded by telling them they had no right to dictate my life. I slammed my bedroom door, snuck out the window, climbed down the trellis, and never looked back.

And now my nails are almost unrecognizable, cut up from picking at the walls, and soiled from clawing at the dirt.

One of the first times I tried to dig my way out of here, I came across a rock. I’ve been using it to write, etching my lessons into the concrete walls—all the things I’ve learned from being here. It gives me a sense of purpose, makes me feel like I have some control. And maybe someday my lessons will prove helpful to someone. But, then again, if someone else winds up in here, then she’s probably already screwed.

I
CALL WES TO PICK ME UP
and we spend a half hour pulled over in front of the town post office discussing my visit with Mrs. Beckerman.

With the notepad flipped open to the page with Tommy’s name on it, Wes holds it at different angles, trying to see if there’s anything hidden in Sasha’s doodles. “I’ll bet she knew him,” he says. “He was probably her secret boyfriend. They probably ran off together.”

“But then why, on the night that she disappeared, did it seem like she didn’t know the guy at all?”

“You’re assuming that the guy she disappeared with was Tommy.”

“You’re right.” I sigh. “It could’ve been anyone.”

“On second thought, maybe she
didn’t
know Tommy,” Wes says. “Maybe she simply knew
of
him. You said that she doodled when she was on the phone, right? Maybe whoever she was talking to was merely telling her about him.”

“Like, trying to fix her up.”

“Or trying to warn her.”

“Bottom line, we need to call this number,” I say, pulling it from my pocket. “What are the odds that this is our mysterious Mailbox Girl?”

“I’ll bet you my enviable collection of Pez dispensers that it is.”

“And does that collection include Buffy the Vampire Pez? Because that would be way cool.”

“No, but only because it doesn’t exist. Now, call her,” he insists.

I press *67 to block the call, and then I dial the number and set my phone to speaker mode. It rings twice before a recording says the line’s been disconnected.

“So, what now?” I ask Wes.

“Perhaps you’re forgetting who wears the psychic pants in this relationship. Go sculpt out some answers.”

“Because it’s totally that easy.”

“Well, it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you bring this notebook with you,” he says, tossing it into my lap. “It’s sure to provide inspiration. Either that or creepy nightmares.” He points to an evil-looking beetle (with devil horns and a pitchfork) drawn in the corner.

“You’re right,” I say, stuffing the notebook into my bag and thinking about the way my power of psychometry is still evolving. Why else would I have been able to picture Sasha’s watch when I touched her jewelry dish? “Maybe I’ll be able to sculpt something really telling.”

“There’s the attitude.” He gives me a corny wink, complete with an even cornier thumbs-up. “I have a sneaking suspicion that things are going to be turning around for you very soon.”

“What do you know?”

Wes zips his lip and then pulls away from the curb. As he drives us back to campus, I check my cell phone for messages, noticing a couple of texts from Kimmie. Apparently, she spotted the most perfect Roller Derby outfit for me (as if I’d been on a desperate mission to find one). There’s also a message from home and a missed call from my dad.

I play the message from home right away. It’s from my mom. She tells me about being at the Tea Tree café, sitting by the water fountain, and trying to read her book. Only she couldn’t stop reminiscing about our old Wednesday afternoon routine there, when she’d pick me up from school and we’d chat over cups of steaming chai.

“Is everything okay?” Wes asks, after I hang up.

“It will be,” I say, confident that it’s the truth.

A few minutes later, we arrive back on campus. Wes drops me off in front of the sculpture building. Before going in, I sit down on one of the benches and pull my cell phone back out.

I try calling my dad first, but it goes straight to voice mail. I text Kimmie that I’ll need a stylish tote to go with my Roller Derby garb. And then I dial home.

Mom picks up right away. “How are you?” she asks. “Are you enjoying your classes?”

“I’m actually making a wreck of them,” I say, opting for honesty. “The professor absolutely hates me. I can’t seem to make it to class on time.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Camelia.”

“I’ve been having more psychometric visions,” I explain, “and so my work has been pretty disastrous. Meanwhile, the other kids are sculpting all this amazing stuff.”

“Just be true to yourself, Camelia.”

“Are you referring to my psychometric visions?” I ask, surprised if she’s condoning them, never mind if she’s acknowledging them.

“I’m referring to everything,” she says. “How brave you are—always doing what you feel is right, despite how difficult it is. Don’t let anyone take that away.”

Her words give me goose bumps, because her approval means so much to me, and I haven’t felt it in a long time. “Have you been talking to Dr. Tylyn?” I ask, suspicious that this new perspective may be the result of at least a couple of therapy sessions.

“I have, and she wanted me to remind you that you can call her whenever you want.”

“I know,” I say, grateful for Dr. Tylyn’s support. “But I kind of want to figure things out on my own this time. I feel like I have all the tools.”

“That’s what it’s all about,” she agrees. “Learning more, evolving into a better person…”

I can picture Mom sitting in her sacred corner in the living room, with all her happy things: her yoga mat, her Buddha dolls, her embroidered pillows from India.

She takes one of her Kundalini breaths; I hear the familiar dog-panting sound. “You’ve been a real inspiration to me,” she says, finally.

“Wow. I mean, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say that you’ll continue to be true to yourself.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, at first disappointed that she doesn’t ask about the psychometric episodes I’ve been having in sculpture class. But then I take a deep breath, too, and remind myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and that Mom’s accepting me for who I am is monumental on its own.