Dreadful Sorry (11 page)

By noon the workmen had gone. Paulette served lunch in the study, and while they ate, Molly quizzed Paulette and her father on names for the new baby. "It'll be born near Christmas, right?" she asked. "How about something festive? Noelle? Carol?"

"What about Star?" suggested Paulette.

"Too New Age," objected Molly.

"Hey, we could name her Holly. To rhyme with Molly. Perfect for sisters."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "That's too cutesy."

"Well, how about Wreath?" asked Bill. He grinned at them. "What makes you so sure the baby will be a girl, anyway?"

"Okay, then, what about Rudolf? Or Santa?" teased Molly. "Saint Nick."

"Nick's not bad, actually," said Bill. "Nicholas Teague. It has a nice ring to it."

When they finished their sandwiches, Bill and Paulette started looking at paint samples for the guest bedrooms. Molly moved to the couch and turned on the television. The soap opera actors were sobbing about someone's nervous breakdown. Molly watched with interest. Was this how people would react when she was carted off?

A crash from the other side of the room made her look up, and she saw that the big book of paint samples had fallen off the table as Paulette leaned across to kiss Bill on the tip of his nose. Molly smiled indulgently. They were like a pair of little kids. Then she looked beyond them to the wall. Something made her smile stiffen. That was the wall where she had imagined a fireplace the first night she arrived. Was it Molly's imagination, or was the old floral wallpaper buckling where the wall met the ceiling? She felt compelled to get up and check.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Bill asked in surprise as she dragged the ottoman over to the wall and climbed on it, stretching to reach the edge of the strip that was loose.

"Hey,
Molly!
We'd decided to leave this paper alone," protested Paulette. "Don't rip it!"

But Molly tugged harder and the old paper ripped away from the wall, revealing brick. She pulled more off, lower down, shouldering aside the small bookcase. Next to the brick, a section of plywood came into view. She stopped. Unaccountably, she was shaking.

Paulette jumped off the couch and rushed over. "Now, who would put wallpaper over brick? Look at this, Bill—oh! It's a fireplace, I think. Boarded over." She stared at Molly with wide eyes.

Bill hobbled over to inspect the board. "Well, well! This is great. Maybe the last owners didn't use the room much or didn't want drafts. But I'll get somebody to come out and inspect it. We'll enjoy toasting our toes in here by a fire come winter." Then he looked at Molly. "How in the world did you know this would be here?"

She hugged herself, shivering. "I don't know." She tried to press the patterned paper back into place. Softly, very softly, the humming was starting in her head again.
I've got to get out of here,
she thought desperately.
I have to get away!

"I'm going out for a walk," she said hoarsely. A walk on the headland might make her feel better. Fresh air.

"Good idea," said Bill, looking at her oddly.

And Paulette added: "Check out the harbor seals. Sometimes you can see them sunning themselves on rocks down in the cove."

Molly crossed the yard surrounding the house and moved through the trees along a path leading toward the cliff. Tall strong grasses waved gracefully in the breeze, beckoning her. When she turned and looked back at the house, the many windows winked at her like eyes.

Ahead of her the cliff jutted out over the cove. Molly stopped and listened to the surge of waves crashing against the rock. She kept carefully away from the cliff's edge, not wanting to see the water. The sun beat warmly on her head, and the sea breeze stirred her braid. Overhead gulls wheeled in the sky, then plunged out of sight over the edge of the cliff. When she was in sight of the house again, Molly sank down in a soft clearing at the edge of the trees.

She lay back and crossed her arms under her head, staring up at the sky. As she watched, gray clouds blew across and blotted out the sun. Should she see a psychologist, as Paulette suggested? Jen would never approve. And Molly didn't feel crazy—but on the other hand, maybe part of being crazy was not knowing you were.
Use your famous brain,
she ordered herself.
Why is this happening to you?
She closed her eyes to think.

She must have been dozing, one arm flung up over her eyes, when she heard a rustling in the tall grass and knew she was not alone. She heard the whispers of children. She held her breath. The rustling and whispers stopped. A cool, damp wind began to blow. It smelled like rain.

She then opened her eyes and saw Jared Bernstein standing over her. She shot to her feet. "You!"

Now I know I'm dreaming.

He stepped across the grass to stand next to her, but she backed away. "Molly, please," he said, and his voice sounded real enough. "I've come all this way."

He was standing there in dark blue shorts and a white T-shirt. His dark, wavy hair looked freshly trimmed.

"Are you kidding? How dare you track me all the way to Maine!"

"I didn't exactly
track
you," he said slowly. He didn't move any closer, sensing she would run back to the house if he did. He sat down in the grass, instead, and looked up at her. "Come on. Sit down and I'll tell you all about it."

She remained standing, hands on hips. "How the
hell
did you get here?" He was real. He was as real as she was.

"I flew, same as you. Then took the bus from Bangor. It's a hellish trip on that coast road, let me tell you. Stopping at every little podunk town along the way. I thought I'd never get here."

"What I want to know is how you knew where to find me in the first place!"

"I just asked your mom where you were. That's all."

"And Mom
told
you?"

"Sure. Obviously." He held out one hand toward her. "Oh, Molly—I've been going absolutely crazy, and it's your fault because you won't talk to me. I called here the other day to see if your dad would hire me since they're doing a lot of work on their house, but—"

"My mom told you that, too?"

"Yeah. But the woman who answered said they didn't need anyone, and then the connection broke. When I called back later to talk to you, no one was home. So I told my aunt and uncle I had to make a little trip to visit a friend, and I booked my flight, and here I am. I got here this afternoon, and I'm staying until you'll talk to me."

She couldn't believe any of this. What was she supposed to say to this person who had nearly killed her and now felt drawn to seek her out, wherever she might travel? It occurred to her that
he
might be crazy. Like one of those weirdos who stalk their favorite movie stars, always phoning and harassing them. You had to be careful with people like that. You couldn't trust them at all.

She glanced around, hoping to see her father or Paulette coming toward them, but they were alone. She frowned. "Where are you staying?"

"There's a campground about two miles around the cove—toward the next little town. I've got a tent." He patted the ground in front of him. "Come on. Please. Sit down. Just for a few minutes. If you'll just answer a few questions, I promise I won't bother you again."

She sat down in the grass and wrapped her arms around her knees. The wind picked up and sea gulls screamed, circling overhead. A sprinkle of raindrops scattered down, then stopped. "All right, you get five minutes. Then I'm going in, and I won't see you again."

Jared rubbed his hands through his thick hair. "Fair enough. Okay." He studied her face a long moment, silent.

When he did not begin, she looked pointedly at her watch. "Four minutes—and the clock's ticking."

Then came a rush of words. His voice grew choked: "I don't know what it is, Molly, but it's something to do with you. And it started at Michael's party that night. We danced—and it was like I'd held you before. You seemed so familiar to me. And then when we were at the pool and you wouldn't get in—well, something just happened. It was like something snapped in me." He held up his hand to stop her from saying anything. "Look, I told you already. I don't know why I did it. It was scary. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. I sort of
had
to."

Had to?
Molly edged further away from him.

"I'm really sorry, Molly. But—about the things I saw under the water? That's what we have to talk about. There was a round box. And there was
seaweed
—and I saw blood in the water. I know, I know—it had to be a hallucination. But right after that I started having dreams. Bad ones. I had the first one that very night, after we'd revived you and taken you to the hospital. It was about you, I know it was—¡-but the girl didn't look like you. She looked like some old-fashioned girl, wearing a long skirt, with her hair pinned up. You know, how they wore it, like, a hundred years ago?" Jared's eyes burned into hers. She could not look away, though the panic was welling inside her. "She was you, somehow, Molly, in my dream. And I was singing that song to her, you know the one—" And he began to sing in a husky voice:

"
Oh my darlin', Oh my darlin', Oh my darlin', Clementine. You are lost and gone forever—
"

Molly jumped up. This was beyond crazy. She began running for the house.

"Molly! Molly, wait!" He rushed behind, heedless of the raindrops that now spattered down from the gray sky.

She reached the back door, but it was locked. She hammered on it with her fist, blind panic overtaking her now. "Get away from me!" she howled as the door opened and she tumbled into the kitchen.

Paulette stood there, astonished. "What in the world is going on?" she cried.

"Close the door! I don't want to talk to him!" Molly tried to push it shut, but Jared was there, frantic that she shouldn't get away from him again.

"Please, Molly—"

"Five minutes are up!" she yelled.

"But I haven't finished!"

"You have for now, I think," said Paulette, pushing Molly aside and standing in front of Jared. "She
said
she doesn't want to talk to you. Whoever you are."

"But—I need to see her!" Jared was much taller than Paulette and looked over her head to where Molly stood near the kitchen table. "Molly, come on. We have to talk about what these visions mean. Why do you run away when I sing 'Clementine' to you?"

Paulette's eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder at Molly, who was edging toward the pantry. Then she frowned at Jared. "Listen, maybe we'd better talk about this."

"I'm trying to, can't you tell?"

On the counter in the pantry was a basket of red tomatoes. Molly reached for one. Her arm ached with wanting to lob it across the kitchen to splatter smack in the middle of Jared Bernstein's forehead. The force of wanting this made her clench her hand, and the tomato split. Juice ran down her fingers.

Blood on her hands?
She stared down at them, her head pounding.

"Are you the boy who called about a job here?" asked Paulette. She studied him with her green eyes.

When he nodded, she shook her head. "Well, who can blame Molly for not wanting to see you? But you know our phone number. Maybe you can discuss this better over the phone."

Jared's shoulders sagged. "Believe me, I've tried." The rain dripped off his hair and ran into his eyes. He wiped his face as he turned away from the door. Then he looked back once and shouted: "I'm calling tomorrow, Molly. And you'd better talk to me!"

"Oh yeah?" she called from the safety of the pantry, wiping her hands on her shorts. "Or else
what,
Jared Bernstein?"

Their eyes caught and held across the room. The look was angry, challenging—but full of something else, too. The silence stretched out between them, electric. Molly couldn't look away.

"Or else ... or else I'll call again, I guess," Jared finally said, simply. "And again."

Then he walked away in the rain, and Paulette closed the door. She turned to Molly. "We need to get to the bottom of this," she said.

Molly bowed her head. She could hear Jared's husky voice singing to her on Michael's patio. And again on the headland. "
You are lost and gone forever
—"
She could hear the soft laughter of children echoing through the house. Her head was aching fiercely.

"I need aspirin," she gulped.

Paulette walked over and placed a small, cool hand on the back of Molly's neck. "Come on upstairs," she said, "and I'll give you a head rub. A good massage will help more than aspirin. And I want to try a meditation technique I know."

"Sounds very New Age, very California," said Molly, but she was too upset to argue. They went upstairs. Molly lay on her bed, her head cradled by a pillow. She closed her eyes.

She felt Paulette tug the elastic off the end of her braid and unravel the long strands. Then she felt Paulette's hands on the top of her head. At first she tensed, uncomfortable. But then, despite herself, she yielded to the touch of her stepmother's fingers against her scalp. For such small hands, Paulette's were surprisingly strong. The softness of the pillow under her neck and Paulette's firm pressure on her head made her relax. She felt she was in a cozy nest. Her eyes fluttered, and Paulette smiled at her reassuringly. Molly closed her eyes again, embarrassed to be this close to her stepmother, touching like this. Jen gave her a hug now and then, but they didn't really touch very often. Nor for very long.

After a few moments of silent massage, Paulette's voice came softly. "Are you relaxed?"

"Yes." Molly's voice was a sigh.

"Good. Now, do this for me. Imagine you can see a candle. Picture the flame. Can you see it?"

Molly had no will to resist. She gave in to the hands rubbing her scalp and face. Behind her closed eyes a flame leapt high. "Yes."

"Watch the flame. Concentrate on the flame."
Paulette's voice was soft. After a long pause, she continued. "Now in that flame you can see a long tunnel. It's a tunnel you can walk down, a long, long tunnel. Imagine yourself walking down that tunnel." Paulette paused again. "Do you see it? Are you walking down the tunnel?"