Missed Connections (21 page)

Denna was still standing. The years had been hard on her, she had lost a great deal of weight and now her thin and stooped form rested heavily on her cane. The moon shone down on it and Marie could see a matching clot of maroon near its base, where she had hit Anne with it.

Hoping to reason with her Marie spoke again. "Denna, it's okay. You just don't know what you are doing, untie my hands please."

Denna did not answer. She was humming soundlessly under her breath. Her ancient graven face wore a blank expression that spoke volumes. Footsteps came across the grass and Ryan appeared, his features distorted by rage and something else, a petulant sulk that frightened Marie even further.

"I cannot believe we have to do this again," he said sullenly. He was speaking to Denna but she gave no sign of understanding.

Again? Did he say again?
Marie struggled to work her hands free but she could not do it. Ryan bent to her and tried to lift her and she fought, flailing her feet and head butting him in the skull. Stars exploded before her eyes and pain filled her head. He dropped her back to the ground. Her back struck hard earth and rocks and her breath came out of her in a long exhale that left her even more scared.

"Dammit!" Ryan yelled. "You useless old bitch! I cannot carry these two alone! You have to help me!"

"We don't have to worry about them talking now, do we? Foolish little girls, they would have told everyone about us, my darling, and we could not have that, could we? You know how much I love you my sweet handsome boy." Her mouth moved in a grotesque caricature of a kiss and one clawed hand came up and ran down Ryan's chest.

Disgust washed away Marie's fear. Denna's face was awash with an avid greed as she touched her son and he closed his eyes, leaning into her far-too-familiar caress. The truth hit her and she recoiled in revulsion. Somehow, Jessie and Cal had discovered the secret that these two had been hiding, and they had killed them for it.

It really did not matter now. All that mattered was that this duo had killed before and they would do so again. Anne's still body made her wonder, for the briefest of moments, if they had already succeeded but she pushed that thought aside and began to work her wrists against the rope again while Ryan shoved at Anne's body. A soft splash told her that Anne was in the lake and Marie began to cry tears of rage and despair.

Ryan began to move her body toward the lake, struggling to push her body with his hands and knees. He was going to try to roll her down the hill and into the water, she knew that but she could not imagine how he thought they could get away with that. Not that that mattered either, if he managed to drown her, she would hardly care whether he got away with it. She did her best to fight him but eventually gravity won out and she tumbled down the hill and into the water.

The water was as yielding as a lover's flesh and she sunk into it. For a moment it was seductively easy to just lie there and give up. The water made her aches ease, made her muscles go loose and her mind went blissfully empty for a moment.

Then she fought her way back. She rolled against the current, struggling for the shore. Her arms were bound so tightly behind her that she could barely feel her hands but her feet were free so she moved them, half-swimming, half -staggering as she made it up and onto her feet.

She was not so far out; Ryan yelled at her and waded out into the water then stopped. His body was quivering with fury but something else as well and it hit her: he was afraid of the water. Ryan could not swim!

Anne's hair floated on the water. Desperation sent Marie toward her. The ground below Marie's feet sloped so abruptly she went under. Water filled her lungs and she choked and gasped as she flailed her way to the surface once more.

Her head broke into the air and she gasped for air, her body sucking in oxygen. Lights bobbed along the water's edge and she screamed. Ryan was gone, so was Denna, but she could see the lights on in their house. The people walking with their ghost tour guide stopped and stared out at the lake and she screamed again as Anne's body floated further away.

There were shouts and bodies hit the water. She saw a young man go past her, heading for Anne and she closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. Safe. They were safe.

*~*~*

The next day at the hospital Marie sat on the edge of Anne's bed and held her hand as she spoke to her. "You were right," she said. "It is the living that haunts us. You have haunted me ever since I met you. I don't want to be a ghost in your life, Anne."

"I don't want to be a ghost in yours either."

"I cannot stand missing one more chance to be with you."

"Then take this one," Anne whispered softly. "Meet me halfway."

Their faces were close, achingly close. Their lips were almost touching and Marie kissed her, a soft slow thing that left her mouth filled with sweetness. The kiss intensified, deepened and it was a long time before they pulled away from each other, for a time they were alone in their own little cove, sheltered and safe from the storms and deepest of waters.

Marie let the air fill her lungs, let her body expand and contract with each breath. This was the beginning of something that would last, she felt it in every cell of her body, and she reveled in that sensation.

Things clicked into place. Ryan and Denna had both gone to jail, although Denna had not stayed there. She had gone to a mental health facility to be evaluated. Ryan was screaming at the top of his lungs that it had been Denna’s plan, not his own. He was also wailing that he was a victim of Denna’s as surely as Cal and Jesse had been. It seemed he might get a little bit of clemency for his role in Cal and Jesse’s deaths, not that that would keep him from going to prison for a very long time.

In many ways Marie felt sorry for him. But above that she hurt for the two girls who had been lost before they could ever have a chance to find their way in the world.

As for her, there were no more missing pieces, no empty spaces left behind. She had almost missed Anne far too many times, but she was not going to this time. This time she was there forever.

Theo is ten and he hasn't so much moved in with his Aunt Maudy and Uncle Russ as he's been pressed under their window—blown in by the storm that is his mother. It'll be two weeks before Meredith Swanson's winds die down enough that she'll swing around, battered and blurry-eyed, to carry Theo back to their apartment across town. For now Theo fumbles through the motions of
yes, sir
and
no, ma'am,
the likes of which he hasn't used since he was seven and they took him in for the summer.

It's spring break and that's something to be thankful for because that means the visit is only temporary. So long as Theo is good, he's certain that it will be over before he knows it and he'll be back sitting in the old exhaust of the West Alate Apartments.

Here, where the nearest convenience store is seven miles away, there is nothing but trees and dirt. The snow has already melted into puddles of ice-chipped sunshine while the old and new seasons grapple along the edges of early flowers. By the time his aunt and uncle get a story from his mother, Theo has already slipped out past the porch and into the woods. Staying won't change the outcome, so he thinks leaving might.

"She just doesn't know what to do with me," Theo gripes, hands crammed in his jacket pockets and head tucked between his shoulders. "But she doesn't have to
do anything
with me." Theo knows the way children do that any plans he had ended the moment trees began to overtake the city. There is no one around so he talks to himself, and if he pretends he's having a conversation, the silence doesn't bother him so much. It's been a half an hour, and already he misses the intermittent swells of rap and old Spanish pop that chased familiar cars in his apartment complex's parking lot.

Theo's all bones. He's a ratty kid, gifted with his father's thick black eyebrows and what looks like a perpetual sulk. Reading books has told him that kids like him get the redemption arc in stories. What he has to redeem himself from, he isn’t sure, but since he's the only kid here, the only story he could have is
survivalist
anyway. Theo wouldn't survive a brisk wind—and that's not just because his survival experience comes from handheld games.

"I could just stay home and be quiet. But no. Middle of nowhere instead." The trees shiver against his discontent and Theo wraps his jacket tighter around himself. Meredith, with her grabbing hands and needling words, has always needed more than Theo. Needed time alone, needed Theo there, needed someone in the apartment, out of the apartment. Theo had learned long ago to read her moods on the warped front room window and judge if he should use the key under the doormat or bunk down in the parking lot of Old Boy's Chicken. If he stood under the kitchen vent, he stayed warm for hours, or at least until close. It made him smell like fried chicken. and when he came back around eleven-thirty Meredith would press both hands against his cheeks like he was made of glass and ask, 'where have you been?'

When he retreats back to his aunt and uncle's place, his mother won't be there, and if hands touch him they will be old and wrinkled. The nail polish will be the color of shells—not the red painted warmth of his mother overheating from the world building up inside her head. "She didn't have to leave me."

Fat leaves mildew underfoot, refusing to give him a satisfying
snap
when he steps down particularly hard. This is something Theo thinks he can change though, so he steps harder, jumps harder onto the brush. It's a small vengeance against the injustice of being forced to come here. He might have wanted it had he been given the chance, but without a choice, all Theo has left is frustration and a small voice at the back of his mind that sounds a lot like
loss
.

There's a stick about ten feet up that's covered in layers of leaves and dirt. Theo takes off to break it with a running leap. He's right on top of the branch, landing heels first, when he notices the door. He falters on the landing, and trips on the wet side of the branch which rolls spitefully across the soft ground. Theo lands with a skidding yelp.

It's the middle of the woods. He's far enough inside of them that his aunt and uncle's house has long since melted into the landscape, and there's a door. It looks like the type inside fancy houses—lacquered oak with a subtle rectangle design crossing each side. It's been stained green and, when Theo gets up to walk around, he notices there's no hinges and it's not planted into the ground like a tree.

He gets up and pushes it.

The door quakes in place. The door knob is stiff under his hands, barely turns at all when he twists or tugs. His shoes leave little gouges in the ground when he digs in for leverage. Theo isn't sure what he's expecting to happen if he manages to get it to move, but he straightens and walks around it again anyway. Both sides still look the same.

When he presses his ear to the door he hears the indistinct sound of people arguing. It's sickening in its familiarity, but he can't understand the words and isn't sure he wants to.

Theo almost sets out on his sixth walk-around when the door suddenly shudders like something hit it.
Wumph
the door protests at nothing and Theo stumbles back, thinking of giants and beanstalks, even though he's never even seen a beanstalk.
Wumph
it says again and Theo wonders if his eyes are going to pop out of his skull.
Wumph CRACK
and with one final shudder the door is left still standing but a crack has shuddered its way down the middle. Theo can barely breathe—standing five feet away from this strange wall-less door in the woods. There's a crack in the door—and Theo can't see much through it.

But he can see enough to know isn't showing trees. Somewhere from behind the door Theo hears, "
If only you'd listen.
" And wonders why it sounds so familiar.

*~*~*

If Theo cries it's because the spring air burns his eyes as he runs all the way back to the farm house. He's not sniveling, his nose is running from the wind and if his heart is racing—it is just from the rush of
run, run, run
—not fear. Aunt Maudy must have called for him, he's decided, but as he clatters across the porch and notices his mother's car is gone he knows the lie for what it is. No one has been calling for him—but his aunt throws the door open for him anyway and laughs as she takes his face in her hands just like his mother does. "There you are." She speaks as though this was an inevitability that he would land there. It's strange because Theo wasn't even sure he would. "How did you know I was about to call you for dinner?"

Her skin is paper-thin and cool. The roadmap of her veins refuses to warm her skin beyond the hush of winter and the sound of it seeps into her voice leaving it gravelly and sincere. Theo doesn't want to melt into her pale warmth because if he does, he will only burn when his mother returns. Aunt Maudy doesn't seem to care. She simply brushes back his black hair, rolls her hand down his cheek. When she exclaims, "What did you do to your pants!" it sounds more like joy than a reprimand.

*~*~*

Dinner is reheated mashed potatoes and cabbage soup, which Theo hates, but eats anyway. The kitchen is butter yellow and the walls bleed into the sky as the sun sets. It's a room that's so small that when his aunt and uncle both stand, they seem to climb over each other as they reach into cabinets and under countertops.

"What's with the door?" Theo feels he'd held the question in for so long it feels crystallized and has turned jagged in his chest but it's only been twenty minutes.

Uncle Russ weighs the question by glancing at the swing door that separates the kitchen from the den. "The kitchen door?" Uncle Russ's hair is two shades from blending into his skin and might as well be made of cirrus clouds. Theo once spent an entire afternoon tracing the calluses along each of his uncle's fingers, and then had his hands spelunk down the craggy lines of his face. If anyone could move the door in the woods—it would be him. "It needs oiling, I suppose."