Strange but True (35 page)

“There is an old woman from church who is going into a nursing home. She has a cat that needs a new home. Your father and I thought we'd give it to Missy. She has always wanted one. And even though she is going off to college in the fall too, I figure we can take care of it for her and she can see it when she comes home.”

“Mom,” Stacy says. “I think Melissa would rather have a kitten than some old lady's recycled fleabag cat.”

“It is not a fleabag cat, Stacy. I've seen Mumu, and she's precious.”

“Hold on a second. What's the thing's name?”

“The
thing
is a cat,” her mother says. “And its name is Mumu.”

Stacy snorts. “What kind of a stupid name is that?”

“Don't be so rude. Besides, Melissa can change its name if she wants to.”

“Mom. How can you just change its name? The thing is probably used to being called Mumu. I mean, what if people decided to stop calling you Margaret?”

“Well, that's ridiculous. It's clearly not the same.”

“Okay, Nancy.”

“Nancy?”

“Yeah,” Stacy says. “I just changed your name. I hope you don't mind.”

With that, Melissa stops listening and steps gently up the stairs. She should feel touched that her parents have finally agreed to get her a pet, but it does nothing to soften her feelings toward them. Inside her bedroom, she lays her dress and all the things from her prom on the floor beside her bed, then pushes them into the darkness beneath. She is too tired to look at that shattered red lightbulb and the rest of the keepsakes from that night, but tomorrow she will. When she stands, Melissa notices a present on her pillow, wrapped in paper that's covered with drawings of bumblebees. She picks it up and tears off the paper. Beneath all those smiling bees, she finds a black leather diary with her name emblazoned in gold on the cover. Melissa opens the book and reads the inscription:
For my sister and best friend, Although it doesn't seem like it now, you will start over, and you will be happy again one day. I promise. Love, Stacy
.

Melissa puts the diary on her nightstand along with Richard's card. Her sister is right. She will start over again. But not in the way anyone expects. She digs the newspaper out of the CVS bag and dials the number in the ad.

In the middle of the second ring, a woman answers. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Melissa says, talking softly so no one downstairs will hear. “Is Mr. or Mrs. Erwin at home?”

“This is Gail Erwin,” the woman says in a cheery voice.

“My name is Melissa. I'm calling about the cottage that's for rent beginning in August. If it's still available, I was wondering if I could come see it.”

“It's still available,” Gail tells her. “We are just finishing up some small renovations on the place. But of course you can come by. When would be good for you?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is fine. My husband and I will be here all day.”

They agree to meet around noon, and Melissa hangs up the telephone. Even though she has yet to work out how she will get the money, she feels hopeful about the prospect of leaving home. Melissa goes to the window and sits on the cushioned seat, staring out at the street the way she did so many nights before when she was waiting for that white limousine to round the corner. This time, she whispers a prayer to Ronnie, asking him to help her find a way to get the cash she needs. Melissa keeps on talking to him until she feels so drained from her first day out of bed in weeks that she stretches out on the window seat and drifts off to sleep.

It is not until hours later that she wakes to the sound of the fire department's fireworks exploding in the dark summer sky over Radnor. Melissa opens her eyes, and the first thing she sees is a burst of purple and green shimmering above the treetops. It's then that the idea finally comes to her, and it is as simple as this: after visiting the Erwins' cottage tomorrow, she will go to the cemetery and wait for Ronnie's father to arrive. Maybe not right away, but eventually, she will ask him for the money. If she can work up the nerve, she will ask him to hold her again too. Once that is settled in her mind, Melissa lies back on the pillows as a spray of gold rises up in the sky outside the window, then rains down behind the silhouette of trees, just like the comets she learned about in that documentary on TV, the ones people used to believe were a sign of plague, famine, and death.

A sign of all sorts of horrible things to come.

BY THE TIME CHARLENE REALIZES THAT SHE FORGOT TO CALL INFORMATION,
she has already pulled out of the library parking lot and into traffic. She reaches over to the passenger seat and picks up her cell phone again. It's too difficult to dial and drive, though, so she turns on the emergency flashers and comes to a sudden stop by the side of the road. The driver of a Lexus, which happens to be the same make and color as her own, lays on the horn and flips her off while zipping past, sending a spray of icy slush splattering against her window. For an instant, a familiar rage rises up inside of Charlene. She has the urge to floor the gas pedal, chase down the car, and give the driver a piece of her mind—maybe even take out a few windows with the help of the crowbar in her trunk while she's at it. But then something strange happens: Charlene thinks of Pilia's flattened chest beneath her baby blue ski parka, and the thought is enough to make her anger shrivel up and vanish.

She releases a breath, punches in 4–1–1, and asks for the address of Melissa Moody in Radnor, Pennsylvania. As it turns out, there is just one listing, under Joseph and Margaret on Church Street. Charlene remembers seeing her parents' names on some of the legal documents surrounding the lawsuit against the limousine company. Now that she thinks about it, she also remembers that Melissa's father is a minister at the Lutheran church, so the address makes sense. From here, all she has to do is take a few lefts, then a right onto Runnymede and another left, before she is driving slowly down Church Street, squinting at the numbers on the houses.

Once she spots their small white cape with two dormer windows jutting out from the roof and a tall evergreen looming on the corner of the snow-covered lawn, she pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. Melissa's battered blue Corolla is nowhere in sight, but Charlene tells herself that it could be parked inside the garage—either that, or the girl doesn't live here anymore. Since there is only one way to find out, she steps outside and heads up the shoveled walkway. The instant Charlene presses her thumb against the doorbell, and a staccato chiming comes from inside the house, her cell phone rings in the pocket of her wool cloak. It must be Philip returning her call, since no one ever uses this line to contact her. But just as Charlene pulls out the phone to answer it, the door swings open.

A balding man stares out at her, dressed in a burgundy cardigan and neatly pressed corduroys. He has a pale complexion, a delicate nose, and full lips—traits that once made Melissa so pretty but give him a slightly sinister look. Judging from the resemblance, Charlene assumes this is Melissa's father. “Hello,” he says.

Her phone releases another shrill ring and she presses a bunch of different buttons, hoping to make the call go to voice mail, so as not to be rude. Whatever she does works because the sound stops. “Sorry about that. You know how cell phones are. Always ringing at the wrong moment.”

He smiles a placid, artificial smile. “Actually I don't have one. So I wouldn't know.”

The way his arid voice dips at the end of each word hints at a faded southern accent. Charlene tries to picture him standing at an altar giving a sermon, but all she comes up with is the image of him checking into a run-down motel with a prostitute, like Jimmy Swaggart and the rest of those hypocrites she cannot stand. “I don't either,” she says, trying to focus on the conversation. “I mean, obviously, I have a cell phone. But I don't usually know how they are, since I only use mine for emergencies.”

He takes a moment to make sense of what she just said. “Do you mean that call was an emergency?”

“No—” Charlene stops. How she had managed to get off to such an awkward start she is not sure, but she does her best to smooth things out. “It was just my son calling. There's no emergency. He's fine. Or almost fine anyway. What I mean is that I'll call him back later.”

He seems to have had enough of this cell phone discussion too, because he asks, “So what can I do for you?”

“I'm wondering if Melissa is at home.” It occurs to Charlene then that she has yet to introduce herself. “Forgive me,” she says and extends her hand. “I'm Charlene Chase. Ronnie Chase's mother. My son was Melissa's—”

“I know who you are,” he says, cutting her off as the smile fades from his face.

Charlene keeps her hand extended, though he does not reach out to shake it. Finally, she gives up and puts her hand back in the pocket of her wool cloak, nervously fiddling with the buttons on her phone. “I take it you're Mr. Moody, or rather, Reverend Moody.”

“Joseph,” is all he says.

If he is trying to make her feel unwelcome, it's working. Charlene opens her mouth to inquire about Melissa when she hears footsteps from somewhere inside the house. A moment later, a woman appears in the doorway with the same smooth skin and pale complexion. Missy's mother, Charlene figures. She is wearing a flowery apron and has the kind of tall slender build and neat yellow hair that make her look like a housewife in one of those commercials for a kitchen floor cleaner. Charlene can just see her mopping away, while her husband is climbing into bed with a prostitute. “Who is it?” she asks Joseph as she looks out at Charlene.

“It's Richard Chase's wife.”

“Ex-wife,” Charlene blurts out then considers how odd it is that he described her in relation to Richard instead of Ronnie. “Am I missing something here?”

“You're not missing anything,” Joseph tells her.

“Well, then.” Charlene clears her throat. “Is your daughter at home?”

“Melissa no longer lives here. You of all people should know that.”

“Me of all people?” Charlene says.

And then, much to her dismay, he tells her good-bye and begins to close the door. At the last second, Margaret speaks up. “Joseph, wait.” She pulls open the door, takes a nervous breath, and asks why Charlene wants to see Melissa after all this time.

Charlene is unsure where to begin. She starts by saying, “Your daughter came by my house late last night.” She lets out a sigh. “To be honest, I didn't treat her very kindly. And, well, something happened just a little while ago that made me realize it was wrong of me. I decided I should talk to her. That I should hear her side of the story about her baby—”

“Baby,” they both say, their voices overlapping so it creates a sound like
Bababyby
.

“Baby,” Charlene says.

No one says anything after that. All three of them stand there—Melissa's parents with their hands on the door, Charlene still fiddling with the buttons on the phone in her pocket. It's clear to her that they have not spoken to their daughter in quite some time, and since Charlene does not want to be the one to fill them in on the developments in Melissa's life, she says, “Listen, I don't want to start trouble. So if you wouldn't mind telling me where she lives, I'll be on my way.”

“Is she okay?” Melissa's mother asks. “Tell me that. Is she okay?”

Charlene shrugs. “I really don't know.”

“But I don't understand,” Margaret says, stumbling over her words as she tries to come up with which question to ask next. “I—What—Whose baby is it? And why would she come to see you?”

“I don't know that either.” It is the most honest answer Charlene can offer without going into the details Missy gave them the night before.

“Well, I think we've heard enough,” Joseph says and begins to close the door again.

This time, when Margaret stops him, she does so with more force than before. “But I haven't heard enough.” She is not yelling exactly, but her voice is taut and unyielding. She grabs his hand and repeats herself. “I haven't heard enough, Joe. She is still our daughter and I want to know whatever there is to know about her.”

Charlene gets the feeling that if it weren't for her presence, he might burst into a tirade or even strike her. As it is, he just stares at his wife a long moment, his jaw clenched, his upper lip curled in until finally, he shakes off her hand and says, “Fine, then. Do whatever you want.”

When he storms off into the house, Margaret looks at Charlene and asks if she'd like to come inside. In the background, Charlene sees Joseph climbing the stairs to the second floor. She cannot help but feel that she is indeed missing something here, and for that reason, she steps into the house. Something about the place—the small size perhaps, or the way everything is so neatly arranged—reminds her of a doll's house. The wooden floors are perfectly polished, and just about every surface, from the backs of chairs to the tops of tables, is draped with a white doily. What Charlene finds most unusual is the utter silence. Even when her house is quiet, there is always the sound of that faulty antique clock ticking in the family room, or the ice maker in the freezer occasionally clunking away. Even the quiet at the library this afternoon had been punctuated by the clicking of keyboards and the murmur of hushed voices. But here it is so soundless that every inhalation, every exhalation, every footstep Charlene takes as she follows Margaret into the pale green living room feels amplified.

“Can I take your coat?” Margaret asks in a voice so perfectly polite it sends the signal that they are going to take this visit from the top and act more civilly this time around.

Charlene does not plan on staying long so she tells her no thanks. But when Margaret offers her a drink, she is still so parched from all the bread she gorged on earlier at the library that Charlene accepts.