The Raising (45 page)
M
ira tried to warm up the car before they pulled out of the parking lot. But even as the fan blew hard, nothing but cold air came out. Beside her, Perry was shivering. In the cold electric light from the Dientz sign, Mira could see that he had his eyes squeezed shut. Could he be shivering in his sleep?
Ted had turned off the lights inside the funeral parlor, but his Cadillac was still parked beside them. He was still inside. Mira imagined him scrolling through more photos on his computer—his before and after images of the many disfigured corpses he’d brought back from the dead.
She didn’t blame him. If she had such a talent, she would be proud of herself as well.
She pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway without speaking, and after a few minutes, Perry stopped shivering and seemed to have fallen asleep.
The drive back in the blizzard was slow and treacherous, and at every exit Mira thought, We should pull over. We should get off. There were no cars behind them, none ahead of them, none passing in the oncoming lanes, as far as she could see, as Jeff Blackhawk’s car rattled around them, and Mira became more and more vividly aware in the silence of the sound of the slick road just under their feet. Jeff’s car gave one only the slimmest illusion of being anything other than what you were: a soft and vulnerable vessel traveling at great speeds over hard ground.
The car warmed a little, anyway—if from nothing but their body heat and breath—and Mira hoped Perry could stay warm enough to sleep until they got back. It had been wrong, she knew, to bring him here. To encourage or include him in any of this. All of this had gone far beyond what she needed for a book. This had turned into something in which, if she’d really felt she had to take it on (for research purposes? to find Nicole Werner?), she should never have involved a student.
But Perry had been so eager, and he had not seemed to Mira to be what she would have called “troubled” or “impressionable.” In her years of teaching, Mira’d had many brilliant, troubled students—their brilliance fueled by brief intensities, always ready and willing to follow someone else’s lead. They were the kinds of young people who could easily have been seduced by their professors, or inducted into cults, or recruited to build bombs in townhouses for the revolution. But Perry Edwards had seemed different—although perhaps no less vulnerable for it. He had not reminded her of any of those students. If he reminded her of someone, Mira realized, it was herself.
When Ted Dientz had called up the final photo of the dead girl in all her blazing gigabytes, Mira thought instantly of her mother in the pantry that day, so radiantly alive. That image of her mother was with her always, wasn’t it? It was a kind of stubbornness. There was never a day that went by that Mira did not feel that if she could just go back to that childhood house at that moment, she would find her mother still there—shining and crying and studying the cans on the pantry shelf, alphabetizing them as she wrapped her brilliant white wings around her, getting ready to fly away.
Perry had that kind of stubbornness. Another word for it might have been
faith
. He believed in something, and he
saw
it. He would be, she knew, an academic. A scholar. A researcher. He would never be able to leave well enough alone, even when it would clearly be better to do so. She’d seen that about him during the very first sessions of the seminar, and already been reminded of herself at that age—how the other students would be headed off to the bars, but how she wanted, herself, to be bent over something dusty in some study room, inventing questions to answer.
Mira rested a hand on his shoulder as she took the exit toward campus. He didn’t stir. She vowed to herself that she would talk to him seriously about his academic pursuits, soon. Degrees and programs and courses of study. Soon she’d have to wake him, but not now. Now her only job was to drive them safely to the next stop. Through the whiteout, as he slept on.
E
llen Graham’s kitchen clock echoed through the rooms of her house as they talked on for hours. In the morning, Ellen would begin to make phone calls—the State Police, the university administration, the FBI—to speak to officials, to lawyers, to journalists, to start her final crusade. But for now she seemed to want company, so Shelly stayed.
Ellen told her about her separation from her husband six months earlier. (“Some couples grow closer with this sort of trauma, they tell me, but most don’t. We didn’t.”) They talked on about their childhoods, their pasts. Shelly told Ellen about her brother—the flag-draped coffin—and then, without intending to, she told her about Jeremy.
Perhaps, Shelly realized even as the story was coming out of her mouth, she’d never intended to tell anyone at all.
Perhaps until this moment, telling it, it hadn’t really happened.
But there was no taking it back now, or denying it, after Ellen’s reaction:
“Oh, my sweet fucking Jesus Christ,” Ellen cried out, and when she leapt to her feet, her own cat, which had sat like a statue through the entire evening, came suddenly to life and ran from the room. Shelly looked at the place where it had been sitting, and felt she could almost see its permanent aura still glowing where it had been.
Ellen began to pace then, and then she went back to the buffet, took out the cigarette she’d tossed into it hours ago, lit it with a shaking match, and dragged on it as if she were trying to smoke it down to the filter all at once. Afterward, she said, “I need a drink, Shelly. What would you like?”
Shelly never had a chance to answer. Ellen returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. She poured the wine. They drank in silence until Ellen said, “Your life is in danger, Shelly.”
Shelly said nothing.
“You’re not going back to your apartment, maybe ever, and certainly not tonight,” Ellen said.
“No,” Shelly said. “Tonight I thought I’d find a Motel 6.”
“Of course you won’t,” Ellen said. “For one thing, look at the snow.” She nodded toward the tiny crack between the curtains in her front window. “You can’t drive in that. Plus you have nowhere to go.”
Shelly felt the tears coming in to her eyes.
Nowhere to go
. But also the kindness, again, and from someone who’d suffered things Shelly could not, herself, begin to imagine. Such a surplus of kindness. Had Shelly ever met anyone kinder?
“No,” Shelly said. “I couldn’t.”
“Yes. I’ll make up the couch for you, sweetheart.”
Ellen poured more wine into Shelly’s glass then, and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She never mentioned Jeremy or Josie again—another bit of compassion for which Shelly was incredibly grateful.
Mostly they drank their wine in silence.
The wine was so pale it made the glasses—beautiful crystal goblets, surely another heirloom, or a wedding gift—look emptier than they had when they were actually empty.
“M
y roommate and I have been calling you the Cookie Girl for so long it’s hard for me to remember your actual name. And also, no offense, Deb, but you sort of don’t seem like a ‘Deb.’ ”
Deb smiled. Craig liked that there was the tiniest gap between her two front teeth. It was the kind of thing most girls he’d known would have had four thousand dollars’ worth of orthodontia work to fix, but it was cute on Deb. She said, “So, what do I seem like?”
Craig shrugged apologetically and admitted, “You seem like a Debbie?”
Her smile faded then, and she looked down into the mug of tea he’d made for her—or, really, that she’d made for herself after he’d nuked the water. When he couldn’t find a tea bag, she’d gone to her own apartment and come back with two.
She said, “I used to be Debbie. I changed to Deb when I came here. I thought it might make it a little harder to Google me. The whole story’s there, of course, and my photograph right along with it. But Richards is a common name. ‘Deb Richards’ confuses it a bit, or so I was hoping. At least it would slow someone down.”
Craig grimaced. “Sorry,” he said. He thought a minute and then said, “Maybe I could call you Debbie, like, in private?”
“If you must,” she said. “But can I call you Craigy then?”
“No,” Craig said. “Sounds like a negative adjective.”
She took a sip of her tea, and then looked at him and said, “You’re really smart, Craig.”
“Thanks,” Craig said. “But you also think I’m crazy.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think you’re crazy . . . exactly.”
They both laughed, but then she put the mug of tea on the floor and turned to him. She said, “But I do think you’ve been through something terrible. Something crazy-
making
. I used to see him around, too, Craig. I mean, I saw him every time I closed my eyes, but I’d catch him out of the corner of my eye, too. Like, at the library. I’d be on one side of the shelves and there’d be someone on the other side, and, you know how you can get a little glimpse between the books sometimes? I’d get that glimpse. This happened more than once, and it was always him. So I quit going to the library in town. I made my mom drive me into the city. I mean, it’s different with me. I didn’t know him before I—”
She stopped before saying “killed him,” but they both knew it was what she was going to say. They’d talked for hours. Never once had she called what had happened to her an “accident,” but the one time she’d spoken the words
killed him
aloud, she’d had to run from the room to the bathroom, where Craig had heard the water running in the sink for a long time.
“So it was easy to think that every guy about that age, blond, skinny, was him. And every time I saw a guy on a bike. Even still.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Craig reached over and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I didn’t really think it was him,” she went on. “I didn’t think he was haunting me or anything, but it was like what you described tonight. It would just happen. I’d think I’d seen him, and suddenly everything would be different. Like, the whole world. My whole life. In that second. Instead of being horrified, I was happy, and the universe was suddenly operating with these completely different laws, and—”
Craig said, “I know.”
“And all the consequences, they were just nothing. It was like, for those two seconds, I was free, and—”
“I know,” Craig said. He was laughing now, despite himself, but she was shaking her head.
She said, “Except that I’d be wrong. It wasn’t him.”
Craig nodded. He took a sip of the tea. It was minty, green. It tasted to him like something a witch might have come up with to cure a broken heart or a bad case of hives. It tasted like a supernatural garden. He had always hated the herbal teas his mother tried to convince him to drink, but he loved this tea.
He inhaled, looked up from the mug, and said, “Except, Debbie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but this is different. I
saw
her. I truly saw her. This
was
Nicole.”
Deb gave him a sad little smile. Not happy, but not surprised.
“I’m going to go back there tonight,” he said. “If I have to sit outside the OTT house for five years, I’m going to talk to her. I’m going to ask her what the hell—”
Then, Perry opened the door, and Craig stood up, went to him, took him by the shoulders, and said, “I’ve got something to tell you, man. Something huge.”
“Yeah,” Perry said, sounding weary. “I’ve got something to tell you, too.”
“H
ey, Perry.”
He could feel it, just like in the clichés, his heart sinking, his heart leaping. Was he ever as aware of that muscle at the center of his body as he was when Nicole Werner stood in front of him?
Now he could feel all four chambers, and the blood traveling in and out of them, and the valves squeezing open and shut.
She was wearing a grungy sweatshirt tonight, like that night he’d found her on the front steps of Godwin Hall feeling homesick, getting ready to cry. Now her hair was in a messy ponytail. Bits of it hadn’t been pulled back and gathered with the rest, and they fell around her face—but not artfully, not the way they would if she had, as he sometimes sensed she must have, spent hours at the mirror loosening just the most golden strands.
She wasn’t wearing her usual pearl earrings, either, and the tiny empty holes in her earlobes looked pretty, he thought, and strange. He looked at them.
Pierced ears: one of the hundreds of the odd customs of girls. He remembered asking Mary if it had hurt, getting her ears pierced, and how she’d rolled her eyes back, fluttered her eyelashes, and said, “Oh, my God, Perry. I can’t even
tell
you how much it hurt.”
“Can I come in?”
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“Okay,” he said, “come in,” and stepped out of the way. He turned, and sat down at his desk, and sighed. She sat across from him at the edge of Craig’s bed.
“What’s the point of this?” he asked her without looking at her. “Why are we doing this?”
She was silent so long he finally turned around. She was staring at the floor, but he could see that she was smiling.
“Are you sick or something, Nicole?”
She looked up at him then, and seemed to tuck the smile away so he couldn’t see it. She said, “You mean, like, mentally ill or something?”
Perry shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe. Like mentally ill.”
“Or, do you mean like
evil
?”
“Okay,” he said. “That sounds good, Nicole. Let’s say evil.”
The anger in his voice seemed to make her flinch, and he was immediately sorry, but it was too late to take it back.
She stood up. She took a step toward him. She said, “What about you? Are you? Are you mentally ill, or evil?”
Perry turned his back to her again and put his elbows on his desk, put his head in his hands. As he’d known she would, she came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders.
He could feel the cool, smooth fingers near his neck.
And his heart—that pleasurable pain, all anticipation and dread.
When Mary had forced him into such places, he’d seen those girls at the mall (what was that store called? Claire’s?) having those little pistols held to their earlobes, flinching and crying out, and the stinging tears in their eyes, the smiles on their faces.
He felt her breath on his neck just before he felt her kiss, and when he stood and turned to her, for just a second he thought he saw what it was—in her eyes, in her face. It almost knocked the breath out of him.
He remembered (or was he imagining it?) turning once in the hallway at Bad Axe High. Mary’d had her arm slipped between his elbow and his side, and she was pulling him toward her, but he’d seen a shadow behind them, and for some reason it had made him turn, and he saw Nicole there, holding an armful of books in her arms.
She was just standing there, watching them with what looked like an expression of complete grief on her face, as if she were witnessing her own death, or the death of something she’d loved all her life.
He’d nodded to her, and the expression was instantly gone, replaced with that pretty little smile. Perry had been watching those expressions pass over her face like the moon’s phases for as long as he could remember.
And then she’d turned and walked in the opposite direction, and he realized that Mary had spun around to look at her, too. She huffed. She tugged Perry’s arm closer and leaned over to whisper to him, “That girl’s in love with you. She always has been.”