The Women in the Walls (10 page)

THE WEEK PASSES
by in a blur of long naps and frantic research sessions regarding ways to get away from this house as quickly as possible.

I discover that there is such a thing as year-round boarding schools and start making a list of potentials to consider, purposefully seeking out any that are geared toward teens with psychological or behavioral problems. Something tells me that I would fit in at a place like that. Maybe I'd even benefit from it. And if not, well, at least I won't be here. The grounds of the estate are enormous, but after everything that's happened, there are only a few places that I can even stand to be.

I'm too scared that I'll hear a voice in the walls again, like in Margaret's closet. Nothing has happened since then, but I know what I heard.
Lucy
, the voice said, so pained, so desperate.
You won't believe how much it hurts to be dead.
I only considered telling my father about it for a brief second before remembering how he reacted when I told him that Margaret was hearing voices.

And what about Penelope? Is it possible that she was somehow a real witch? At the time I had convinced myself that my aunt was secretly a tortured artist of some kind, and that the poem about the Mother was just some sort of expression. And the teeth... I had never let myself fully believe Margaret. I refused to think about it for more than a second, forced it out of my mind until it disappeared. Maybe she sensed that somehow. Maybe that had something to do with how she treated both Penelope and me.

I can no longer handle going into the garden, or the courtyard, or the entry room, where Margaret's brass urn sits centered on the mantel. I don't return to Penelope's room. I stay away from Margaret's. I pretend that the third floor doesn't exist at all. The library is all right as long as I avoid looking out the window toward the forest, but even then, the only place at this point that can offer any sort of comfort is my bedroom.

On the day of Margaret's memorial dinner, I wake to the sound of rain falling hard against the window. I wonder what would happen if I didn't show up tonight, or maybe claimed that I was sick, which is true in one way or another. Deep down, though, I know I have to go—my cousin didn't even get a funeral, a fact that still doesn't sit right with me. This dinner will be my only chance to show my respects.

When evening is approaching, I go to the kitchen for a cup of tea when I run into Vanessa, who I haven't seen since the night Margaret died. I was certain she'd quit, but here she is rolling dough out over the floured island counter. Penelope's recipe book sits propped open within view.

Vanessa looks up when I enter the kitchen, but she goes back to what she was doing as if I'm not here. Relief. I head for the cupboard with the tea, then fill the kettle and set it on the stove to wait. As it warms up, I look over Vanessa without shame, since she's standing with her back to me. The last time I saw this girl, she told me that my cousin and I seemed fucked up.

And that was
before
Margaret jumped out the window and I started to hear things. I'm trying desperately to believe that what I heard in that closet had to have been similar to what sometimes happens when you're sleeping at night and wake up to see a shadowy figure in your bedroom, or a tarantula lowering from the ceiling. You're awake, but your mind doesn't care; it shows the thing to you, anyway, trickery of the mind, a waking nightmare. That doesn't mean it's really there, though.

Instead of my mind playing tricks on my eyes, it's playing tricks on my ears, that's all. I'd believe it with the amount of emotional stress I'm under.

“I'm...” Vanessa looks up from the dough for a moment, breaking the silence. “I'm...really sorry about what happened with Margaret. I couldn't even imagine—”

“No,” I say, cutting her off. “You couldn't.” Why bring it up in the first place? Vanessa only knew Margaret at her worst, so it feels phony and ridiculous for her to show even a small amount of pity when it's clearly forced. I might as well start getting used to it, though, with the memorial dinner happening tonight. I'm sure they'll all act like they loved her to pieces.

“I may not know what it's like,” she says softly. “But I'm still sorry that it happened.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

She goes back to her food prep and I suddenly feel bad for being so cold. It's not her fault that I'm cracking up. Still, though, it's for the best. If she knew about half the shit that was toiling away in my brain, she'd be running for the door.

“I keep going over that night in my head,” she continues, and I wish so much that she'd shut up. “I still can't believe that it happened.”

“Look,” I say. “I know she wasn't the nicest or anything. Especially considering the rat on Miranda's pillow, but you have to understand—”

“I'm sure it didn't help the situation at all, though, me getting all confrontational like that.” She pauses. “I'm just...sorry.”

I don't want to think about what could have been, or what should have been; it doesn't do anything but make things worse. I turn the heat on the stove up to high, very much wishing that the stupid water would boil.

“It's fine,” I say in a quiet voice. “I'm sure it would have ended the same way regardless.”

She takes the hint and stops talking after that. Soon the kettle begins to whistle and I can't fill my mug quickly enough. “Later,” I say as I walk past her to the door, only because it feels too weird to not say anything. She doesn't reply.

I drink my tea and then read in bed, opening the window just an inch so I can fill my lungs with long, deep breaths of the sweetly fragrant rain-kissed air. This has always been my favorite kind of weather. With a belly warm from tea, I roll onto my side and close my eyes, trying hard not to think about Margaret and how on a day like this we would have been painting our nails and watching old musicals in her room or mine, maybe even asking Penelope if she wouldn't mind baking some fresh brownies or something. How things change.

I've destroyed my box in the fireplace, but I'm always still aware of the shining black leather wallet tucked up in that secret hiding place on the top shelf of Margaret's closet. I should have taken it and thrown it into the fire, too, I know, and now I'm too afraid to go back and get it. Not because I'm afraid I'll use it, but because I don't want to hear that voice again, all shoved into that cramped, dark space. If I can help it, I'd like to stay away from that room forever.

I don't know if I can take something like that again. I know deep down that I'm broken in some way, a way that needs help from someone else to fix, or at least to get to a better place. But the weight of the situation makes admitting everything to my father feel impossible. I won't be able to explain everything without breaking down at least once, and that would be the point that he stopped listening to send me away with disgust on his face. Maybe if I showed him my scars, he would listen, but the idea of doing that makes jumping out the window seem a whole lot easier.

If only Margaret was here.

The hole of grief inside me throbs; the pain of it nearly taking my breath away. The sound of the raindrops against the glass changes, morphs into something that sounds a lot less like water pattering over a window and a lot more like nails scratching over wood. I keep my eyes closed, focusing on the sound that should go away but doesn't.

Scritch. Scritch. Scriiiiiitch—

“Lucy,” Margaret's voice echoes through the wall, very slowly, as if she's in immense pain. “Help.”

I open my eyes, gasping as I sit up quick enough to make myself dizzy. The sound of fingernails on drywall stops. My heart thuds in my chest.

The room is empty. “Margaret?” I say, not caring how silly it'd look to someone else. Her voice sounded so real, so close. But, of course, there's nobody here. I am alone.

I didn't think I was sleeping.

Even with the door closed, I can hear the commotion from downstairs as Miranda and Vanessa move the furniture in the parlor around to prepare it for the guests. I should probably get ready for the memorial dinner. Maybe it'll help me let Margaret go a little, stop letting this stress affect me so much.
What if it's not stress?
my mind whispers, and my heart leaps at the thought.
What if it's a ghost brought here by witchcraft?

What if it really is Margaret?

I get ready quickly and put on the same black dress that I wore at the last club dinner. It's much more appropriate for this occasion, anyway. As I descend the grand staircase into the entry room, I notice right off the bat that there are fewer guests than last time, which makes me feel insulted on Margaret's behalf.

I can see through the dining room door that the table is almost set up for dinner, which is a relief. The less talking and condolences I have to withstand, the better. I nearly jump a foot when I notice that someone has placed a blown-up, framed portrait of Margaret next to the urn on the mantel—I was not prepared to see her face.

I see Gregory Shaw and Kent Dickens standing over the food table, talking to one another with serious expressions. Their wives, Nancy and Mary-Anne, stand closer to the bar, chatting with another group of members who appear to be talking about the pros and cons of various lawn treatments. How mournful.

No sign of my father yet.

I see Vanessa come in to gather empty plates from the table, and she catches me looking at her just before Nancy Shaw hurries over to lead me back to the group, gripping my clammy hand in her satin-gloved one. Her lips are just as brightly painted as last time, but a different color.

“Oh, Lucy, honey,” she says, giving my hand a little squeeze. “We were all so devastated when we heard about Margaret, the poor little thing. You two were always so close. And on top of Penelope missing, my goodness, I just can't believe it.”

Don't forget Walter
, I want to say, feeling a little mad, but I know they've forgotten his name by now, so I don't bother.

“Thanks, Nancy,” I say and squeeze back limply, trying to smile but failing. “I can't believe it, either.”

The group stops talking about the lawn treatments as soon as we step up, and starts regarding me with solemn nods and
I'm sorry
s instead. People take turns telling endearing stories about Margaret, every single one of them from when she was too little to talk much, fancy that. Even in death, people can't find things about my cousin that they liked.

“Poor Penelope,” says a man named Duncan, whom Margaret and I always referred to as The Monopoly Guy. As kids, we never remembered his name, only the likeness he shared with the silly board game mascot, so even after we found out his name, we still called him by the nickname. “I'm almost glad she's missing if it means she didn't have to endure the pain of losing a child.”

I stare at him, not caring if my expression is murderous.

“I'm not,” I say, recognizing the same edge that my father's voice sometimes gets when he's becoming angry. “Glad that Penelope's missing, I mean. And you shouldn't be, either.”

“Of course not,” the man's wife cuts in, nudging him slightly with her elbow. “I don't think he meant it like that, my dear.”

The Monopoly Guy's face reddens. “Of course I didn't mean it how it sounded, dear child. Forgive me.”

Miranda steps into the entry room and announces that dinner is being served. I notice that she looks much more run-down than usual, frazzled even. Her previously warm smile has been replaced with a stressed grimace as she motions people in. I imagine how crazy her job must be and feel gross inside, guilty, even though she's here of her own free will.

We make our way into the dining room, which is lit by dozens of candles that sit, weeping, in the gold holders mounted all around the walls. The tables are loaded with all of Margaret's favorites, paella and cheeseburgers and blueberry pancakes with turkey sausage and fried eggs. I can't help but smile at the array; there is something weirdly satisfying about seeing a silver platter piled high with an elaborate pyramid of cheeseburgers. Margaret would have loved this, said that it reminded her of something from Hogwarts.

She also would have loved the looks on the guests' faces as they take in the dinner options, like they've never seen any type of food that wasn't caviar or a whole roasted pig. “Breakfast for dinner,” Gregory Shaw remarks from a few seats down, with a little too much enthusiasm. “Now, that's something I can get behind.”

I hope you choke on it
, I think as my father enters the room from the kitchen. He stands at the head of the table and taps his glass of pink lemonade—another Margaret favorite—with a spoon.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he says, looking up and down the rows of faces before him. “The shock of Margaret's passing is something that has blindsided the family, of course. We're just devastated to have these losses pile up so quickly like this.”