The Women in the Walls (16 page)

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly, and we start to head out. “I just need Penelope to wake up enough to actually talk to me about where she's been, and what's going on with that place.”

“I'm sure she will.” Vanessa stretches and takes a deep breath through her nose. “In the meantime, though, maybe you should get some sleep yourself. You don't look so good.”

I hold off on telling her that I didn't sleep last night. “Thanks?” I say and smile despite myself. The smile fades when I realize that Margaret looked like she could use some sleep, too, shortly before she died. “Anyway, see you later.”

“Yep,” Vanessa says, heading down the hall to the stairs. “Tomorrow is the big day, huh?”

At first I don't get it. “Big day?”

She looks over her shoulder now, as if worried. “Tomorrow's your family's holiday party, remember?”

I didn't remember, actually, and if she never reminded me just now I probably would have forgotten until people started arriving. I cannot believe we're going on with the party after Penelope's return.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That big day.”

“It's a big day for me, too,” Vanessa says, pausing at the top of the stairs. “It means I finally get to leave this place. No offense, but I think my mom has literally lost her mind over the planning for this thing. Nothing's worth that.”

I realize that I never asked her how Miranda was doing since our talk in the courtyard, when I found her crying. It reminds me of the mistake I always made with Margaret—forgetting to care because I was too zoomed in to my own problems, leaving us both alone. “No offense taken,” I say after a moment, but she's already gone.

Once I'm alone, the weight of nervousness and fear and dread comes back to me like it never left. I go back to my bedroom to sit on the bed that I've pulled to the middle of the room, afraid at first that I'll hear more voices, but I'm only able to sit for about thirty minutes before I fall into a deep sleep.

I wake with a start, unsure if I really just heard someone say my name or if it was part of a dream. It's almost dark, and the house is dead silent. I look around my room for a second before scrambling out, terrified of hearing the voice of Margaret or my mother. She only spoke a few sentences to me, but the idea that she's watching me now is devastating. What if... What if Penelope
murdered
her? To get control of the estate? I shake my head to get the thought out. If there was ever a time for faith, it's now. And I know in my heart that my aunt is not a murderer.

I just do.

The entry room is already partly decorated for the party tomorrow. Long stretches of evergreen garland are draped in graceful swoops around the top perimeter. White string lights drip from the walls below them. Unlit red, white and gold candlesticks sit embedded in the holders around the room, their wicks soft and new. Gold star ornaments hang suspended from different lengths of clear plastic thread that connect to the ceiling. Miranda and Vanessa must have done it while I was asleep.

Curious, I go through to Penelope's door, listening in but hearing nothing. Is she still sleeping? I crack the door open just a bit to peek inside, only to find the bed empty and remade. The room has been cleaned up. The large black leather bag the nurse was carrying is gone, as is the plastic container he dropped the empty syringe into.

There's no sign my aunt was ever here.

“Dad?” I call, my heart racing, as I run into his study. It's empty, as well. Is it possible they finally had to take her to the hospital? Did things get worse after I left?

Suddenly I hear someone shuffling down the grand staircase in the entry room, just as I reach the hall and step in. It's my father, looking exhausted and a bit disheveled.

“Where's Penelope?” I blurt out. “I just went to her room to check in on her and she's gone.”

“Penelope requested to be moved out of that room,” my father says. “She couldn't stand how the sun was coming in through the windows. It was hurting her eyes.”

“There are blinds,” I say. “Why didn't you close them?”

“There were other things she didn't like about staying there,” my father snaps, clearly drained of all patience. “For one, she accidentally saw that drawer of photographs that Margaret had ruined, and wasn't
that
fun, trying to find a simple way to explain it to her when she can't even remember who Margaret is in the first place. She thought the pictures were real, that her face really was just a mess of black scribbles. It set her off again.”

“So where is she now?” I ask. “Don't tell me you put her in Margaret's room.”

“I thought about it,” my father says, “but she specifically requested to stay in the attic.”

“WHAT?” I STARE UP
at him in disbelief. “Why would you put her in the attic? There isn't even a bed up there, or a bathroom, and how could you let her stay where Margaret...where she...”

“Margaret didn't kill herself in that room,” my father argues. “She died in the garden. The cover on the window has been bolted permanently shut.”

I am so tired of his bullshit. I know he's involved in this in some way—he has to be! I think back to everything I've seen from him since Penelope disappeared. He seemed anxious and worried while she was gone, like he truly missed her, but it wasn't like he was actually
grieving
. And I'm still not sure that he ever actually called the police—between that and the fact that he didn't force her to go to a regular hospital once she returned, it's obvious he knows whatever it is she's been up to.

If only I was able to tell him about what I've seen, what I've heard, what I know. If only I hadn't backed down when Margaret threatened to tell my father about my glittery, bejeweled box. I think of that box with longing now, even though I know it's wrong. If it wasn't for Margaret's trapped soul, I'd probably be dead by now, anyway, so what harm could come from thinking of that box like you would a childhood blanket? My father would be humiliated if he found out.

“It's safe, don't worry,” he continues. “Howard and I were able to get a twin bed up there from one of the spare rooms without too much of a ruckus. And your aunt is fully capable of going down the stairs to use the bathroom on the third hall.”

“And all that trouble for what?” I demand, still unable to handle what I'm hearing. “To humor a woman who doesn't even remember her own daughter but wants to sleep in the room where Margaret's last days were spent? That's so sick, Dad!”

“If we want her to recover, we have to help her how we can,” my father says. “Penelope wanted to be moved up. She asked about it again and again, and if it will help her get better, why not? Accommodations can be made. Anything to get her back to her old self. Also, the winter holiday party is tomorrow and you know how we like to use the parlor. We wouldn't want—”

“Oh, wow,” I cut him off, my anger doubling. “You just wanted her out of the way for your stupid little
club party
? ‘Carol of the Bells' doesn't sound quite as lovely when there's a madwoman babbling on in the next room over, is that right? You wouldn't want the club to see their queen in ruins.”

“Watch what you're saying,” my father says, his face reddening. “Do not insult me or question my motivations. That is unfair. How do you think Penelope would feel if there were people coming in every minute to gawk at her while the party was going on? This isn't a zoo. She isn't an animal to be gawked at. She should be allowed to come back to herself, come back to
us
, in peace. On her own terms.”

His eyes have glazed over, and I would feel a little bit guilty for going off on him so hard if it wasn't for the fact that I know he's hiding stuff from me, important stuff, dangerous stuff. Still, it's the only thing he's said that has made even a little bit of sense, even if he doesn't understand how messed up it is for my aunt to move into the attic.

I don't know this on any certain terms, but it's something I can feel deep down, an understanding so solid it nearly launches me into a fit of tears.

“Sorry,” I mumble and step around him onto the steps. “I need to leave now.”

“Lucy.” He sounds remorseful as I leave him behind.

I stop on the stairs and look back. “What?”

“You don't look so well,” he says. “I'm...worried. About you. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?”

The grandfather clock in the entry goes off. The whimsical tune that precedes the gongs echoes loudly off the tile and walls and shelves made of glass. We wait for it to pass as he peers up at me, almost like he's looking for something specific.

“Where was this type of concern when I told you that Margaret wasn't doing well?” I ask when the clock has stopped chiming. “Maybe you could have made a difference then, but it's too late to try now.” It's painfully similar to what Margaret said to me when I tried to ask her what was wrong, and I think to myself,
this is what a cycle feels like
.

His mouth twitches. “I'm doing the best I can,” he says. “I just want everyone to be okay, and for this nightmare to end. And it will,” he adds. “You just need to trust us.”

There it is. He does know something; he just expects me to sit back, do nothing and accept it.

“If you don't mind,” I say coldly, “I need to talk to Penelope.”

I leave my father behind without another word, aware as I go up the stairs that he is watching me.

I find my aunt in the attic, sitting up in bed, which has been set up between the wooden wall Margaret used to knock on and the one with the enormous window that she jumped out of. All of the boxes that used to be piled in the back of the room are now neatly stacked to form a wall in front of the closed window covering. At least it's blocked where I can't see it.

“My father wanted to know if you could meet him in the garage,” I tell Howard after I've finished climbing up through the opening on the floor, knowing fully well that my father never goes in the garage. “He needed to ask you something about my aunt's treatment plan.”

“I just spoke to him fifteen minutes ago,” Howard says, irritation lacing his voice. “What could he have forgotten already?”

“I think he just had a few more questions.” I look at Penelope as I say it. She looks back, shoots me a weak grin, but her eyes are shining and wide.

“All right,” Howard says. “I'll be back shortly, Penelope. For the time being, please remain in bed.”

“Thank you, Howard,” she says, her eyes still on mine. The nurse in the houndstooth suit saunters past me to climb down the miniature staircase that leads to the third floor.

“Lucy,” my aunt says, her voice much clearer than the last time we spoke. “I've been waiting and waiting for you to wake up and come see me.”

How is it that she remembers me but not Margaret? I don't rush to her side this time, don't grab her hand and nearly start crying over how much I missed her. Her hair is clean, combed into a side braid that rests like a snake over her shoulder.

“Where have you been all this time?” I say, taking a step forward. “Do you have any idea what's been happening since you left?”

Her face dims at my tone. “Some things I know better than others,” she answers, speaking carefully. “But I do know that the future is bright.”

“Why do you swallow teeth?” I burst, unable to keep it in a second longer. “Tell me what kind of witchcraft you've been doing, and who the Mother is, and why you don't know who Margaret—”

My aunt's hands fly over her ears, and she starts shaking her head viciously from side to side. “Don't talk about Margaret,” she nearly growls, her eyes clenched shut. “Please, I'm begging you...”

I don't want to waste the precious time alone I've secured with my aunt, and there's so much to ask. I decide to humor her and move on, but in my head I've decided:
it's not that she doesn't remember Margaret, it's that she feels too guilty about what happened to her to face it.

“I won't talk about Margaret,” I promise, nervous that I'll run out of time, but terrified that her display means there isn't a way to free my cousin's soul, as well as the soul of my mother and whoever else is trapped in there. “But please, you need to tell me what's going on.”

“Your father said you've been asking about the club,” she says, slowly lowering her hands from her ears. “He said you know about how they want to take this place away from us.”

“Only because you were gone, though,” I answer. “They just didn't want Dad to have it, but they love you.”

“Or so they say.” Her eyes narrow in the slightest as her hands start wringing over each other, as if she's washing them. “But they've been after the grounds for years, and ever since Gregory caught me serving the Mother, he's threatened to expose me, humiliate me into giving up my position—”

“That's it?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air. “
Those
are the
circumstances
that gave them pull over us? That doesn't mean anything! They wouldn't be able to do
anything
. The law doesn't care about...”

I can't even go on any further, I'm too upset. There is no real threat in that stupid club, no magical danger, nothing but the never-ending scramble for money and prestige. Penelope has been doing all this weird ritualistic stuff on her own.

“I don't care about me,” Penelope nearly snarls, as if the answer is obvious. “It's the Mother that cannot be exposed. She must be protected, as she's protected me. The best thing for you to do is stay out of the way and let this happen. Tomorrow we'll show him.”

Tomorrow is the holiday party. Has this been one big plan from the start?

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Penelope...who is the Mother?”

“Giver of the divine, maker of the great,” my aunt responds, and I feel sick to my stomach to hear her talk like that. How did she hide it so well before everything started to go wrong? Maybe she didn't. Maybe Margaret was only seeing the obvious, and I was too in denial to realize that Penelope isn't a perfect, loving parent. I just wanted her to be, needed her to be. She was all I had.

And look at her now.

I remember what I found in the library and find the need to ask her about it before Howard gets back; surely by now he has realized my father isn't coming to meet him. If I mention Margaret again, she might get set off. Even now she looks on the brink of madness, sitting forward in the bed, wringing her hands while her eyes are open wide and her mouth pulled into a tight-lipped grin.

“If you serve Her, She will take care of you forever,” Penelope continues. “And tomorrow She'll make sure certain members of the club find it in their best interest to leave us, and the estate, alone.”

“But I don't want her to take care of you, if she's the one causing people to die around here. Walter, and...” I pause before saying Margaret's name. “I think you know who else.”

“Sometimes, people get into things that they shouldn't,” Penelope says simply, although she looks disturbed at her own words. “The knowledge drives them mad. That's all. That's why you need to stay away now. You've come too close.”

“But I've heard things,” I argue. “There are voices of dead people inside the walls, Penelope, and did you know that this house used to be a home for abandoned youth?”

My aunt looks right at me then. “Clara's school,” she nearly whispers. “Yes, I did.”

“You know who Clara Owens is?”

“She is the one who first brought the teachings of the Mother,” Penelope says. “She shared what she knew with an ancestor of ours. The knowledge was passed down through the generations, to anyone who wanted to hear it. Your mother sure didn't.”

I think of Eva's voice in the wall with Margaret's. “Penelope,” I say slowly. “What happens if you make the Mother angry?”

My aunt nearly shrivels into herself, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them to rock back and forth. “You don't,” she says. “You can't.”

That just about tells me all I need to know. “You're going to end up getting yourself killed,” I say. “And who knows who else.”

“No,” she insists. “You just need to trust me, Lucy. How did you come to stop trusting me with such ease?”

“Because you disappeared and I thought you were dead!” I bellow. “And then I had to watch Margaret's head explode on a fence after she thought you were talking to her from beyond the grave!”

She flinches violently at my words, but it's hard to care anymore. I got my answers, but I don't like them.

“Make the Mother release the spirits trapped inside the walls,” I command, and my aunt whimpers. “They shouldn't have to be trapped in eternal darkness and pain because you're serving some demon woman in exchange for...whatever it is you're getting, if anything.”

“In return, I receive strength,” she says, “and protection, and eternal love.”

“You couldn't have just found Jesus, for Christ's sake?”

I hear footsteps below me suddenly—Howard returning from downstairs. I have to hurry.

“Please tell me there's a way to free them,” I plead. “Tell me that it's an accident that they're there, that you didn't put them there. I know you don't want to hear it anymore, but Margaret was your
daughter
, Penelope, and she's suffering...”

“We can talk about it after the holiday party,” my aunt promises shrilly, her eyebrows pulling together in frustration. “Just please, trust me enough to wait that long. Promise me you won't interfere...”