Whispering Minds (27 page)

He leaned in close, plucked a leaf from my hair and whispered, “He’s wrong, Gem, hummingbirds never die. They fly to their new home at the bottom of Emerald Lake. Grandpa Clarence says that as long as we believe, it’s a magical place, kind of like heaven.”

The memory of his breath against my neck was physical. My skin flushed where his words touched me, his promise seared into my skin. “I’ll take you there some day. I promise.”

I closed the box. When I started digging, my search had been for Jimmy. Instead, I found Travis and a love so deep it stretched across a life I didn’t remember living. And it was Travis I longed for. Jimmy was gone forever. I refused to let the same thing happen to Travis.

* * *

From the back of the house, the toilet flushed. I slid the boxes under the end table and refilled my mug in the kitchen. I started a pot of coffee for Chrissy and got out the toaster. My mind wandered to Travis the morning after Granny died. I wished I could go back to that moment. That and thousands of others when I could have pulled him to me, really invited him in, and returned the love he had shared so easily with me.

Footsteps padded down the hall and across the tile into the kitchen.

I hadn’t decided how to play it with Chrissy this morning. I wasn’t sure how much of Collin’s burden Chrissy should bear. Other than bringing him here, she had done nothing to me. In the end, it was I who brought her here in the first place.

“Gemini?” Her voice was surprisingly clear.

I kept my face blank, and turned.

“I’m sorry about your door.” She walked over and took the proffered cup of coffee.

“I hope you don’t mind black because that’s all I have. I still haven’t gone shopping yet. Things just seem to get in the way.”

She sank into a chair at the table. When she looked my way, she flashed a weak smile. “And I’m one of those things.”

I took my mug to the table and sat across from her. For having consumed half a bottle of vodka, she looked pretty good. “I won’t deny that you’ve added a certain confusion to my life right now.”

“Aren’t you going to ask where I went yesterday?”

I blew into my tea and let the steam rise between us, buying me time. I shrugged. “You don’t owe me an explanation. In fact, I’m kind of surprised you came back. Why’d you do that?”

“I wanted you to know that nothing happened between you and Collin.”

My laugh came out dry despite the tea I just swallowed. The videos indicated otherwise. “I doubt that very much, but I appreciate you trying.”

“Are you going to turn him in?”

“For what? You told me yourself he was legal. Signed contracts and all with legally aged…uhm…models.” I sipped my tea, letting my gaze fall to her hands.

Her fingernails were ragged and chewed to the quick. “Not you. I already told you that you were different.”

“You don’t know the half of it. But why rat him out?”

Chrissy sighed. “Because you deserve to know. And make your own choices.”

“What about you? What choice do you have?”

Her eyes roamed around the kitchen with a look of longing. It was one I recognized from Mom when she saw a new trinket at the antique shops. “Not many choices, just dreams.”

“And?”

She pulled herself up in her chair. “I want what you have.”

Funny, everyone wanted Granny’s house lately. “It’s not mine. Not really.”

Chrissy laughed. The sound was pure and a confirmation that she was sober. “Not your house. Or your family. Nothing material. You have a peace and self-assurance inside that I would give anything for.”

I threw my napkin and snorted. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Do you know anything about me?”

“I know you said no to Collin. Nobody does that to him.”

A shiver of fear slid down my back. “What happens now? Will he hunt me down?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I bet he wouldn’t if you returned the flash drives, though. Do you have those?”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I’d been waiting for her to betray me to save her brother. I measured my words and watched Chrissy carefully to gauge her reaction. “Yes.”

She nodded. One slow bob. Her hair fell forward and covered her eyes. She pushed it back. Her eyes sought mine. “You might want to give them to the cops instead. It’s the only way he’ll stop.”

I reached across the table and took her hand in my own. It was cold despite having been wrapped around the mug. “Will he come back?”

Chrissy gave me a measured look. “If he thought they were still here, yes. But if he knew for sure they were gone…”

I stood up. “Well, they will be. Today.”

“Don’t be angry with me. I’m done with him, Gemini. Or at least I want to be.”

“But?”

“But I need help.”

I sighed. “I can’t help you.”

“You have to.”

“No. I don’t. I have enough to worry about without you.”

“You brought me here.”

“My mistake.” I scribbled a phone number on a sheet of paper and handed it over. “Give Clarence a call.”

Chrissy dropped her eyes to examine her coffee. After a pause, she jutted her chin up and locked eyes with me. “I heard that video this morning, your multiple personality one, and just want you to know that I had no idea about that. You do crazy well.”

The mug slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor, sending pieces skittering across the tile. The blackness that consumed me in my kitchen with my dad returned. My voice came out low and threatening. “I am not crazy.”

“It would be too bad if people found out about it.”

I picked up a shard from the floor.
If it’s in your way, remove it.

Chapter 35

My hand tightened into a fist. I fought with Brutus for control.

You’re just a name. An emotion.

He was the strength, the protector. He kept us safe through his anger at our situation. He kept us from getting bullied, even as he bullied. It’s why he was so big.

The memories came to me as the Dozen opened up and shared their roles, rather than shielding me from what might otherwise be painful.

Luna, fearful and hurt. She stood in front of my dad and took the abuse that was intended for me. The names. The degradation. The pain. Her sole existence was one of suffering.

Bach’s soothing music to calm me. His fingers on my oboe, providing me with music awards that would hopefully turn into a scholarship. My fingers playing the piano at Granny’s funeral, releasing my inner turmoil at being left behind yet again.

My straight A’s throughout school, thanks to Einstein who pushed everything aside and worked out physics problems when I had no clue what x or y meant.

Rae, my voice of reason. Daisy, my optimism. JayJay, bringing me childish joy that had otherwise eluded me. The poetry that made sense of my frustration.

Angel, sweet Angel, in her soothing voice praying to the triune God.

Indie—cradling a bottle of booze in my lap—begging for love no matter who it came from.

Names for different parts of me. Brought out, not in one fell swoop, but rather managed by Fell, my gatekeeper, to keep me sane.

I dropped the broken shard into the trash and let go of my anger. There was nothing wrong with me. I was a whole person made up of separate parts. Psychologists called it the id, ego and super ego. They named emotions and called them Fear, Hate, Love and Compassion. I called them by different names.

When I looked around the kitchen, I was alone. Chrissy had left. After cleaning the mess, I resumed my search of the third treasure box. In a notebook filled with drawings, poetry and journal entries, I found all of me. In them, my alters recounted forgotten moments of my middle school years. It had been a mostly happy time while I lived with Granny, but occasionally, an entry indicated that I had far more angst than I should have.

Toward the end of my stay with Granny, my alters had emerged in my real life, their existence clashing with the onslaught of hormones at puberty. I wanted to spare Granny the pain of coming across angry Brutus, depressed Luna or promiscuous Indie. My journal recounted things that shocked me. Through Indie, I learned to pick the locks of the out buildings. Because of Brutus, I broke my favorite farm cat’s leg when it puked on my pillow, then promptly tried to overdose on Tylenol and mouthwash.

I failed English and smoked out on the dock by the pond.

In my last treasure box, I quit writing.

My notebooks were virtually empty, and I had to flip through dozens of pages at a time to find an entry. Stuck between the pages at the end of the book was a project for health class just before my move home to Prairie Flats. I’d drawn a speedboat smashing into a dock shaped like a whiskey bottle.

A ragged crack split the boat in two. When I looked closely, the splintered edges spelled the word Jimmy. On one side of the crack sat my parents, unaware that our boat had busted apart. Granny sat on the other side, peering over the edge into the water where I floundered in the waves.

Eleven stick figures stood on the dock, each one throwing a life ring.

A note from the teacher completed the illustration. Ugly red pen bled across the page, “The instructions were to draw a picture of your family. Yours has far too many people to be accurate and deserves an F for not following directions.”

Below that, in pencil, I had written, “Goodbye, me.”

In the end, I had asked to return to my parent’s house in Prairie Flats. The request must have crushed Granny and fueled the cycle of guilt and abuse between my parents, plunging them into a downward spiral of fear that I’d learn their secrets, as well as renewed alcoholism to deal with the stress. For me, the next four years passed in a quiet flurry of mundane activity. College prep, music competitions and work. By sheer force of will, I had defeated my past and moved into a better place where I could function as a normal teenager.

And then something happened to rekindle a need for my individual alters. Collin came to mind, but I didn’t think he was the cause. He simply facilitated their emergence and captured it on tape.

I looked at the clock—10:17 am—and called Clarence to let him know where I was. It was the least I owed him. Besides, the last thing I needed was to get banished from his home and sent to foster care via Sarah Stemple.

His voice came across the phone strong and clear and not at all concerned about a missing girl.

“Clarence, it’s me. Gemi.”

“I was wondering when you would call.”

I swallowed my guilt. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t sleep and wanted to collect some things from Granny’s.”

“I figured as much. Are you still there?”

“Yes. I...can I stay here for the rest of the day? And how is Mom?”

“We admitted her to the hospital again this morning.”

My throat constricted. “Is she okay?”

“She was coughing up some blood. They think she punctured a lung.”

“Can I see her tonight?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Afterward, we’ll have dinner with Travis and his dad.” Before I could protest, he continued. “It’s our Sunday night tradition.”

I wanted to ask if he’d cleared this with Travis yet, but I couldn’t disrespect him in that way. I mumbled my consent into the phone.

“Maybe then we can talk about that email you sent this morning.”

My body flushed at the thought of him seeing those videos. “So you got it, huh?”

“Got it and already passed it on to the cops. I believe the Chief has made a visit to a certain downtown apartment. You did the right thing, Gemini.”

I bit my lip before adding the last bit of drama to the morning. “One more thing, when I got here last night, the front door had been smashed in.”

Clarence’s response wasn’t exactly reassuring. “I’ll send Travis over as soon as he gets off work.”

After hanging up, I pulled out another flash drive. I only had a few hours to cull all the ones with me on them before handing the rest over to Clarence. A video of the boy from the OCD case study opened on the screen. His blond hair fell ragged over his gray-green eyes, and he blew his bangs away every few seconds. It was a copy of his interview on OCD. I skipped to the end and came across a second interview. This one pegged him as having Traumatic Brain Injury.

In this interview, he seemed completely normal. There were no cards to distract him, only the blank table. As the interview progressed, he admitted the struggles he faced were caused by damage to his brain when the car he was riding in crashed. He explained his gambling compulsion—with money and with his life—and spoke honestly about his inability to control his emotions. One minute he could be up and the next he would be fighting mad. This temper had earned him a place in juvie once or twice over the years. His childhood had been disastrous. He’d been taken away, he said, because he had sexually assaulted his sister.

My blood chilled in my veins as I watched the way he told his story. His eyes never left the camera. He linked his hands together like he was praying, let his fingers close completely against the backs of his hands, then open again. He repeated this gesture over and over. It gave the impression that his hands were a living organism. Spiderlike.