Chapter Nine
The next morning, I’m still fuming. When I go downstairs to eat breakfast, Traci is rifling through the cupboards with the frantic energy of someone held at gunpoint. Jeff’s shoulders are hunched as he holds his head in his palms; the pure antithesis of Traci, monumental in this kitchen. In contrast to his bulging red complexion last night, today he’s pale. He winces as I slam the freezer door closed and toss my waffles violently into the toaster.
“What are you looking for?” I ask Traci coldly. I already know she won’t answer. That’s how she is when she’s this angry. Completely silent. She doesn’t want to look at me, let alone speak to me. I’m too disgusting to behold or whatever. It’s childish, even from my standpoint as her child. I got used to this a long time ago. So I pretend innocence, like I’m the bigger person and nothing ever happened. It drives her up the wall. Which I suppose is equally vindictive and childish. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, louder this time.
Jeff winces, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Asha, can you please quiet down?”
I turn to him and whisper, “What’s for breakfast? Rabbit soup?”
This brings some color back to his face for a minute before it all rushes out again and he white-knuckles the edge of the mint green melamine table. Traci turns to glare at me. I can’t help but smile. I know I’m being awful. There’s something inside me that wills me to push things to the edge until someone else explodes. It’s terrible, but if that explosion is finally achieved, a wave of relief will wash over me. Sometimes, I’ll even smile. There’s nothing more unbearable to me than pent up resentment.
Traci’s lips form a long thin slash across her face. The fire in her eyes scares me because in it I recognize my own potential for violence.
“Out,” she says firmly.
“But who’s going to help you clean up all the toxic mold and dust today? Doesn’t look like Jeff is up to it.” In fact, Jeff looks like he needs to lie down and take a few Aspirin. He gets headaches that put him in what Traci calls “moods” when he gets too stressed. That means he gets sulky and whiny and mean, and Traci can chalk up his bad behavior to headaches when really, the way I see it, he’s just being a blatant asshole.
“Quiet. Or. Out.” Her voice draws a line that I decide not to cross for now.
“Fine.” I grab a sweater from one of the hooks on the kitchen door and smush my sneakers onto my feet.
I take one last opportunity to show them both how angry I am by slamming the door as Jeff mutters, “Jesus,” behind me.
Outside, it’s so hot I regret bringing the sweater. It’s like living in that frozen tomb so close to Jeff just chills me to the bone.
It takes me thirty minutes to make it to Cole’s through the woods. I get hopelessly lost and realize I’m walking in circles when I spot the lightning tree a second time. According to Cole, her house is a straight shot east of our house and should only take ten minutes tops. When I finally emerge from the woods, frustrated and devoured alive by mosquitoes, Kelly waves to me from an Adirondack chair where she’s tanning in her sunflower-yellow bikini.
“Asha!” she yells, raising her cup of coffee in welcome as she slips on her baby-pink flip-flops. Her toes are painted to match. “Glad to see you here. Cole won’t stop talking about you two and how much fun you had at the falls yesterday.”
“Mum! Leave her alone!” Cole’s leaning out one of the second-floor windows, exasperated with her mother. She’s been talking about me. My ears warm.
“I knew you girls would get along from the start. Always did as babies. You’re both right firecrackers. Brings me back to me and Traci. Don’t you go getting into trouble now.” Her smile freezes.
“We won’t.” I wonder if Joe’s been telling her I’m trouble too. “It’s nice to have a friend,” I say to soften myself in her eyes. It sounds flat, though, fake, like something someone who’s never had friends would say. It’s a struggle to muster any emotion except rage right now. The anger’s clenched between my back teeth.
Kelly seems to pick up on the fact that something’s going on with me by the way her usually expressive face stiffens. “Well, don’t be a stranger, just head on in. I’m going to stay out here and get some more sun. Vitamin D helps with the blues. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” I guess I look surprised because Kelly starts laughing loud and long. “You really are from the city, hey? We just call that hospitality out here.”
“Thanks.”
I look to the upstairs window, but Cole’s disappeared. She reappears at the front door and beckons me in.
“You talked about me to your mum? That’s cute.” My face relaxes into a smile easily when I see her roll her eyes. I really mean it. I wish I could talk to Traci about Cole, how waiting to see her next is almost impossible, how when I catch a glimpse of her in the distance, I want to run toward her, but it seems like we won’t be talking about much of anything for the next little while.
“Come up to my room.” I follow Cole up the stairs, pausing to look at the photos lining the floral wallpaper: portraits of the Levesque-Gerges kids, interspersed with a sprawling array of family members.
“Wow, are these all your cousins?” I point at the diagonal line of faces that all relate to each other in different ways—the overbite, rosy cheeks, auburn hair like Cole’s, narrow shoulders, dimples, her mother’s long nose, sticking-out ears like Millie’s.
“Mum likes to keep a wall devoted to our family. All her siblings have, like, nine kids. The family reunions are nuts. Mum didn’t have as many kids because of Dad’s work schedule. But she’s kept a whole area free surrounding me and Millie in case we ever have a million kids too.” Cole points to the two highest portraits on the stairs: two awkward school pictures. One is of Cole, maybe a few years ago. Her cheeks are rounder, and she has braces. The other is of Millie from the past year. She’s wearing a t-shirt with a face printed on it. The words above the face are crumbling off from over washing, but I’m pretty sure I make out the MADD logo.
It’s only when I reach the top of the stairs and nearly walk into what I would describe best as a shrine for Cole’s older brother that I recognize the face on Milly’s shirt as his. Portraits of her older brother at all ages stand gathered beneath a cross nailed to the wall. A funeral booklet lies underneath what looks like a kindergarten photo of him. The booklet reads, In Memory of Benjamin Hassan Levesque-Gerges. Below is his birth year and death year. He was only seventeen, the same age as we are now.
“Sorry,” I say, glad nothing fell off the wobbly table and smashed.
“Don’t worry about it, just hurry up!” Cole sounds blasé, but I saw the fear in her eyes as my leg almost took the whole shrine down. Before I can mumble any more apologies or ask any questions, she pulls me along the hall into her room.
Cole’s room: baby-pink walls are pasted over with dark metal and experimental electronic posters squeezed between layers of what looks like Cole’s original artwork and comics. “Your room is sick.”
“Thanks. I like it in here.” She’s rooting around in the upper drawer of a mirrored vanity table that looks like it would fit in well at Aggie’s except that it has My Little Pony and Power Rangers stickers pasted all over it. Aggie never would’ve stood for that.
Cole pulls the photo out of her drawer, then leans against her dresser and looks at her feet. “Promise not to be mad at me.”
My heart drops. “What happened to her?” I’m not mad but my heart is beating the drum line from one of the dark metal bands’ songs. So far, this day’s been nothing but cursed.
She pulls out the photo I gave her. “It got wet when we were at the waterfall.” She holds it out and I take it. Cole said “wet.” Looks more like soaked. The paper’s yellowed and the picture’s even more blurred, like the cloudy background is taking over the whole image.
“I tried my best to salvage it. You can take it back now if you want. I don’t want Mum to see it. She’s been going through my drawers looking for my weed. She caught me smoking last week and she was furious. I mean, ballistic. I thought she was going to ground me.”
“Oh, that sucks,” I say, but I’m distracted. There’s something strange about the way the water patterns accumulated. Another, separate presence in the image is surfacing.
“If you put that any closer to your face, you might fall in,” Cole jokes. She laughs awkwardly. When I don’t laugh along, she joins me in looking at the photo. “Probably better that you’ll have to throw it out. I don’t think you want to fall into old Sabrina’s world.”
“Sabrina?”
“Yeah, my grandmother’s name was Sabrina.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to fall in?” Falling in would give me more answers about what’s going on with this picture than Cole, that’s for sure.
“Your mum didn’t tell you?” I shake my head no. “Sabrina was murdered. At least that’s what my grandfather said. They never found the body.”
Why did Aggie have a photo of a murder victim in her walls? “How long ago?”
“I think my mum was five? Sometime in the late ’70s. We don’t talk about her much.”
Now it makes sense that Cole was so tight-lipped when it came to Sabrina before. “I’m really sorry.” I think about how my great grandfather’s leg getting broken by the cops here is a story that’s constantly at the back of my mind. How it’s affected the way Nan’s, Dad’s, and my life have gone. I can’t imagine what a grandmother’s disappearance and possible murder has done to this family, even to Cole, who never knew her.
“It actually took me a while to be sure it was her because in all the other photos, she’s wearing dresses or riding gear.” Cole looks back down at the photo with her eyebrows pulled together. In this photo, she’s wearing men’s clothes. “I never really felt connected to her until I saw this picture. Seeing her like this messed with me, like seeing another version of myself . . . ”
I’m not sure what she means by that. Before I can ask, she keeps talking faster, the words spilling out, “Her life was so different than mine. I never thought if we’d met we could’ve had a close relationship. Mum and Uncle Joe always talk about how she gave up her life to come live with my grandfather on his farm. She was from the city and liked it there better. Like you, I guess. And she was wealthy. She met my grandfather because of his horses. Apparently, she was always happy out here, until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Until she went missing.”
I’m numb. “There weren’t any warning signs?”
“My grandfather thought she was murdered, but Mum says it was suicide. Murder makes more sense. That’s what Uncle Joe thinks happened. With suicide, he would’ve noticed something was off, right? He told me they had leads on who did it but they never properly followed through.”
I think of that rumor Traci dismissed about Ellis being murdered. Now Cole’s telling me Aggie’s neighbor was murdered too? Maybe the rumors have more truth in them than Traci wants to let on. Could Aggie have killed Ellis and Sabrina? Maybe Joe was right about our family causing trouble in this town. I think about waking with that weight on my chest and my pulse speeds up.
“They never found her body. After a while, the cops stopped looking. I think that’s why Uncle Joe became an RCMP officer. He wanted to solve his mother’s case and thought becoming a cop would do it.”
“Shit.” I’m sweating and jittery, learning all this new information.
“You ok?”
“He didn’t do it? He got let out, right?”
“Who?”
“The guy who got arrested?”
Cole shifts away from me, pulls the photo out of my hand and places it beside her, where I can no longer see it. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he got let out . . . why?”
“I don’t know, I just . . .”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“What?”
“Your hands—” She takes one of my hands in hers and lifts it up so I can see. I pull it away and sit on it to stop its vibrations.
“Do you think Aggie murdered her?” I say it so she’ll stop looking at me like that, all concerned, like I’m going to puke on her again.
“Sabrina?” Cole seems to think this is ridiculous. She cackles outright. When she sees my face is still serious, she continues, “No, I mean, do you see the way she’s dressed? Maybe they were fucking. But you know Aggie, she’s uptight but sweet.”
“My mum did say there were rumors that Aggie was gay—”
“For the record, everyone knows Aggie was gay. It’s common knowledge in this town. Maybe your mum said it was rumors, but the old birds talk about it all the time. Say she killed her husband. I don’t know if that part’s true. Whatever. She was good to our family and so we’re good to yours.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed. My body feels like it’s on the last leg of a marathon. My mind is still running. Was it possible they were lovers, and something went wrong? Something ended badly? If Aggie didn’t do it, maybe someone caught them together or something? A hate crime? Fuck.
Cole sits down next to me, still studying the photo. “I never had any reason to think about it before seeing this photo, but maybe Sabrina was bi. Lots of people like people of all genders, right? She and my grandfather were definitely in love. Why do you care about all this, anyway?”
“I don’t know, I just do.” I’m frustrated and it comes through. Up until now, I haven’t given much thought to why this is important to me. But now . . . if Sabrina was murdered out of hate and Aggie was queer, I feel differently. This hurts more. Before, I didn’t know why it mattered if Aggie was queer or why it mattered if I was. I didn’t know if it mattered that I don’t look at Cole the way I look at my other friends. But suddenly all these loose connections are tightening. All of it has started to matter much more. Especially, it matters that someone was wrongfully accused of Sabrina’s murder.
Since I found the photo, I’ve just wanted something to distract me. Dead baby rabbits and no calls from Dad. Not one call from him since the day at the market. And it feels like it’s all my fault. It feels like it was me who did all this, because I didn’t do anything about him getting taken away. I didn’t protest. I didn’t know if I should trust Dad when he said he didn’t do it. I just let it happen. And now we’re out here. We’re supposed to be far away from the messiness he left behind, but now that mess feels closer than ever.
I just wanted one thing to not be about the living. Because the living are shitty people. But all this distraction has shown me is the dead were shitty too. I don’t want to think about any of this. Holding it all in isn’t working either. I have to let something out. “Do you promise not to think I’m crazy if I tell you something?”
Cole sighs, bracing herself for whatever she thinks I’m about to tell her. “Sure.” Her touch is soft on my damp t-shirt. I want to pull away, but I barely feel connected to my body.
“I think your mum’s right about the house being haunted.” I can’t look at Cole’s face. I don’t want to watch as she potentially loses all respect for me. “It sounds bananas, I know, but there was this . . . presence . . . that guided me to find this photo in the wall. Otherwise, I never would’ve found it.”
“You saw a ghost? You’re sure it wasn’t just a dream or reflected light or something?” I can tell she’s struggling to take in what I’m saying seriously.
“I didn’t see one.” That’s not true, but it seems easier to wade into supernatural waters rather than jump right in.
Relief flutters over Cole’s face. “My mum says ‘you don’t always see them. Doesn’t mean they aren’t there.’ She’s always saying how it’s unnaturally cold in that house, too. You should talk to her about it. I don’t really know anything about that stuff.” She sniffs disapprovingly of her mum’s beliefs. “There’s probably some other explanation. When you arrived, the place was a death trap.”
I can tell she doesn’t really want me to talk to Kelly. I don’t really want to talk to Kelly about it either. She’ll tell Traci as soon as I’m out the door and then Traci will freak out and do who knows what. “The house has good airflow,” Cole suggests.
But Kelly is right. The house is cold. And colder whenever Jeff is there too. Jeff, whose foot went through the step and was better the next day. It’s unseasonably cold, except for when it’s scorching. I think of the sweater I carried all the way here on my arm. I thought it was cool outside, but when I stepped out of the shadow of the house a thick, wet heat coated my skin. There’s rash on my wrist that keeps growing. I’ve bandaged it up because it’s embarrassing, and so I don’t wake up scratching it until it bleeds on my sheets anymore. Band-Aids draw crosses and lines on my lower left arm. The nightmares. Aggie in the ceiling leaning down, kissing me goodnight like I’m her very own. Waking up with the weight of a full-grown person on my chest, the cold hands reaching around my neck . . . would believing the house is haunted be better than any alternatives? That I’m losing it? That I can’t handle Dad being in prison, can’t handle Jeff and Traci’s relationship?
“Just come back to my house with me and help me find something else. Something more than this one photograph. I just want to know what’s happening with the house. Please.”
“Ok,” Cole says, “But all that aside, why’d you come over? You showed up all jumpy. Don’t tell me it’s ghosts or this photo either.”
So, I tell her about the baby rabbits.
After we check the nest and find it empty, she cries.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and pull her close, even though it wasn’t me who did it. Sorry isn’t near enough. How could anyone murder a whole nest of baby bunnies?
“A human did this. Some sick fuck did this and I’m going to find out who.” She breaks out of our hug and spits her words out into the luscious, sunny forest that looks like it couldn’t know such violent deaths. The moss and ferns stretch out, nothing marring them. No footprints, nothing we could use to track down whoever did this if we were the type of people who knew how to track someone down. I don’t. Maybe Cole would. She’s outdoorsy. Besides. I already suspect I know who did this.
Something catches my eye just behind a layer of ferns. I think it’s a splash of blood at first, but it’s too pink. And the white that surrounds it is too stark to be anything natural. I leave Cole and walk over, pick it up. It’s a receipt from Fen, one of the fancier restaurants in the city. That’s where Jeff took Traci on their first date. On the back of the receipt is a perfect puckered lip mark that could be used for marketing whatever brand of lipstick this is. I read the receipt. They got oysters and wine and steak and quail and chocolate mousse, tiramisu . . . the total comes to well over a hundred dollars. Jeff couldn’t have eaten this all alone. The date is for July fifth. Last week.
I crumple the thing in my hand and I’m about to throw it when I stop. Careful as I can, I smooth the receipt and fold it neatly. This isn’t my mother’s lipstick color. Why would Jeff have been out here if he wasn’t slaughtering baby rabbits? I fold the receipt neatly and walk back over to Cole.
“What did you find?” she asks, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes.
“Proof Jeff did it.” I don’t know whether I’m talking about the rabbits, or his affair, or both. This is proof Jeff isn’t the man he appears to be. Proof he’s been using me as a tool to distract from his own sins. I thought I would feel triumphant if I ever found anything that incriminated Jeff. Instead, my heart sinks. How could I ever show this to Traci? I would be the one breaking her heart.
“That yachting catalogue motherfucker . . .” she continues to curse under her breath. It’s satisfying to see someone else so alight with disdain for Jeff.
I hear the sporadic buzzing of my phone and pull it out of my pocket. I have two missed calls and a text. All from Traci. The text says:
emerg, come home.
When we cross onto Aggie’s property, I sprint toward Traci’s car. Cole follows. Traci is packing Jeff into the front seat. He’s glassy eyed, and it takes me a moment to realize the liquid spilled down his shirt is not water, it’s drool. “Ssssssss . . .” Saliva seeps from his mouth as he gasps wetly for air, like a drowning man.
“What’s happening?” I ask. Whether I like Jeff or not, the panic in Traci’s eyes gets my heart racing.
“I don’t know. He’s having trouble breathing.”
“Liihh—lihhh”
“Sh, baby. We’re going to the hospital.” Traci pushes his hair back. It sticks to the pate of his skull it’s so wet with sweat.
“Ss—Liiih—” He chokes on his own spit.
“What’s he trying to say?”
“Nothing—what does it matter? We have to go—”
Cole interjects, “The nearest hospital—”
“Isn’t for forty kilometers, I know. We’re driving; the ambulance will meet us on the way.”
“Is he going to be ok?” I lock eyes with Jeff and he gives me a hateful glare.
“Ssss,” he says again.
“What’s he trying to say?” No one answers, but Jeff’s fixated on me with an eerie clarity.
This is your fault, his eyes say. And then his eyes close and it looks like he’s passed out. But the corners of his mouth curl up to reveal a sinister grin. He starts laughing. More spit gurgles out of his mouth onto his chin.
“He’s delusional,” Traci says. She isn’t crying, but there’s a tremble in her voice. “He was seeing things. I don’t know what to—”
“Seeing things? Like what?” Aggie? “I should come with you,” I tell her, but she shakes her head.
“No, Asha, you stay here.”
“I want to come with you.”
“No. I don’t want you to be there if . . .” She bites her lip. If what? If he dies? “I don’t understand,” she says instead. Her tears are falling now, but I’m not sure she’s aware. Mascara streaks her cheeks. “He was fine and then he wasn’t.”
“Get going now.” Cole speaks with urgency and the stability of someone much older than us. “I’ll stay with Asha until you can come home.”
“Thank you,” Traci says, and she gets in the car. She stares at me with sad, watery eyes, throws the car into reverse, and then they’re gone.
I hold the receipt that could end their relationship in my pocket. It’s just a useless, petty piece of paper.