Whisper to Me(14)

And then I saw a display Jane had made, a freestanding shelf with books on it about murders, most of them relating to the Houdini Killer. In my memory, a shaft of sunshine came through the window at that moment, breaking through the clouds outside, illuminating the books, trapping motes of dust suspended in light.

I went over and took down a slim book called Murder on the Jersey Shore that Jane had put a staff recommended label next to. I carried it over to a table and started reading. It was pretty interesting. There wasn’t much detail about the murders; I mean, with no bodies it would be hard to give any. The focus was mainly on the girls—most of them under twenty—who had been killed. The author was disgusted at the lack of police progress; his whole thing was basically that it was a huge stain of shame on them and on the state of New Jersey and the entire country that these women had been murdered and that because of their profession no one cared.

I care, I thought, half-surprised to realize this.

I looked at my watch. I needed to get home or Dad would be angry, and I didn’t want Dad angry. I put the book back and got ready to leave. As I picked up my thin summer jacket—looked great online; looked awful on me—Jane glanced up. And as I passed her station, she leaned over the counter and pressed a book at me.

“Might cheer you up,” she said.

I glanced at the cover. Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

“It’ll take you to another world,” said Jane. “I don’t think I’ve got you hooked on Murakami yet, have I?”

I shook my head.

“God, I sound like a pusher,” she said. “Like I’m handing out meth.” She laughed.

LOOPHOLE!

I laughed too. I mean, laughing is not speaking, right?

Jane seemed pleased to see me laugh. She tapped the book, nodded, like, this is the answer right here to all your problems, and sat down again. She was nice—she was always nice to me.

Which is why it’s especially painful that it was Jane, later, who ruined everything.





Out on the street, the sky was overcast and I could smell the ocean, brought in by a breeze, the air freighted with salt water and molecules of sea life—ground down by the years into mist—fish scales, shells, anemone.

I breathed in deeply, loving that smell, even if I hated Oakwood.

“You laughed,” said the voice, and suddenly my nostrils were full only of decay, the rotting of dead sea creatures.

“When you get home, you will slap yourself. Hard. Twice.”

And you know what?

I did.





These are the times when I didn’t hear the voice: 1. When I was sleeping.

2. When I was playing loud music. I used to listen to a lot of hip-hop. But rap is basically guys talking, and if you hear a voice that isn’t there, already, then it’s too much. So I switched to IDM, R&B instrumentals, anything with echo and reverb and bass and no one talking, ever. Never heavy metal. I tried that once. If you ever hear a voice and think you might be cursed or possessed or haunted, do not listen to heavy metal. It is a VERY BAD IDEA.

And: 3. When you were there.





I got into a routine. It sounds stupid, but I did. People cope, I guess.

There’s a convention: If someone has cancer, they’re “brave” and “fighting.” If someone is having problems with their mind, that person is only ever “struggling.” This is, on one level, stupid and offensive. I mean, the people who die of cancer—what, they didn’t fight hard enough? They weren’t brave enough?

But on another level, when it comes to the mind breaking down, it’s not wrong that you struggle. I struggled. Everything was hard. Getting up. Getting dressed. Going to school.

The voice would say:

“Change into something prettier. You look like a ******** bum.”

It would say:

“Walk up and down the stairs fifty times. You’re getting a fat ass.”

It would say:

“You’re so ******** pathetic, that’s why you have no friends.”

It would say:

“Open your mouth to reply to that cute boy who has ACTUALLY STOPPED AND SPOKEN TO YOU IN THE CAFETERIA AS IF YOU’RE A REAL, VISIBLE PERSON, AND ACTUALLY SEEMS INTERESTED IN YOU, and I will make your dad die in an accident.”

I’m paraphrasing—not the dying-in-an-accident bit, the boy bit.

And I kept my mouth shut. It didn’t make much difference at school. I never had any friends anyway. I was a freak and a weirdo. I sat alone, I worked alone. The voice let me speak to teachers if they asked a direct question, and if I obeyed it in all other things. It even let me finish King Lear and write a short assignment on it. I guess the voice considered Shakespeare un-fun enough that it was not verboten.

At home, I noticed that the voice was always loudest in my room. So I moved out—I mean, not out entirely, but to the little apartment above the garage, the one Dad would rent to kids working summer jobs at the amusement park.

Your apartment.

But back then it was mine. I laid out all the books I’d borrowed from the library in the little sitting room and kept the bedroom tidy; the voice made sure of that. I even cooked a couple of times in the kitchen when Dad was at Donato’s. Simple stuff: pasta, steak.

Like I said, when I was reading, as long as it wasn’t something fun, the voice left me alone. And especially when I was in the apartment. I don’t know why; I guess I would speculate that it was because my own room held more memories of my mother in it, invisible but there, like dust in dark air.