Help for the Haunted(122)

Instead, I said, “I’m       glad you’re back. Are they going to let you stay?”

“They’re not happy about       it, but I’m not giving them a choice. No way am I heading back to that       place. And I’m not going back to school again either. I’m going to stay here       through the fall and winter, save my money then get an apartment of my       own.”

I thought of that globe       up in her room, the way she used to spin it, plunking her finger down on       random locations. Warsaw. Buenos Aires. Sydney. “Get a place      where?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t       figured that out yet. But it won’t be Dundalk or even Baltimore. It’ll be       someplace a safe distance from this madhouse.”

I stood there, saying       nothing. All summer long, I had wanted the same things as my mother: for       Rose to come home, for Abigail to be gone, for things to return to normal.       But I realized then that things would never go back to the way they had       been. When Rose left that morning months before, she may as well have left       for good.

“Sylvie,” my mother       called from the kitchen. “Can you run to our bathroom upstairs and get some       bandages and peroxide?”

I turned away from my       sister and did what our mother asked. When I stepped into the kitchen       moments later, Abigail held her hands above her head to slow the bleeding.       “Does she need stitches?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” my       father answered, then looked to Abigail and asked her, “How did this       happen?”

Her mouth moved up and       down again, but no words came. You’re good at this, I thought. If I didn’t       know better, I’d have been fooled too.

“You were with her,       Sylvie,” my mother said at last. “Tell us.”

Abigail’s eyes caught       mine then. I thought of that morning when I spoke the truth for Rose and how       badly that had turned out despite my intentions. Let them believe what they       want, I decided before answering only with, “I don’t know what happened to       her.”

Abigail’s eyes were on       mine still as my parents walked her to the basement door. Her mouth was no       longer moving, though I could imagine words slipping out anyway, saying:       “The money. Tonight, after I’m down there asleep, don’t forget to bring me       the money.”

“And then what?” Lynch said. He was not exactly      leaning forward at the table, but he was sitting up at last, his spindly fingers      pressed to the surface. “You went down there and gave her the money?”

“Your turn,” I told him. “Tell me about the deal      you made with my sister.”

He balled his hands into tight fists and seemed      about to drum them on the table, but shook them in the air a moment instead.      “Fine,” he told me. “It’s nothing I haven’t said before. All that fall and all      that winter, I kept searching for Abigail. I had ideas about where she might      have gone. Back to the ministry in Oregon. Or off to find a friend of my      ex-wife’s. Or to a town in the south where we once stayed for a few months,      since she seemed to like the other children at the church there more than other      places. But she never turned up anywhere. All the while, I kept calling your      house, but your parents just let that stupid machine answer. I couldn’t go to      the police, because of the way we had been living. Besides, I didn’t know if my      ex had some sort of report filed against me. I found out from one of the lawyers      after I was in here that she never did stop looking.

“I started coming to your house again. That fall.      That winter too. Eventually, your parents didn’t even bother to open the door.      By then, I had read that book by Sam Heekin, which meant I knew about the      Mustang Bar where he took your father after he apparently popped a few of those      pills he liked to take when his back was hurting. The day of the storm, I went      through the same routine: hammering away on your front door to no avail until I      gave up and found myself sitting at the Mustang Bar too. It had been ages since      I’d had so much as a drop of alcohol, never mind the few shots of whiskey I      tossed back that night. As I sat at that bar, drowning my sorrows, some girl      kept coming in and ordering drinks. Eventually, I realized she was sneaking them      outside to the car. When I stood from the stool and made my way outside, who do      I see but your sister? She looked different from that night I saw her in the      parking lot in Florida, but I remembered her face.”