Help for the Haunted(6)

At JCPenney, the catalogs we had known for so many years, since our mother once shopped only from those pages, sprang to life before our eyes. In the Junior Miss department, I stopped to feel a knee-length black dress with a cinched waist and narrow collar. I liked the dress but worried it looked like one Wednesday Addams might wear, which would only encourage the Brian Waldrups of the world.

As it turned out, my opinion on that outfit was unimportant. Rose led me to a clearance rack in the back and told me to have fun choosing. The clothes there consisted of a hodgepodge of flared cords and snap-up shirts I had no interest in wearing. The moment my sister wandered away, I wandered too. No sooner had I found another rack when she appeared again and asked what I thought I was doing, then ordered me to wait in the dressing room while she picked my clothes. Considering the bickering we’d done about her driving on the way there (too fast, too much attention to the radio, too much wind through the windows, too much lane changing, not enough signaling), I didn’t want to stir up more trouble. I went to a booth and stripped down to my underwear and bra, which fit too tightly after months of not buying anything new.

I was good at waiting. Last winter I had done a lot of it, lying in my hospital bed and listening to the footfalls of nurses in the hall, the tinny laugh tracks of sitcoms drifting from other patients’ rooms, pages crackling over loudspeakers. And hearing, without having to listen for it, the unending sound that filled my ear. “It’s like the noise inside a seashell,” I told the doctors, “or when someone is telling you to shush.”

Shhhh . . .

Not Rose. Not Uncle Howie. Not Father Coffey. Not anyone I knew. Other than a nurse or doctor or hospital social worker, the first person I saw standing by my bed when I opened my eyes was Detective Dennis Rummel. The man had bright blue eyes and snowy hair, the sort of blocky jaw you might see on an old statue. Odd, perhaps, that a detective would slip his large hand into my small one and hold it for so long. Odd that he would take the time to fill my cup with water from the plastic pitcher and ice from the noisy machine down the hall. Odd, too, that he would adjust my pillows and blankets to make certain I felt something close to comfortable. But he did all those things.

“The more you can tell me about what happened, Sylvie,” the detective said in his steady voice that made me think of a statue too, the way one might sound if it parted its lips to speak, “the better chance we have of finding whoever is responsible. That way your mom and dad can rest in peace. And that’s what you want for them, isn’t it?”

I nodded, even as I thought of my father saying, People don’t need to know what goes on inside our house . . .

“Why don’t we start with what led you to the church in the first place?” Rummel asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping his hand into mine once more.

The question left me suddenly thirsty. I wanted more water from the pitcher. I wanted more ice from the machine down the hall. I wanted my sister, but Rummel had not yet mentioned Rose. So instead of bringing up any of those wants, I told him that the phone rang after midnight, that my mother came into my room and woke me to go to the church.

“Did she seem upset to you?”

I shook my head.

“And did she tell you who called or who they were going to meet?”

Shhhh . . .

As Rummel fixed his blue eyes on me, that noise grew louder. I swallowed, my throat feeling even more dry than before, the answer nesting on my tongue.

“I know this is hard, Sylvie. No one should have to go through something so unspeakable, particularly at such a young age. So I appreciate you being brave. I also appreciate you giving me the answers as best you can remember. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Good. We’ll have the phone records pulled. But in the meantime, it’s important that you tell me, did either of your parents say who called?”

You and Rose shouldn’t say anything to anyone. . .

“No,” I said, my voice trembling over such a short word.

“Not a mention?”

No matter who it is . . .

“They never told me about the things they did. And on the drive to the church, we were quiet on account of how late it was and because of the slippery roads.”

The detective looked away, and I had the sense that he was unsatisfied with that answer. His gaze moved from the drab curtains to the flickering TV. “Okay, then,” Rummel said, turning back to me. “Tell me why your parents took you along but left your sister at home.”

“At home?”

“Yes.”

I was quiet, listening to that sound in my ear. I pressed my fingers to the bandage, squeezed my eyes shut.

“Are you all right? I can call the nurse. She’s right outside in the hall.”

“It’s okay.” I opened my eyes, looked at my feet by the end of the bed. “Didn’t Rose tell you why she was at home?”

“Sylvie, she’s at the station right now being asked the same questions. After we discovered you and your parents at Saint Bartholomew’s, an officer was dispatched to your house where we found your sister. Now it’s crucial that we piece your separate accounts together in order to help. So tell me, why did your parents leave Rose behind?”

“They didn’t say,” I told him..

“Was it unusual for the three of you to go somewhere without her?”