Help for the Haunted(9)
“Brought her to you?”
“Yes. Albert Lynch wanted my parents’ help dealing with his daughter’s, well, problems.”
Rummel tapped his thick finger on the photo. “Okay, then. We are going to want to know all about that. But right now, I need an answer in order to help you. Is this the man you saw inside the church the night of your parents’ deaths?”
I thought of the cold air inside that small building after I pulled the door open, so cold it hurt to breathe. I thought of how dark it had been after the door clicked shut behind me, the only lights from the car outside, the beams muted through the stained-glass windows. More carefully, I stared down at the picture. Bald head. John Lennon glasses. Wispy mustache that looked like something a teenager, maybe Brian Waldrup, might grow.
“Yes,” I told Rummel. “That’s who I saw.”
When I finished eating, I tossed the Popsicle stick in the trash and headed upstairs. My sister had gone ahead of me, and a thin strip of light glowed beneath her door. No sound came from inside. As I got ready for sleep, I emptied my books from the tote and placed them on my desk until I pulled out the violet diary. Earlier that day, I had felt certain I would not bother, yet there I was searching for a pen. There I was turning to the first of so many empty pages as I sat on my bed. For a while, I did nothing but stare at the pink margins and lines, doing my best to conjure frivolous details from the life of that imagined girl. But she had gone silent, drowned out by the very different particulars of the life I was leading. At last, I clicked the pen and wrote the name DOT at the very top. But before I put down anything about the way the woman’s visit to our house led, in its own peculiar way, to greater troubles for my family, I found myself writing out Boshoff’s question: How would you describe yourself nooow? This was my answer:
I am the only girl in school who dresses like it is June, even though it is October. Last year’s fall and winter sweaters and pants and skirts are hanging in my closet and folded in my drawers, exactly where my mother left them. But I cannot go near those things. Not because I am beginning to outgrow those clothes, but because putting them on would mean rearranging the things she left for me. Not that it matters since Rose really is my legal guardian now and, like she said at the mall, she barely notices what I wear, even if it’s a flimsy tank top, capris, and flip-flops, and even if the temperature is dropping by the day, and even though she should—
My sister really should notice.
[page]Chapter 4
Dot
My parents always packed the same supplies. My father: an electromagnetic frequency meter, a motion sensor, thermometers, audio and video recorders, a high-resolution camera, ample rolls of film. My mother: a simple set of rosary beads, a well-worn King James Bible, pages dog-eared and highlighted in a rainbow of colors, and a solitary flashlight. As they prepared for their trip, Rose and I lingered by the front door in anticipation of the latest nanny’s arrival. How many times had I been disappointed? Yet there I stood, hoping for Mary Poppins to glide over the cedar trees. Instead, the nannies were all so bland they blurred in my mind—except for Dot, who arrived at our house when I was eleven and Rose fifteen, and who came to be the last nanny we ever had.
I remember watching from the front steps as she shoved open the creaky door of her mud-splattered Yugo and climbed out. Dot had skinny arms and legs, but a bulging midsection, hugged tight by the elastic waistband of her yellow uniform. Instead of a suitcase, she pulled a plastic laundry basket from the backseat.
“This one’s going to be an easy target,” Rose said as we watched the woman lumber up the walkway. “I almost feel bad for her.”
Run! I wanted to yell. Get out before it’s too late!
When she met us at the front steps, Rose skipped over any formal greeting and asked, “What’s with the bears?”
“Bears?” Dot had a foamy mouth with permanent spittle in the corners of her chapped lips. Tiny bubbles washed over her crowded teeth. She glanced behind her then looked down at her matching shirt and pants, where pastel bears decorated the fabric. “Oh, these bears. It’s my uniform. I’m an LPN at the children’s hospital in Baltimore. I’m hoping it’ll turn into a full-time job. But right now, I’m just a substitute.”
The geyser Dot produced pronouncing the word substitute kept me distracted until Rose said, “Well, this ain’t the children’s hospital. So climb back in your four-wheeled fuse-box and keep right on trucking.”
“Seven-twelve, Rose!” my mother called, coming up behind us. She had developed a shorthand for the scripture she most often quoted to Rose—Matthew 7:12: “Do unto others as you would like done unto you.” Or, as my sister liked to translate, cut the crap and be nice.
“I just came from the hospital where I work sometimes,” Dot informed my mother after they introduced themselves. “Sorry I didn’t change, but I worried I’d be late.”
“Are you sure you want this lady bringing hospital germs into our house?” Rose asked my mother. “She could be carting along an army of bacteria for diseases like—” My sister looked at me. “Sylvie, name some weird diseases that might be contagious.”
Normally, I would not have gone along with Rose’s behavior, but my desire to show off my smarts trumped all else. “Elephantiasis. Progeria. Hypertrichosis,” I rattled off. “Diptheria. Shigellosis. Leptospirosis.”