Help for the Haunted(92)

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked! Everything!”

“I don’t believe you! I’m sorry, but I don’t! You’ve used up all your currency! Spent! Done! Gone!”

“Please. The two of you calm down. Now tell us what you did to her.”

“Her? You mean it! And I told you, nothing!”

“How about telling the truth for a change? Now spit it out!”

“You want the truth? Okay, the fact is this: there is not a single thing wrong with me, but there is something very wrong with the two of you! Who else would put—”

“Don’t start that up again! I warned you! Now stick to the subject!”

“I am sticking to the subject! Because it all comes back to the way we live our lives around here! It’s not normal!”

I opened my eyes. Sun streamed through the window. Quickly, I got out of bed and threw on some clothes, making my way down the hall and the stairs. When I stepped into the living room, my mother was seated in her rocker, wearing her bathrobe and slippers, while my father paced back and forth by the curio hutch.

“There’s Sylvie,” Rose said. “Ask her. Go ahead. She’ll tell you.”

“Tell them what?” I asked.

“Tell them that I didn’t touch their f*cking spooky old rag doll!”

“Rose!” my mother said at the same time as my father yelled, “Watch your mouth, young lady! We don’t talk like that in this house!”

“Oh, that’s right, because it’s so holy around here!”

“It’s true,” I said when they stopped speaking long enough for me to find a way in. “Rose didn’t touch it.”

My words brought a blanket of silence over the room. Something made me think of those horses again. The first time I glued a broken one back together, I’d taken another down from the shelf to compare. I remembered tugging at the legs of the unbroken horse and realizing how difficult it would be for a person to snap them. A hammer, a saw, or at the very least, a good hard whack against the desk—that’s what it would take.

“Sunshine,” my father said in a softer voice, “it’s very noble what you are trying to do, but I don’t want you lying to cover for your sister. That doll is our property and an important part of the work your mother and I are doing.”

“I’m not covering for her.” My voice remained calm, though I felt a churning inside. I took a breath and told him, “Rose didn’t drop that doll down the well. I did.”

My parents looked at me, stunned, which was no surprise. My sister, however, looked stunned too, making me wonder if she hadn’t really expected me to go through with it, if perhaps she’d just been shooting off her mouth the night before.

“Sylvie,” my mother said, speaking up first. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Before I could answer my father held up his hand. “Stop right there. I still don’t believe Rose had nothing to do with it. I know you, Sylvie, and this is not something you’d ever do. Not on your own anyway.”

“So here she is confessing and you’re still calling me a liar?” my sister said. “There is something wrong with you, Dad. You see the world the way you want to see it. Even when all evidence points to the contrary.”

I assumed talking to him that way would bring about more shouting, but instead my father turned all his attention to me, coming closer, pulling off his glasses. “Look me in the face, angel, and tell me truthfully that your sister had nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

That churning started up again. I stood there, feeling trapped. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to be their good daughter, the one who lived up to expectations, the one who won essay contests and brought home perfect grades, the one who gave honest answers. But in that moment, I wanted to protect Rose too.

“The truth,” my father said quietly.

“The truth,” my mother said from her rocker.

“Okay,” I said. It was just one word—truth—but with it they cast a spell on me. “Let me back up and tell you why we did it.”

“We?” Rose shrieked.

“I knew it,” my father said. “I just knew it.”

“Not we, me. I did it,” I said. But then I turned to my sister. “Rose, I just want to explain why we thought the doll had to go. That way they understand the truth.”

“Sylvie, don’t,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “Not now. You don’t understand.”

“All you have to do,” my father said to me, “is tell us what happened.”

His face was before mine still, and I could see small pouches beneath his eyes. It made me wonder how things had gone the night before after he downed that icy tumbler of scotch and headed out the door for his final meeting with Sam Heekin. I watched Rose throw herself on the sofa, crossing her arms and kicking her feet on the carpet in frustration.

“Go ahead, Sylvie,” my father said.

After a breath, I began. First, I told them what happened in the truck stop bathroom: how we allowed the waitress to touch the doll, how I worried for my mother inside the stall and later on the drive home when she became ill. I told them that after we returned home with Penny, nothing felt the same, from the broken horses in my room to the all-consuming tension that filled the house. And then I confessed to sneaking downstairs one night, only to duck into the kitchen and find Penny gone from her rocker when I returned. I told them how I let Rose in on what I discovered and how my mother confirmed that something similar was happening when I pulled back the covers and saw Penny in her bed the night before. I spoke faster as I neared the end, telling them about stepping into my room and noticing all the horse limbs scattered on the floor. And so, I said, Rose and I had started talking about the need to get rid of that doll, because of the power it had, or the power we were giving it. But even though the two of us discussed the idea, I made it clear that I was the one who carried out the act.