The Spite House(72)



Her father sighed. “I’ve been thinking about that. I just don’t know what happens if we tell her. I don’t know if it’s the best idea.”

“Come on. Why not?”

“I’m not saying never tell her. You’re right, she should know. Maybe we should have told her already. But it’s not about the way things should be, it’s about the way things are and what would happen. How do you think your mother responds to this? I’m asking sincerely, that’s not rhetorical. I know I have my concerns, but if you honestly don’t have any, then I’ll figure out the best way to break it to her. I’ll do it, I promise, if you don’t think anything would go wrong if we told her.”

This isn’t fair, putting it on me, Dess thought, and almost said. But then she reconsidered. Her father was treating her like an adult, letting her weigh in. He wasn’t lying when he said his question wasn’t rhetorical. He needed a second opinion and would’ve welcomed a dozen more if not for the one certainty he currently held: They had to minimize the number of people who knew that Stacy was alive again.

The only other person they could afford to share their secret with was her mother. How would Mom respond to finding out Stacy was alive? Hell, how should they even let her know? If either of them tried to tell her about it before letting her see for herself she would think they were crazy, wouldn’t she? Who wouldn’t?

The only option was to just show her, then. No sufficient warning, just bring her over and bring Stacy out to see her. She wouldn’t be able to deny what she saw. Not at first, at least. But there was a real chance that Mom wouldn’t accept what her senses told her. If they brought her over they wouldn’t be able to let her out of sight until they were sure that she didn’t have any doubts left. They would have to take her phone from her, in case she wanted to call other family members to tell them about this miracle, letting too many people in on the secret. Or call the authorities to report that an unforgivable hoax was being perpetrated against her estranged husband and surviving daughter, or that her grieving husband might have abducted someone’s child who looked like his deceased daughter.

It wasn’t a stretch to believe Dad was the victim of a heartless con. In Mom’s eyes, the way he grieved was unhealthy enough for it to teeter into obsession with a little push. The easy conclusion to reach—much easier than the idea that death actually wasn’t permanent, or that a child could resurrect themselves—was that Dad had submitted some information to the wrong website while researching ways to honor Stacy, landed on some vile con man’s mark list, and fallen blindly into a trap. There was precedent for that sort of thing. Outside of religion and folklore, there was none for Stacy’s return.

Worse, Mom might think that Dad found some kid who looked like Stacy and kidnapped them. The kid might be playing along because they were scared. She might have to walk a hundred miles to come to that conclusion, but how much farther did you have to walk to get to the idea that raising the dead was a real thing? Hell, that wasn’t even a walk, it was leaping off a cliff and trusting gravity to ignore you. It was insane. Yes, Dess and her father had taken that leap, but neither could explain why. Maybe they just felt like they didn’t have much choice. Maybe they both intrinsically understood that Stacy heading home meant that she was going to knock on the door and keep knocking until they answered or let the morning come, let someone else find her out there. And that one way or another they’d be responsible for what happened to her next.

Mom didn’t have those same conditions. She was already out of the house. She could come back and stay, help them figure out what to do next. Or she could leave. Keep it to herself or tell others. Think the best or the worst. There was simply no way Dess could know how her mother would react.

She wanted to believe that Mom would accept this miracle for what it was, embrace it, but she knew that there was a chance Mom would reject it. A small chance, perhaps, but a real chance. The question, then, was whether it was worth the risk. She wasn’t sure. Why couldn’t Mom have just been with them when they found Stacy?

It came to her then, and a measure of peace settled over her. The real question wasn’t “Should we tell Mom?” It was “What would Mom think is the best thing to do for Stacy?”

Dess said to her father, “I think if Mom was in our shoes and we were in hers, she’d say the risk was too high to tell us. She’d put Staze first, and wouldn’t chance it.”

Her father’s shoulders slumped and his head bowed. When he looked back up, she saw the glint of the tears he’d dammed up still in his eyes. She took a breath to keep from breaking down. He must have expected her to say something else. We have to tell Mom. We should have told her the first night. It’s the only right thing to do. He looked almost like he needed to hear that, like it would refill his depleted reserves of faith in this all to work out.

“Okay then. So we’re back to the original question,” he said. “What do we do long-term?”

They discussed this and kept coming back to the same conclusion as they thought up one counterargument after another. They would set the conversation aside for days at a time, then pick it up again to see if it might lead somewhere else. It never did. All the while they kept Stacy indoors and felt guilty for it, even though it was for the best.

Stacy never complained when told she couldn’t go outside, see her friends, see Mom or anyone else. All she did was what she was asked to do. She was the same mindful, bright child as before. The only noticeable change to her was confirmed a couple of months after she came home. One day, her father had Stacy stand against the wall where her height was last notched a few weeks prior to the visit to the lake. She was half an inch taller now. Just like any other living child, she was growing. When he shared this with Dess, they both cried.

Johnny Compton's Books