Come Find Me(20)

The possibilities are endless: taken; disappeared; ran away. I wonder if I should call someone, or whether I’m overreacting. I picture her simultaneously at home, at Sutton’s, in the woods, fading into a void…

I step outside into the late-afternoon sun, ready to make my way to her house, to check on her, when I suddenly see her walking in the distance, on the other side of the fence with Marco.

My immediate relief is replaced by aggravation that now Marco will be involved.

They’re deep in conversation, Lydia moving her hands, gesturing to the house. To me.

I wave, but no one seems to notice at first. Marco climbs over the fence, and Lydia ducks underneath, between rails. They slow when they’re within earshot. “Oh, look,” Lydia says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “she’s here.” She places her hands on her hips.

Okay, then. “I’ve been calling you.”

She shakes her head, her high ponytail swaying, and strides across the empty space between us, Marco lagging a few paces behind. “What, so you can spook me again? No thanks, Kennedy, I’ll pass. I’m just here for my phone.” She holds out her hand, palm up.

    “Your what?”

“My phone.” She wrinkles her nose, and it makes her look younger, more vulnerable. “I left it behind when…” She shakes her head. “Come on, I know it was you.”

“What was me?”

Lydia widens her eyes at Marco, clearly exasperated, as if this is his part, his line, which he’s forgotten.

Marco clears his throat. “Kennedy,” he says, but he’s not even looking at me. Marco’s expression is far-off, like he’d give anything to be somewhere else, not having to pick sides, navigate the complexities between his best friend and his ex-girlfriend. “Look, we know you do that.” He lifts his chin toward the house. “Move things around, try to freak people out.” He cringes when he says it, still not looking at me straight-on.

I narrow my eyes at his face, but he doesn’t notice. I mean, yes, I do those things, but I still have no idea what this has to do with this moment, and Lydia’s phone. I also had no idea they knew about it. I wonder if they’re out here more often than I realize.

“Seriously,” Lydia begins, emboldened by Marco at her side, on her side. “There’s something wrong with you, even bef—”

She cuts herself off.

Before. My body language suddenly mirrors Lydia’s. Hands on hips; self-righteous anger. A sting of bitterness. “Yeah, I remember. I’ve heard you refer to me as Child of the Corn, Lydia. Even before.”

    She cringes and shakes her head, like even she realizes she’s gone a step too far. Which she has. Still, there’s something I like about it, how she doesn’t tiptoe around the things she thinks she shouldn’t say. She lowers her voice. “You just appear sometimes, from nowhere. You make no sound. It’s freaky.”

I look to Marco, who stares at the side of Lydia’s face, like he can’t believe she’s saying this.

She shrugs and continues. “Sometimes I would forget you were there. I’d be talking to Sutton and Marco, and then boom, there you were, standing in the corner.”

I can feel my voice rising, the anger shaking loose. “So, basically, I freak you out because you forget I exist?”

“Well, this is a little different. This is…” She moves her hands, searching for the word. “Intentional.”

“Kennedy,” Marco says, like he’s suddenly the voice of reason, “we’re sorry, okay?”

Lydia puts her hands out, as if to calm me, to rationalize. “If this is to get back at me and Sutton and Marco for hanging out on your property, I get the picture. We won’t do it again. Okay? But this is seriously messed up.”

“I have no idea what you guys are talking about. I just got back.”

Marco gazes at me from the corner of his eye. “You weren’t in the house?”

“No.” I fish my visitor badge from the meeting out of my pocket, try to flatten it out so she can see my picture, my name, the time stamp. “See? I was…here.”

Lydia stares at the crumpled paper, her jaw still set. “Well, someone was here,” she whispers, her eyes widening. Like maybe it’s a ghost, who’s eavesdropping even now. She steps back, staring at the house.

    “Oh,” I say, “the Realtors have been in and out. I saw a car before I left. I should’ve mentioned it. But I have every right to be here. I still own the house. They can’t kick us out.” Then I imagine being her, alone at the Jones House, and hearing someone else. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it,” I mumble. But I don’t get it, what she thinks I did with her phone.

“I thought it was you.”

“Thought what was me?”

“The lights. They all went on. Every one of them. In the shed, in the house, like it was brighter than they should’ve been.” She shakes her head. “And then everything shut down.” She looks to the shed. “Everything.”

Realtors, electric company, grid overload—there are a hundred possible causes. We live in an old farmhouse, after all. But she’s staring at the shed like she believes it’s haunted. I’ve lost her. “So where’s your phone?”