Where? Where? Where?
Yes, to where? There was no place to go. Not even St. Augustine.
I was here. I had to be here. In this place. Taking care of Momma. I looked Aaron in the eyes again. “She’s sick,” I said. “I gotta find her.”
After snapping off the light, I pulled the door to Momma’s room closed. My fingers trembled.
Aaron and I stood face-to-face in the darkened hall. I could feel the heat coming from him. Was he scared, too? We stood close enough I could have hugged him if I wanted. Could have held his hand if I’d had the nerve. If he didn’t run.
“Let’s find her,” he said. His voice was light as a new leaf.
Oh. Oh. Good. Only finding Momma was important.
No bit of light stretched toward us from under Aunt Linda’s door. “One more room,” I said.
I hadn’t been in Aunt Linda’s room since she left. Not even when I missed her bad. A couple of times, I’d stood outside the door, with my ear pressed to the wood, listening for my aunt. But Momma caught me once, and yelled. Told me to stop wishing for the dead to come back. Told me things were different and could never be fixed. Would never be the same.
Then for a couple of weeks things started smelling awful near Aunt Linda’s room. It was when Momma was doing her wanderings.
“Something’s dead up there I think,” I told her. I was afraid. Had taken to sleeping on the sofa in the living room. “The smell’s coming from Aunt Linda’s room.”
“It’s Granddaddy,” Momma said. “He’s killed rats in there. And mice, too. Stay away.”
So I did. I never went in that room. Never. And not because of rats and mice. I didn’t go in ’cause I was sure it would hurt too much. Hurt my heart to see the room made up the way Aunt Linda kept it. Light and airy. Windows wide like in my room. So when I stood there with Aaron, it took me a moment to open the door.
But at last, I did.
The light was off. Everything in here was dark.
“Momma?” My voice went into the airless room. Dust and paper smell filled my nose.
My hand searched the wall for the light switch and I touched something crinkly. Then snap! The dim overhead bulb came on.
“What?” I said it this time.
My head wouldn’t let me understand, wouldn’t let me see things right for a moment. This wasn’t Aunt Linda’s room. Not anymore.
Pages from books had been stuck to the walls. All the books Aunt Linda left. They were now on the floor in neat stacks, the covers. And thousands of words coated all the walls, millions of words maybe, hid the soft lavender-colored wallpaper that had been here before my aunt went away.
What was going on?
“Momma?” I heard my voice like someone else had said the word. I walked in the room. My legs seemed broken at the knees. On the dresser I saw it.
Mr. Dewey’s cage.
And Mr. Dewey inside. Feathers now, with bones.
“Mr. Dewey.” Again my voice sounded strange. Not like me. “What happened?” I stepped up to the dresser and looked at what was left of the bird. Dust covered everything. I meant to say, “No. No.” But I’m not sure the words came out of my mouth at all.
In a slow circle, I turned, my eyes burning from what was in front of me. The long mirror, just words. The closet doors, just words. The walls, the windows, everything—just words.
“Who’s in the bed?” Aaron’s voice sounded bizarre.
I made myself look. To the body shape that was covered with an old quilt. Granddaddy’s quilt.
“Momma?” Another word I meant to say. But all that came out was air.
I’m not sure how I got to the side of the bed. Not sure how long the walk took. Not sure how long I stood there, checking for signs of breathing. And seeing none.
“Don’t look,” Aaron said. “Maybe we should call the police.” His hand gripped my arm. Squeezing hard. Hurting. I wiggled away from him.
“Maybe it’s her,” I said, and my voice was full of tears.
Maybe Momma had killed herself in this room. Where I might not look. Where I might never go.
In the book-darkness of the room, my hand reached out on its own. I pulled back the covers.
Auburn hair, showed first. Hair like …
… like my aunt’s.
It’s her. Here all the time. Dead. Right here!
Aunt Linda?
A buzzing sound went off in my ears. It felt like there was no blood around my mouth.
“I saw her drive away,” I said. I moved the blanket a little more. A bone-white forehead.
“John said she visited the library.”
Aunt Linda.
Glassy eyes.
That smell.
Red lipstick.
“A mannequin,” Aaron said. And his breath came out with the words, full of relief.
A wave of dizziness swept over me. But I put my head down, resting my hands on my knees, and after a moment was sure I could stand again. Where had Momma gotten a mannequin?
“Lacey?” Aaron said. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head.
No. No, I wasn’t okay.
Outside the rain beat steady and hard on the roof.
I looked up at Aaron.
For a moment I wrestled with what I knew I should do. But this part of me, this part all hurt and sad, didn’t want to do it.
Because my aunt had let me down. She hadn’t done her part.
And now all this. All this.
She wasn’t dead. Not like Mr. Dewey. There was Mr. Dewey over there. And a mannequin here. Not a human being. Not my aunt after all.
“We better call her,” I said. “We better call my aunt Linda.”
XI
It was easy to find Aunt Linda’s phone number. All I had to do was look in my head and remember what I hadn’t let myself think about in a long time.
But it wasn’t as easy to call her.
First of all, my hands shook so much I couldn’t press all those numbers. Second, she had left me. Left me with Momma.
I knew the
