Help for the Haunted (13 page)

#1.
My sister knows Dereck, and Dereck seems nice.

#2.
My sister is giving me the chance to make money so I can buy Boshoff a present.

#3.
My sister is my sister. She thinks that's reason enough for me to love her. And I guess I do too.

 

Chapter 10

The Light

W
hen we left the Lynches in the parking lot of the convention center, I figured it was the last we would see of them. Or, more likely, I didn't think about it at all. I was too busy following my mother back to the greenroom and replaying the things I'd witnessed over and over in my mind: the way she knelt before those bushes, the way she hummed that pattering song, the way she grew silent before reaching her hand into the shadows.

Inside the building once more, my mother asked me to sit quietly with
Jane Eyre
while she returned to the auditorium to finish the last of the evening's talk with my father. There must not have been much left of their presentation, or perhaps my uncle's disruption and my mother's disappearance from the stage had caused people to lose interest. Whatever the reason, a short while later I looked up to see them standing in the doorway. The same security guard who chased Howie out escorted us through a maze of hallways and through the rear exit to where our Datsun was parked. As we climbed inside, he stood watch, making sure none of my parents' detractors appeared unexpectedly to confront us.

After my father started the engine, I apologized for failing to keep my promise. His dark eyes glanced at me in the rearview mirror. He told me that he was sure I'd done my best, so I should not feel bad. But he wanted to know how Rose went from sitting in the greenroom to joyriding around town with his brother. As we rolled along the Ocala roads, strewn with palm leaves and debris from the storm, I filled them in on everything that happened. Since I'd already disappointed them once that evening, I left out the detail about sneaking into the auditorium with my sister and instead said we'd wandered outside to check on the storm when we saw him there in his truck.

“Uncle Howie looks different,” I finished.

We were passing a commercial strip, and I watched my parents turn their heads in search of that old pickup with the squashed side.

“Don't you think he looked different?” I asked, not letting it go.

“That's Howie,” my father said. “A human slot machine. You never know what you're going to get when you pull the lever.”

“Why do—” I started in on another question then thought better of it.

“Why do what?”

“I was going to ask why do you and Uncle Howie hate each other?”

My mother kept quiet, staring out the window still, though we were passing nothing but woods by then.

“Hate is a strong word, Sylvie. He's my brother and my blood. I suppose some part of me loves the man, despite our differences. I let him know we were coming to Florida, because I thought we could have a nice visit for a change. But clearly, we're better off keeping a distance between us. The stunt he pulled tonight proves once again how little respect he has for me and my work and my wife and my chil—”

“Sylvester,” my mother said. “You don't need to go into all that with Sylvie.”

So rarely did she challenge him that my father fell quiet. Never once had I heard them argue, but things were tense enough inside our car that it made me wonder if it might happen. After a pause, though, he told her she was right, that there was little point in rehashing it all. “The last thing I'll say on the topic, Sylvie, is that someday, when Rose gets her head straight, I hope the two of you can be close. Even though it's not the case with your uncle and me, it can be a very special thing to have someone who's a part of you in this world. Someone who knows how you think and feel.”

“There,” my mother said, tapping the glass. “Look there.”

My father slowed the Datsun and we stared out the passenger side at a sign that announced simply:
ARCADE
. Our flash of hope faded the moment we pulled into the lot and spotted another sign on the door:
CLOSED
. Through the windows, it was possible to make out dozens of hulking video games, though none gave off any light. Teenagers hung out on the sidewalk anyway. A lanky boy on a skateboard, hair so long he might have been mistaken for a girl, tried jumping the curb only to wipe out. A group of girls sat close by, smoking as they watched him dust off and attempt the stunt again.

“Good evening,” my father greeted them, rolling down the window.

The boy kicked the back of his skateboard and it leaped into his hands. He eyed our car as though ready to make a run for it. A girl with ropy bracelets around her thin wrists looked less skittish. My father's “good evening” had sent her into a fit of giggles. “Why, good evening to you, sir,” she said, imitating the deep formality of his voice. “And how do you do this fine evening?”

If my father noticed that she was mocking him, he never let on. “I'm wondering if you've seen a truck.”

“Well, I've seen plenty of trucks this evening, sir. Eighteen-wheelers. Dump trucks. Pickup trucks . . .”

“Tell her that this one is two-tone. Brown and cream,” my mother said from the passenger seat as the girl rambled in that put-on voice. “It has a big dent on one side.”

My father repeated the information, offering a description of Howie and Rose too.

“You a cop or something?” she asked in her real voice this time, which sounded squeakier than I would have guessed.

“No. I'm not a cop.”

“So what are you? Besides
creepy,
I mean.”

Her friends laughed, but my parents did not acknowledge them. I hoped my father wouldn't answer by explaining his occupation, so what he said relieved me. “I'm just a worried parent. That's all.”

Who can predict the way people will react to a basic truth? I would not have guessed that my father's words would cause that girl to quit teasing, but they did. She smiled and told him, “Sorry to say, there's not been anybody like that here tonight.”

“Maybe you can try Fun and Games over in Silver Springs,” another of the girls with the same ropy bracelets suggested. “That place is open for another hour. Right, Duane?”

The skateboarder nodded and mumbled directions. My father thanked them and we were on our way. But a short while later we arrived in Silver Springs to find no sign of the truck there, either. Since the place was open, my father got out of the car. I had never been inside an arcade before, and if I asked to come in with him, I knew he'd tell me to stay behind. So I didn't ask. I just opened my door and got out too. My father looked at me, surprised, but didn't resist. After we stepped into the flashing lights, he weaved among the clusters of teenagers to a booth in the back where he spoke to the manager. I used the opportunity to take in those machines, blinking and buzzing away. A group of girls huddled around a game until it released a series of disappointing beeps and they stomped off. In the wake of their departure, I approached and stared at the round, yellow face on the screen, the pink bow, the dots in the maze. I put my hand on the control but had no money to make it work.

I'm guessing you like Ms. Pac-Man and Ping-Pong . . .

The girl doesn't like any of the normal things kids her age like . . .

“Ready, Sylvie?” my father said from behind me.

“Can I play?”

“Play? Now?”

“Just a quick one. It's only twenty-five cents.”

My father sighed. “Sylvie, you are far too bright to waste your time with this nonsense. Besides, we need to get back to looking for your sister.”

“But I don't want to,” I said before I could stop myself.

My father grew quiet, same as when my mother challenged him in the car. In that video screen, I could see his blurry reflection—tilted head, raised eyebrows—a look usually reserved for Rose. “You don't want to look for your sister?”

“It's like you said about Uncle Howie. Maybe it's better we keep our distance. Let her do what she wants, since she's the one who chose to go with him.”

“This is nothing like the situation with your uncle. He's a grown man. Your sister is a kid. Now I'm not sure what's gotten into you, but I won't have you acting out too. You're our good daughter. The one we rely on and trust to do what we need. Right now what we need is to get back to finding Rose. So let go of that game and follow me.”

I took a breath. If Rose's behavior had proved one thing, it was that it was easier to give my father the daughter he wanted. That daughter pulled her hand away. That daughter followed him outside.

The Mustang. The Teeter-Totter. The Frog Pond. Those were just a few of the bars where we stopped so my father could inquire if anyone had seen them. But no one had. At each place, I waited in the car with my mother, listening to the rain pound on the roof. At last, after one in the morning, she suggested we call it quits.

“You want to stop?” my father said.

“It's not that I want to, Sylvester. But I don't know what more we can do at the moment. It's apparent we aren't going to find her out here tonight.”

“Maybe they headed back to Howie's apartment in Tampa? It's only a hundred miles away. They could be there by now.”

“It's a possibility. But even so, I don't think we should drive there without knowing for sure. Better we go back to the hotel and call first. At the very least, we can leave a message telling her to let us know where she is so we can come get her.”

Reluctantly, my father turned the car around while my mother continued staring out that window. “I suppose you're right,” he said once we were headed in the opposite direction. “We don't have much choice, do we?”

Back at the hotel, the three of us climbed the stairs to the second floor, a weary silence all around. The moment my father snapped on the light in our room, we saw Rose curled beneath the covers in one of the beds. She lifted her head from the pillow. “Hey.”

“
Hey?
” my father said.

“Where were you?” my mother asked.

“Uncle Howie took me to—”

“You know what?” my father shouted. “Never mind. How did you get in here?”

“The lady at the front desk gave me a key.” Rose yawned, messed with her hair. “She's one of those too-tan Florida freaks. I took one look at her wallet face and—”

“Let's go!” my father shouted, charging toward the bed. He ripped back the covers and yanked Rose by the arm, lifting her up and off from the mattress. “Let's go! Let's go!”

“
Ow!
Go where?”

“Don't ask! Just do what I say for a change!
Now!
”

My sister still had on her T-shirt and jeans from earlier, though her sneakers were off. While my father kept squeezing her arm, she made an effort to get her balance and slip her feet into them. All the while, Rose looked to my mother and me. The defiant expression she wore when slamming the truck door earlier gave way to something frightened. Normally, I knew my mother would have made some effort to calm the situation, but after the way Rose had behaved at the convention center, she just turned away, walked to her suitcase, and pulled out her nightgown. My sister barely managed to get her feet into her sneakers before my father began jerking her toward the door. Rose stumbled as she stared back at me. My mouth opened to say something that might stop it, but what words would he listen to? In the end, I just stood there, mute as that girl who emerged from the bushes.

Once they were gone, the room filled with a heavy silence. My mother walked to the window, not to stare outside, but to adjust the curtains. There wasn't enough fabric to cover the glass, so she had to choose where the light would come in the next morning: down the middle or at the sides. I watched her sample both before choosing the middle. After that, she told me I might as well get ready for bed too.

When she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, I listened to the faucet handles squeak, the water run. The hard, cinnamon-colored suitcase I shared with Rose lay open on the floor across the room. I had every intention of doing as my mother said, but stopped to look out the window. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see fat moths doing a sloppy flutter beneath a light, but no trace of my sister and father.

At last, my mother emerged from the bathroom. She wore a knee-length white nightgown, her feet bare so she must have forgotten her slippers back in Dundalk. Since she was never the type to walk around the house in sleeping clothes, I rarely saw her this way. Unpinned, her hair fell past her shoulders, revealing more silvery streaks than were apparent in her bun. That hair, that gown, that pale skin, made her look ghostly—a vision worthy of those slides on the screen at the convention center.

“It's been a long day, Sylvie, and an even longer evening. We need our sleep. Now come away from the window and get ready for bed.”

I stared outside again at those moths around the light. “Where did Dad take her?”

“I'm sure he just wanted to talk with Rose about what she did.”