Notes from Ghost Town (8 page)

“I know you’re not fine,” he says, quietly. “The hearing’s coming up, and I know you’re damn scared about it, and so am I. So don’t you pull that crap with me, Olivia. You’re
sixteen
, and even if you think that makes you old and wise, you’re still my baby,” he says. He re-pockets his hanky, his gaze softening. “You will always be more important to me than any client. You know that, don’t you?”

I nod. “I know.” But the truth is: I don’t. Not lately, at least.

He starts to duck back out into the hallway, pausing first, turning back to face me. “By the way, who were you talking to?”

I stare at him blankly, and he prompts: “Just now. Before I came in.”

“Raina,” I answer quickly, moving my gaze to the boxes full of Mom’s things, still exposed on my carpet. Dad hasn’t mentioned them. He won’t. “We were Skyping.”

He shakes his head, gives me his
I know you’re lying and it only disappoints me more
look. “I know what you’re up to, you know,” he says with a sigh. “And it’s not going to work.”

Dad probably thinks I’m plotting ways to prevent him from marrying Heather. But I gave that up as soon as he told me they were engaged. He was in too deep already.

He shuts my door behind him with a soft click. Without meaning to, I snatch a pillow off my bed and hurl it against the closed door. It thuds softly to the ground. Then I sit on the floor next to mom’s boxes, drawing my knees to my chest.

I take a caramel from Mom’s secret box of treats.
Poor Dad. He’s got a nutso ex-wife, and a nutso daughter now, too
.

But … if Stern’s real, and if he’s right, then there’s a chance I’m
not
going crazy. That I’m fine. Sane—at least for now.

I haven’t had caramel in forever. It tastes good.

Every year, on my birthday, Mom would spend hours making my cake from scratch, trying out new recipes, new combinations. I’d watch her stir smooth icing in a big ceramic bowl, rapt;
come over here, Livie. Tell me what this needs
, she’d say, letting me taste off a long silver spoon. She’d dye it pink with beet juice, or sapphire with blueberries, ice it all over in colorful peaks and valleys.

And I know: if there’s even the smallest chance in hell that what Stern says is true, I’ll listen, I’ll help, I’ll do anything.

I lean back against the edge of my bed for a second, trying to think what to do.

In the blankness of the ceiling, I see Mom, smiling above me from the middle of a white ocean.

Let him be real
.

A current of panic snakes its way up my chest, and I
sit up stock-straight. If he’s not real, if this is just how it starts—what happens next? How does it end?

Please. Please, god—please anyone. Let him be real. Let him be
right.

He
has
to be.

I’ll prove it.

I
consider calling Raina for help, but only for a second. She won’t understand. How could she?

The thing about Raina is: sometimes she gets on my nerves so badly I could scream. I love the girl, and I’d probably be dead in a ditch somewhere without her, but sometimes I think our friendship is just this other
thing
she’s trying to win. Next week, she’ll go to the unveiling, stand beside Stern’s parents like
she
was his best friend, act the saint, while I, the capital-A Asshole, can’t even face them.

And the award for
Most Compassionate Friend to Parents of Dead Kid
goes to …

Raina!

What kills me is that I introduced them in the first place. Raina was in my social studies class in sixth grade and she looked lonely—she’d just moved to Miami from Minneapolis—and I liked the streak of fake pink hair she’d clipped into her dark ponytail. So I invited her to sleep over. Stern, who always went to magnet schools that
would help
foster his musical talents
, came over to eat a mushroom pizza from Stefano’s and watch
The Sandlot
; it was the first night the three of us ever hung out.

We talked all night long, about Minneapolis, about how her dad just split town one night without a word and she and her mom and three sisters moved a month later because her mom got a job here, as a translator. She taught me how to put liquid eyeliner around my eyelids, real thick, and we snuck into Mom’s closet and dressed up in her concert gowns, put pantyhose on our heads, and invented a fake band called “The Stockinghead Sisters.” Stern acted as our manager, booking us fake gigs at all of the most influential venues across North America, Western Europe, and China.

We were pretty much inseparable after that.

But he was always mine first.

I inhale sharply: Stern.
Mom
. My heart hiccups a little in my chest, replaying again what he said:
she didn’t do it; she’s innocent
.

I stand and begin tearing off my sweaty work outfit, then turn to my color-categorized closet—throw on a clean “blue” tank top that buttons up the front, a pair of suede “beige” shorts, a holster-like belt with a ram’s head engraved on the buckle, black doc martens with “pink” laces—all of it, just a dull wash of gray.

The end result is that I probably look like a cowboy-clown-mechanic-stripper mash-up. Which I’m fine with. I’ve got bigger fish to fry—like figuring out if my dead best
friend’s theories about Mom hold any truth. I need to find someone I can talk to—someone
alive
. Time is running out.

I haven’t even
seen
her in six months—when I was last home for winter break—and it was through a thick pane of plastic. Dad forced me to go. I was angry with her, beyond angry, even though I never thought she’d
meant
to do what she did. She was on one of those off-meds kicks while working on a new series of compositions. In the past, she’d go off every once in a while to do this—it had always been fine before, for the most part—just little blips of paranoia, the occasional manic jag. But this time, her brain spun her a new reality and she got tangled in it; by the time she became untangled, Stern’s blood was already all over her hands.

I heard the talk, the gossip buzz, traveling like a thick swarm of Florida-grade mosquitoes around me wherever I went: the divorce pushed her over the edge.

But she shouldn’t have gone off her meds in the first place. She should have known. She should have been better. That part
was
her fault. And I couldn’t forgive her for it. Can’t forgive her. Can’t even face her.

Unless …

Unless she didn’t do it
.

My stomach groans but I ignore it, heading out to the porch with my laptop. I type the name of Mom’s lawyer into the browser:
Cole, lawyer, Miami
. I don’t remember her first name. Maybe I never knew it. In any case, _______ Cole spent hours and hours with her, digging, delving. If
Mom didn’t actually do anything, the woman would have doubts, would have noticed inconsistencies in the case.

But when I type in her name, about a hundred different Coles come up, and when I go through the task of clicking on each and every one, none seem to be lawyers. I must have my information wrong, or misplaced, or misspelled.

I take a deep breath. I can’t tell Dad what I’m doing. I won’t. He’s made it perfectly clear that he’s ready to move on, and forget all about mom. Who else would know where I can find her?

The drive to the Oakley estate isn’t long, but the division between neighborhoods is massive. The lush, winding, palm-lined path leading to their Coral Gables mansion makes Dad and Heather’s condo—by far the most expensive place I’ve ever called home—look like a halfway house for dwarves.

My stomach goes queasy as I pull my dinky old junker up to the Oakley’s four-car garage, right beside Ted’s BMW. It’s just starting to get dark, shadows stretching long as the sun dips toward the ocean. I walk up the shaded walkway to the door of their palace—a mammoth beast of a house that never fails to make my head spin by its sheer hugeness, completely white. It has zillions of wide-paneled windows, a Spanish-tiled roof, French doors, verandahs, intricately carved porticos, and marble decks.

I wipe my sweaty palms against my skirt and ring the buzzer twice before Clare Oakley swings it open, smiling broadly with her botox-plumped lips. “Olivia, sweetie. It’s so good to see you! I’m so glad you called.” She pulls me in for a muscular hug. “You came at the perfect time. My trainer just left, and Ted’s all finished with his swim.” She leads me down the gleaming marble hallway, her golden bob swishing at her chin, asking about
the new condo
and
isn’t Heather just a lovely woman
and
oh, will you be starting back up at the
public
school this fall?
and
will you know anyone there, will your credits transfer from that
art
school?

I nod and smile and answer
oh, yes
to every question, whether or not it’s true.

“Ted?” She says, leaning her mouth toward the little intercom at the end of the hallway as she presses a small white button beside it. Ted’s voice reaches us, crisply, through the speaker: “In my office, honey. You need something?”

Clare places one deep-tanned hand on my shoulder and guides me to the door of Ted’s office, knocking gently. “Olivia is here. Are you decent?” She giggles, squeezing my shoulder. I hear Ted’s chair scoot back against the wood floor.

“Olivia! Come in, come in,” he says, flinging open the door. He puts a meaty hand on my shoulder and ushers me inside—the bumpy slope of his nose especially prominent in the office’s shadowy light. He’s wearing a dark
Harvard T-shirt and well-tailored medium-gray pants that I’m guessing by the shade and cut of them are khaki. His office smells like cedar and cologne—or maybe it’s just cologne made to smell like wood. “Do you need anything, sweetheart? Some ice water? Tea? Coffee?” Ted offers me a seat on the other side of his dark-wood desk.

“Oh, and we’ve got a fabulous quiche Marjolie made us if you’d like some of that,” Clare pipes in from the doorway; I didn’t realize she was still there. The hand on her hip sparkles with a rock the size of Texas. With the other hand, she fiddles with the strand of pearls around her neck. “Leeks and Gruyère. You’re welcome to stay for dinner, of course!”

“I’m okay,” I say, running my finger through the deep, tribal-looking carvings along the arms of my chair. “I ate before I got here. And I promised I’d have dinner at home tonight.”

“Make sure you say good-bye before you leave, sweetheart.” Clare flashes me a dazzling white smile and steps back into the hall. I fiddle with the chair arms some more. Ted leans back in his swivel chair and runs a hand through his thinning hair.

“It really is good to see you, Olivia. We’ve missed you around here. I know your dad misses you, too.”

I try to hide my disbelief. “He’s busy with wedding stuff….” I knock my feet together softly.

“Trust me,” Ted says. “He’s working hard right now, but he loves you like crazy. He talks about you all the time.”
He leans forward, and rests his forearms on the desk. “So—to what do I owe the pleasure, little miss?”

I clear my throat, inhale deep. “It’s—it’s actually about Mom.”

“Your mom?” He’s obviously startled. “I don’t know if I’ll be of much help, but I can try. Go ahead and shoot.” He moves a pen from the top of his desk into a drawer in front of him, rests his hands on top of one another.

“I just wanted to know how to get in touch with her lawyer … Cole. Something Cole.”

“Carol?”

Yes. Carol. There we go
. “I—I have some questions I want to ask her about Mom’s case.” I fight the urge to cross my arms. Even speaking the words into this vast office makes them feel hopeless.

“What kind of questions?” he asks, watching me steadily.

I hesitate, look at the shine and shadow of the desk. “Well, the hearing’s next week … so, I guess I just want to hear a little more about what she’s going to say, and, you know, what she—what Carol—thinks is going to happen. If there’s any new evidence that … that something might change.” I look back up at Ted. Radiating from his eyes is pity so full and thick I feel immediately stupid.

He rubs his chin, shifts in his king-sized chair, picks up his Blackberry and consults it, then scribbles something on a bit of paper and slides it across the desk to me.
Carol Kohl
. I had the name spelled wrong. “Here’s Carol’s phone number and address.” he says, “But—I don’t want
you to get your hopes up too much, Liv. This is painful stuff you’re digging into. I’d really hate to see you disappointed.” He sighs heavily. “We all miss Miriam, and wish all of this would just go away, but that’s not how it works.” He puts his hand forward, reaching for mine. I let him take it. “I’m sorry, honey. You’ve been through so much. If I thought there was anything else I could do to help your family, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You know I would.”

The giant room seems to get closer and closer in until I feel the walls press my body paper-flat and near-breathless. I take his piece of paper, fold it up, and put it in my back pocket. Then another thought occurs to me. “What about the other lawyer?” I blurt. “Mom’s first lawyer, the one who quit on her. Greg Foster, right?”

Ted looks momentarily shocked, straight-backed now in his chair like someone’s just snapped his spine straight. He was just as horrified as we were when Foster quit on us.

“Look,” I say. “I know you don’t think it’ll make a difference, but I’d still like to talk to him. Just in case.”

He opens both hands, palms up, on the desk. “I don’t actually have any information for Mr. Foster. He may have moved. Did you ask your dad?”

“No,” I say quickly. “And I’d appreciate—I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him I was here.”

“I understand.” Ted nods, his face softening into a smile again. “I really am sorry, Olivia. I know how badly you must want to fix this.” He stands from his chair and I do
the same. “But the best thing you can do is try and move on.” He comes around the desk to give me a fatherly hug. “Come back anytime, okay? Maybe dinner some time soon, with the family?”

I manage to mumble something noncommittal; then, as Ted returns to his desk, I make my way back through the long, chandelier-lit hallway.