Tea-Totally Dead (6 page)

I put my face closer to the crack. The amulet-embedded fringes of Harmony’s leather jacket danced before my eyes. The smell of sweat, leather, dope and patchouli drifted my way. But this time the sweat predominated. It was a heavy, sour sweat, the kind fear can produce. Or maybe she had just slept in her clothes all night. I drew my head back.

“Mom?” Wayne called out. “Mom, are you in there?”

“She won’t talk to you, man,” Harmony informed him. “She won’t even talk to me.”

“Is Vesta sick, Harmony?” I asked.

There was a short silence. I pressed my face up to the crack in the doorway once more. It looked like Harmony was nodding her head. “Vesta was really sick last night,” she finally answered. “Throwing up all over the place around one in the morning—”

“Mom!” Wayne called out again, louder this time.

“It was awful, man. Just awful,” Harmony went on, her words coming faster and louder. “I asked if she wanted a doctor, right? She said… she said…”

“What did she say?” asked Wayne. His deep voice seemed ready to explode with the effort of keeping it even.

“She said she’d had enough of doctors, right? And she said she’d had enough of me.” Harmony’s voice cracked, and I thought she wouldn’t go on, but she did. “She told me to get out. So I went and slept in my car. I had to, right? That’s what she told me to do. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”

“No, you did just fine,” I assured her. “Just fine.” I took a deep breath and tried to remember the tricks I had learned while working in a mental hospital some two decades before. “How is Vesta doing now?” I asked in a steady, low voice.

But Harmony didn’t seem to hear me. I caught a glimpse of her round blue eye staring through the crack in the doorway; then she started up again.

“Vesta kept talking about ‘New Age’ and ‘organic’ and ‘herbal’ and stuff. I think she mighta meant the tea, right?” Her voice grew shrill. “But I made the tea, right? Just like always. I get the herbs at the health food store—”

“How is Vesta doing
now,
Harmony?” I repeated in a louder tone of voice.

“I let myself back in at eight,” she told me. “Vesta’d given me a key before, right? But she’s real sick, man. She won’t even talk to me.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I think the visitors got to her,” she breathed.

“If you let us in, we can protect you from them,” I whispered back, hating myself for the necessary lie.

“I got my bat,” she assured me. “No one can hurt me.”

“But you’re tired of holding that bat, aren’t you, Harmony?” I said slowly. Softly. “Really tired. It would feel so good to let it drop—”

“I… I’m scared,” she interrupted.

“Of course you are,” I told her, keeping my voice steady though I wanted to cheer. It was the sanest thing she’d said yet. “You can’t help but be scared, Harmony. Let us help you. Now, slide back the chain—”

The crack in the doorway closed for a moment and I thought I’d lost her. But then I heard the chain slide in the lock. And the door was open.

I wasted no time pushing my way through. Harmony stood aside, but she held her wooden baseball bat high and trembling in the air.

“Put down the bat,” said Wayne, his voice soft and reasonable. He put his hand out. Harmony lowered the bat slowly, then handed it neck first to Wayne. He dropped it on the floor next to Vesta’s water gun.

“Thank you, Harmony,” he said solemnly.

“I’ll be back in a second,” I whispered and trotted across the living room, toward the stairs that led to the bedroom area.

If something were seriously wrong with Vesta—I couldn’t even let myself think the word “dead”—I didn’t want Wayne to see her and remember the sight for the rest of his life. I sprinted up the stairs and down the hall, pausing for an instant before I opened the door to Vesta’s bedroom.

The smell hit me first. I gagged, then put my hand over my mouth and nose as I felt across flocked wallpaper for the light switch. I will not throw up, I told myself and took shallow sips of air through my fingers as my eyes adjusted to the bright light.

I saw the swirling gold and ivory shades of the flocked wallpaper first. And the four-poster bed. And then, Vesta. Her legs were tucked under her silken gold bedspread, but her upper body was twisted and sprawled out over the side of the bed as if she had reached for something and collapsed, her black hair pooling on the plush golden carpet alongside splashes of vomit. I closed my eyes and took another breath through my fingers. When I opened them again, I noticed her lavender-enameled teapot leaning on its side in the long, thick threads of gold wool inches from Vesta’s outstretched hand.

The room began to shimmer. Only it wasn’t the room, of course. It was me. I took a deep breath. That was a mistake. I clapped my hand over my mouth again. What if she was still alive? What if she needed help? I forced myself to step closer and saw the side of her face, gray and contorted through the veil of black hair. I held my breath as I stepped forward and reached down to check for her pulse. The skin on her arm was cool. The good news is she doesn’t have a fever, I thought hysterically. I pressed my fingers to the inside of her wrist. The bad news was she didn’t have a pulse either. Not one that I could find, anyway.

But what if she wasn’t dead? An ambulance, I told myself. I need to call for an ambulance. Then I heard Wayne’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.

I was at the doorway in three long steps and out in another, all dizziness forgotten. Wayne stood a few yards down the hall, his grim face looking as if he already knew what awaited him inside the bedroom. Maybe he did. Maybe Harmony had finally told him.

I put my hand up in warning as I walked to him. “Go back downstairs now,” I said firmly. “Call an ambulance.”

He didn’t speak as he stepped past me. I backpedaled and placed myself in his path again.

“No,” I told him. “Believe me, you don’t want to.”

He didn’t choose to believe me. He picked me up ever so gently and set me back down by his side, then took the last step to the doorway.

He stopped there, staring in. He didn’t gasp. He didn’t make any sound at all. But as I watched from behind, I saw his body begin to sway like a tall tree ready to fall with the last cut of the ax.

I leapt to his side and put my arm around his waist, wondering if I could actually support his weight if he lost consciousness. He stiffened. At least he wasn’t swaying anymore. I moved around in front of him. His brows were pulled low over blank eyes that stared over the top of my head into his mother’s room. His face was plaster-white and unmoving, as if he were only a sculpted representation of himself.

I brought my hand up to stroke his shoulder.

“Wayne?” I prompted.

He didn’t answer. My chest tightened. Where was he? He’s in shock, I admonished myself. His mother is dead. Of course he’s upset. But he wasn’t just upset. He was gone. As far away as the lifetime mental patients I had nursed long ago.

I grasped Wayne’s hand. It was ice-cold, and limp.

“Wayne, please,” I tried. My throat was suddenly sore. “We need to call an ambulance.” When I heard the tears in my own voice, I realized I was crying.

But Wayne didn’t respond to my words or my tears.

I stepped behind him and pulled his arm hard in my direction. He allowed himself to be turned around, his feet shuffling slowly to accommodate the movement of his arm. But he never spoke, not then or later as I tugged him down the stairway. We were almost down when the doorbell rang.

“Don’t answer that!” I shouted at Harmony.

But of course she did. And this time she didn’t bother with the chain lock. I guided Wayne down the last of the stairs as three generations of Skeritts spurted into the living room in a buzz of conversation and laughter.

No one seemed to notice as I maneuvered Wayne into position in front of one of the couches and eased him down, like an old man, onto its black leather cushions. I kissed the top of his head, willing him to return to life soon. His curly hair was damp with sweat.
Please,
I begged silently,
let him be all right. Please
—

“It’s not my fault, right?” Harmony’s shrill voice cut through the babble of voices.

“What’s not your fault?” asked Dru, smiling uncertainly at Harmony.

Suddenly, all the visiting Skeritts were silent and staring at Harmony. And at me. And finally, at Wayne.

“Hey, what’s wrong with Uncle Wayne?” asked Eric. “He looks totally wasted.”

“He’s… he’s had a shock,” I answered, damning the telltale tremor in my voice. “But he’ll be all right soon,” I added. I looked into Wayne’s eyes. They stared through me, unseeing.

“But—” Eric began.

“Ace?” I said, turning to the big man. “Can you take care…” I pointed at Wayne, unable to finish.

“Why, sure,” he boomed, striding toward us, his face looking achingly like Wayne’s as his eyebrows descended in concern. “But what’s wrong—?”

“I have to make a phone call,” I cut in. “I’ll be back.”

I waited impatiently as Ace sat down next to Wayne. Ingrid silently placed herself on Wayne’s other side, and took his hand in hers. New tears burned in my eyes as I ran into the kitchen to find the telephone. It was sitting on the tiled counter by the refrigerator.

But Eric had followed me in. “Where’s Aunt Vesta?” he asked before I could get to the counter.

“Vesta’s indisposed,” I told him. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that this wasn’t enough to satisfy him.

“What do you mean, ‘indisposed’?” he pressed.

“Please, Eric,” I begged. “Not now. Go sit with the others.”

I watched as he left the kitchen, hurt evident in the set of his shoulders. I’d make it up to him later, I told myself as I lunged for the phone. Later.

“What’s wrong with Wayne?” asked a new voice at the kitchen doorway. Damn. It was Trent, looking trim and distinguished in a polo shirt and slacks.

“It’s Vesta,” I said. “She’s very sick.”

His brows shot up, brown eyes wide for a moment.

“Actually, I think she’s probably dead,” I went on. I had to tell someone or I’d never be able to get to the phone. “But I need to call an ambulance, just in case.”

Trent nodded reassuringly, his face taking on the same Skeritt look of low-browed concern as Ace’s had. “Heart?” he asked quietly.

I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about causes. Not even myself.

“Shall I explain to the others?” he offered.

“Yes, please,” I breathed gratefully.

He turned and went back into the living room. I heard the drone of his steady, resonant voice as I picked up the telephone receiver. Then a few gasps, a deep groan and a couple of high-pitched questions.

I punched out 9-1-1.

And heard a shriek of pure terror. Was that Wayne? I dropped the receiver back into its cradle and rushed into the living room, looking for Wayne past all the other members of the Skeritt family.

But it was Eric, not Wayne, who was shrieking. Eric stood at the foot of the stairs with his mouth wide and his chubby face distorted by fear. Ace jumped up and ran to the boy.

“She’s dead!” Eric screamed. “I’m gonna hurl!” Then he sprinted toward the guest bathroom, with Ace galloping close behind him.

I turned my gaze back to Wayne. There was a little more color in his face, but his eyes were still dead. As Ingrid patted his hand gently, I turned away and took a step back toward the kitchen. The doorbell rang again.

Damn. Who the hell was left?

I yanked open the front door and saw Clara Kushiyama.

“Clara!” I shouted and wrapped my arms around her short, stocky body.

It took me less than a minute to whisper the details nonstop into her ear. Clara was halfway up the stairs when the phone rang.

Trent got to the phone first.

“Yes, there is an emergency,” I heard him say calmly into the receiver. “Yes, a call was made.” He put his hand over the phone for a moment. “Do we need an ambulance?” he asked me.

“Wait,” I ordered and ran back into the living room.

Clara was descending the staircase, her gentle face solemn. And troubled.

“Do we need an ambulance?” I relayed the question.

She shook her head slowly. I heard a gasp from somewhere behind me, and a thin trickle of whispered conversation. I looked over my shoulder to see who was talking.

“But Kate,” came Clara’s voice, tugging my head back around with its insistence. “I’m afraid we need the police.”

- Five -

“The police!” Harmony shrieked. “No! You can’t call the police. They’ll blame me, right? I know they will.”

Her hands were as agitated as her mouth. Moments before, her right hand had stroked a crystal at her throat while her left had fingered a clump of crosses hanging from her jacket fringe. But as she shrieked, both hands began racing from jacket fringe to necklace to earrings and back again, as if trying and failing to touch every amulet at the same time.

“The visitors will convince them,” she bleated. They can do that, right? Then they’ll blame me for everything—”