The Night Sister (11 page)

Amy jerked her hand away, wiped at her eyes. “Lou? What are you doing home?”

Jason turned and saw a little girl in the doorway to the kitchen, shouldering a heavy-looking pink backpack. Jason guessed she was eight or nine. She was an exact replica of her mother in miniature, only brighter, more sparkling, dressed in pink and purple glittering clothes and sneakers.

“We got out early 'cause of a teachers' meeting. I brought home a letter about it last week,
remember
?” She sounded vaguely irritated, like maybe Amy forgot such things all the time.

“I guess not,” Amy said, sighing. “Sorry, love.”

Lou regarded Jason. “Who's this?”

Amy stood up. “This is my friend Jason. But you can call him Jay Jay. Jay Jay, this is my daughter, Lou.”

“I didn't know you had a friend who was a policeman,” Lou said.

“And I didn't know your mother had such a pretty little girl,” Jason said, smiling at Lou.

Lou looked at Jason. “I'm not little. I'm ten. That's double digits.”

Jason nodded. “You're right. Ten is big.”

“Are you a friend of my dad's, too?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. He looked at his watch. “I've gotta get back to the station. It was great to meet you, Lou. Thanks for the coffee, Amy. I can see myself out.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” Amy called. “We'll talk again soon. Give my love to Margot.”

“I
know who you are,” Rose said, peering at him with dark eyes. “And I know why you've come.”

Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight braid. Her skin was porcelain white and remarkably free of wrinkles—just the vaguest hint of crow's-feet. She was sitting up in bed; across the room was a TV, tuned to a shopping channel. The room smelled like talcum powder and bleach, but underneath there was something else—musty and fetid.

Jason couldn't wait to get the hell out of the Foxcroft Health and Rehabilitation Center. He was thinking it was a mistake to have come at all. The nurse at the desk had told him that Rose had her good days and bad days, that she'd been confused and agitated. They'd caught her wandering the halls at night, not knowing where she was, so they'd put an alarm on her bed for her own safety. They'd also upped all her medications, in an attempt to keep her calm and comfortable.

“Why have I come, then?” he asked, sounding too much like an annoyed little boy. He was wasting his time. The woman was demented—even the nurse said so. Years of hard-core drinking and whatever else she'd been into had pickled her brain, interrupted the firing of synapses.

But didn't he owe it to Amy to check?

He kept replaying what Amy had said that afternoon: “I'm starting to think maybe my mother isn't crazy. That maybe…maybe…she was right.”

Rose sat up in her metal hospital bed, drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. “You're here because you want to know what I know.”

“Great,” Jason said, spreading his hands, palms upturned. “So enlighten me. What is it you know?” Jason asked.

She looked him up and down. “I'd like to tell you, Jason. Really, I would. But I'm not sure you're ready to hear it.”

Jason took a step back toward the doorway. The wild, mischievous look in the woman's eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was bonkers. Maybe Amy had been, too. Hereditary delusional thinking. Madness in the family.

“Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Slater.” He tipped his hat in that way that older people seemed to like, and started to back out of the room.

“Miss,” she said.

“What's that?”

“I never married. Amy's father, he was nothing. A no one. Not worth the time of day, much less a lifetime commitment. ‘Slater' is my maiden name. It's
Miss
Slater.”

“Yes, ma'am. I apologize.”

“Do you know anything about my granddaughter, Jason? Where they've put her?”

“She's fine,” Jason said. “She's safe.”

“Safe!” Rose repeated incredulously.

“I just stopped in to say hello,” Jason said. “Gotta get to work. You take care, now.”

He turned his back to her, started to leave.

“Jason,”
she called when he got to the door and was about to make his escape back down the hallway, past the nurses' station, out the front doors, and into the fresh air. God, he couldn't wait to breathe that air. He half-thought of pretending he didn't hear her. How easy it would be to just keep on walking, quickly, with purpose; he'd have to concentrate on not letting it turn into an I'm-getting-the-hell-out-of-here jog.

“Yes?” He turned, caving. His mother had raised him to respect his elders, to be polite, always: the sadder the shape someone was in, the more compassion they deserved. Besides, this wasn't just any senile old lady. This was Amy's mother. She deserved more than a brush-off, crazy as a loon or not.

“Aren't you going to ask me if I know what ‘29 Rooms' means?”

The photo with the message hadn't been released to the media. No one was supposed to know about it but the cops working the case.

He looked intently into her eyes, black like pools of ink. “Do you?”

She grinned. “Do you believe in monsters, Jason?”

“No, ma'am,” he told her.

“Neither did my daughter,” Rose said, cocking an eyebrow. “And look what happened to her.”

Mr. Alfred Hitchcock

Paramount Studios

Hollywood, California

September 9, 1955

Dear Mr. Hitchcock,

It's me again: Sylvia Slater from London, Vermont. I hope you've been getting my letters.

I don't think I've told you yet, but I can hypnotize people. I actually started with hypnotizing chickens (they're pretty easy) and now I practice on my sister Rose. She's more difficult, but I think I'm making progress.

My uncle Fenton gave me a book last Christmas,
Mastering the Art and Science of Hypnotism,
and I've studied it from cover to cover.

To be good a good hypnotist, you must project self-confidence. You must have a strong will and a belief that you will succeed. Self-doubt will bring failure. I think this is true not just with hypnosis, but with anything you try, even acting or making movies. Don't you agree?

My book says that once you've mastered the art of hypnosis, you can make a good-hearted man do something truly evil, or make a cruel person perform an act of kindness.

I have been testing this out with Rose, trying to make her a little more friendly with me, a little more agreeable in general. But the thing is, she has a stronger will than I thought. I will keep trying.

Sincerely yours,

Miss Sylvia A. Slater

The Tower Motel

328 Route 6

London, Vermont

Rose was excited to be out after dark, past bedtime on a Friday night. She and Sylvie were walking down Main Street in Barre with Uncle Fenton, who was doing his best James Dean impression, catching the eye of every teenage girl they passed. He had bought them both chocolate malted milk shakes in waxy paper cups.

It was raining. Rose and Sylvie shared an umbrella, while Fenton let the rain fall on him, small beads collecting on his freshly oiled hair and leather jacket. Main Street was crowded, thick with people of all sorts; they'd had to park the old Chevy pickup truck on the other side of town and walk in.

“What's happening?” Rose asked. “Is there a festival or something?”

“It's a surprise,” Fenton reminded her. “It's something big. Something your sister's going to love.”

What about me?
Rose wondered.
Will I like it, too?
Her teeth had started to ache from the cold, sweet milk shake. Her toes felt pinched, because she'd worn her good Sunday shoes. As exciting as it all was, she was getting tired and cold.

Sylvie, on the other hand, danced through the crowd, face flushed with excitement.

“Hey,” Fenton called to her, “you stick with your little sister, here. I don't want anyone to get lost. Your parents would never let me take you out again.”

Reluctantly, Sylvie came back and took Rose's hand, squeezing it a little too tightly before pulling Rose along like an uncooperative dog.
Pest,
her grip seemed to say.

Fenton had asked Mama if he could take Sylvie into Barre. “It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” he'd said. Mama agreed, but insisted they bring Rose along, too. Though Sylvie had protested, Mama was firm.

Now, up ahead, bright lights swept across Main Street and the sidewalk. All Rose could think of were the stories her father told of spotlights over Europe during the war, used to light up enemy aircraft.

“Are we at war?” Rose asked, suddenly frightened. Was that why everyone was out on the streets? Was there a squadron of German bombers on the way, ready to destroy Vermont? An atomic bomb could do that, Rose knew. Her daddy had told her about them, about what had happened when the United States bombed Japan, leaving a mushroom cloud where a city had been.

When a bomb like that hits, her daddy told her, there's nothing left; people just turn to vapor. It sounded like something out of one of Fenton's science-fiction books, not anything that could happen in real life. She tried to imagine it: a whole human being, flesh and blood and bones, turned to vapor, a puff of greasy smoke, something you could take into your lungs and hold there.

Without warning, Sylvie grabbed her sister's jacket, jerking her back.

“What's happening?” Rose asked, angry and frightened. She'd been pulled off balance, had nearly fallen on the wet sidewalk. The worst part was, Fenton hadn't noticed and was now far ahead, lost in the thick crowd in front of the Paramount Theater.

Sylvie tugged Rose back out of the street, into a small, dark alley between two brick buildings. Was she right? Were they at war, and here was brave Sylvie, saving her young sister from disaster? Rose started to duck down, to cover her head with her arms, but Sylvie pulled her up.

“Look,” Sylvie said, turning Rose's head so that she was facing across the street.

“What?” Rose asked.

“Don't you see him?” Sylvie asked.

Rose stared a minute, scanning the crowd through the drizzling rain. On the other side, amid the jostling strangers, stood a familiar figure: their father in his long black coat, hat cocked on his head.

Friday night was his bowling night, and he'd left the house before they did, carrying his black bowling bag. But now here he was on Main Street in Barre, and Rose saw he wasn't alone. There was a woman with him, holding his arm, leaning in to say something to him. She had red hair and wore a green coat with matching hat. Whatever she said made their father shake his head, then smile.

“Who is that?” Rose asked.

“Daddy.”

“Well, I know that!” Rose snapped. “But who is he with?”

Sylvie didn't answer.

The woman their father was with leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Rose blinked, and blinked again, more slowly, watching them go in, then out of focus as her eyelids closed.

Now it was almost as if a bomb really did go off. The pavement seemed to shift, and there was a dull roaring in her ears. She dropped the paper cup, and the top flew off, what was left of her milk shake flying everywhere, covering Rose's good shoes and tights.

“Come on,” Sylvie said, tugging Rose back into the throngs of people, heading for the theater. “Before he sees us.” Sylvie pulled Rose along.

“There you are!” Fenton called, pushing through people to get to the girls. “Good grief, I thought I'd lost you. I was about to start panicking. Where were you?”

“Sorry, Uncle Fenton, we got caught up in the crowd,” Sylvie said.

“Well, you're just in time. Look—they've arrived.”

“Who?” Rose gasped, wondering for a split second if he could possibly mean Daddy and the red-haired woman.

A platform had been set up in front of the Paramount Theater, and spotlights illuminated the sidewalk and street. A string of shiny new cars with a police escort had pulled up out front.

“What's happening? Who's here?” Sylvie asked, perched on tiptoes.

Rose struggled to see over the heads of the people in front of her, and Fenton, seeing her distress, lifted her up and put her on his shoulders, though she was really much too big for such things. But she didn't mind. From up there, she had a perfect view.

From the lead car stepped a large, jowly man, with close-cropped gray hair, wearing a black suit. He stopped and waved at the crowd. A woman from the car joined him: she was young and beautiful in a dark-blue dress with a deeply scooped neckline. A mink stole was draped over her shoulders.

“Oh! It can't be! It can't be, but it is!” Sylvie exclaimed.

“Who is it?” Rose asked.

“It's Alfred Hitchcock,” Fenton said. “One of the most famous movie directors in the world. And see that actress with him?” Fenton said. “She's the star of his new picture. Her name's Shirley MacLaine. Beautiful, isn't she?”

Shirley MacLaine waved graciously to the crowd, smiling, her pearl earrings glistening in the spotlights.

“They're from Hollywood,” Sylvie gasped as the director and actress were ushered through the crowds toward the platform. Sylvie pushed in closer to the street, as if being magnetically pulled toward the cars.

“The movie's called
The Trouble with Harry,
” Fenton explained. “They're having the world premiere tonight, here, because it was filmed up in Craftsbury. A little taste of Hollywood right here in Vermont. You remember this, Rose. This here is something you're going to be telling your grandchildren about—the day Alfred Hitchcock came to Barre for a movie premiere.”

Sylvie had made her way through the crowd to the base of the podium, where a man was introducing Alfred Hitchcock and Shirley MacLaine.

Rose watched in fascination as Sylvie stood—eyes wide, face strangely blank, slack-jawed—staring up at the director and movie star, as if, for just this once, she was the one hypnotized.