The Sitter (13 page)

29

A
re the little devils hiding from us?” Maggie asked. “Playing a game, I’ll bet.” Her voice was light, but her face revealed her concern.

She said something else, but I didn’t hear it. I started to run. On trembling legs, I trotted along the crowded beach, slipping on the wet rocks, searching each face, fighting the sunlight, the bright white light that faded every face, that made every face so vague and hard to identify. Fighting the white light radiating off the sand and stones, such a strong light that seemed to want to surround me, to hold me, keep me from finding the right faces.

Fighting the sunlight—or my overwhelming dread?

I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted. “Heather? Brandon?”

This isn’t happening.

This is
not
happening.

And then I saw a shadow in the water, far out in the water, where the shallow bottom dropped off. The shadow became a figure. I recognized the baggy, black swimsuit, the T-shirt Abby insists he wears when he swims.

A boy with a big, black inner tube.

Yes. It’s Brandon. Squinting through my sunglasses, I could see him perfectly now. Where did he get the inner tube? And why is he pushing it to the deep water?

“Brandon? Come back here! Brandon? It’s dangerous out there!
Come back!
”

I leap into the water and run over the wet rocks, waving my arms frantically. And then I stop, water only up to my shins. I stop because I see what Brandon is doing.

I mean, I see his passenger clinging to the big tube. I see Heather’s back. And I see her tiny hands gripping the side of the tube. She’s on her stomach, clinging to the wet rubber, kicking her feet furiously, holding on for dear life.

And Brandon is pushing her, pushing her out to the deep waters.

“Brandon! No!”

Brandon, why are you doing this?

I gasp as he gives the black tube a hard push. It bobs out into deep water, tossing on the low waves.

“No—please! No!”

As I start to run, I see Heather slide off the side of the tube. Her little body sinks quickly—so quickly and smoothly—into the blue-green water. I see her legs disappear, then her waist, her head. Her tiny arms are the last to go under. I see her hands on the surface, like tiny white flowers. Then they disappear, too.

The tube bobs in place, and Heather is gone.

Brandon stands in the shallow water, watching intently, not moving.

The inner tube bobs, and there’s no sign of his sister.

I run to the end of the shallow water. I kick off, using the bottom to propel me. Swimming hard, I pull myself along the surface and search for her.

Heather, come up!

Behind me, I glimpse Brandon just standing there, watching. I take a deep breath and dive down. Where is she? The water is thick with weeds. The tendrils wave and wriggle and reach out like dark snakes.

Where
is
she?

And then I see a foot—a pale, white, tiny foot, tangled in long black weeds. I need to breathe. How long have I been underwater? My chest feels ready to explode. I picture an inflated paper bag being popped.

I grab for the foot. I see Heather’s body now, her pink swimsuit. I see her wide eyes, her startled face—not frightened, but startled and confused, as if wondering how this happened.

I tug once, twice, and wrench her leg free of the tangle of weeds. And then I am pulling her up, pulling her with strength I don’t have, my chest exploding, the whole world red now, bright red.

We burst over the surface. I hold her up above my head. I gulp in breath after breath, choking, sputtering, spitting out water, my whole body heaving with each breath. The red fades. All color fades in the white sunlight, the pure, white sunlight that I am so happy to see again.

I hold Heather high. Without even realizing it, I am holding her up to the sun, warming her, returning her to the light.

Is she breathing?

Is she alive?

Yes. She thrashes her arms, kicks her legs, chokes, and spits out grimy green water. Water runs off her body, onto my shoulders. Her blond hair is matted to her head. A tuft of thick grass clings to her swimsuit.

I feel her shake as she starts to cry. She opens her mouth in a long, high wail, and then shudders with sob after sob.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Heather, it’s okay now.”

My muscles aching, I stumble to the shallow water. She’s crying uncontrollably now. I pull her close to me.

“Where are your floaties?” I cry. “Who took off your floaties?”

She’s crying too hard to answer. Brandon hasn’t moved. He stands nearby, skinny arms crossed over his chest, staring at us with no expression at all.

I cradle Heather under one arm. I grab Brandon with my other hand and tug him sharply toward shore.

“Why did you do it?” I shout, squeezing his arm, wanting to hurt him, wanting to pay him back for trying to kill his sister.

I have to get through to him!

“How could you do such a horrible thing?”

A smile spreads over his face.

Furious, I jerk his arm and drag him to shore. Heather is still wailing, thrashing her arms and legs again.

“Heather, you’re okay. You’re perfectly fine.” I set her down on the pebbly shore.

I turn to scold Brandon, but something catches my eye. A long white skirt. I look up and realize someone is standing beside us. At first her face is hidden behind a white wide-brimmed hat.

She is dressed entirely in white, a ghostly figure.

And then she turns, and I recognize the wrinkled, rouged face in the shade of the hat.

My breath catches in my throat. “Oh. Hi, Mrs. Bricker,” I finally manage. “I heard you were out of the hospital. I—”

Her eyes are on Brandon. She stares at him for the longest time.

Then she slowly turns to me and raises her arm. I see the tight, white bandages. I see her bandaged stump.

Her eyes narrow to slits. She waves the stump at me and rasps, “It’s started, hasn’t it. It’s started.”

Part Three

30

T
eresa’s share house was a tall, white stucco building on Noyac Road. The house was completely hidden from the street by a tall, perfectly manicured hedge.

The Harpers dropped me off a little after five. I thanked them for the ride and walked up the curving gravel driveway jammed with cars and SUVs. I could see the sparkling water of Peconic Bay behind the house.

Music blared from the back. I heard shouts and laughter. A red Frisbee came flying past my head. Two guys in swimsuits grabbed for it, bumping each other out of the way.

Teresa greeted me at the front door. “I hope you came to party,” she said, pulling me inside. “This place is out of control!”

She pulled me into the living room crowded with guys and girls in shorts and bathing suits, talking, holding drinks, lots of laughter. Two guys were carrying a beer keg toward the back. Two couples were all tangled up, totally lip-locked on a low, tan couch that stretched the length of the back wall.

“Wow. My first party in a glamorous share-house in the Hamptons!” I said. I sounded as if I were being sarcastic (when don’t I?), but I really was excited.

“Well, let me give you the glamorous tour,” Teresa said, taking my arm. She led me past five bedrooms jammed with cots toe to toe, sleeping bags cluttering the floor. On the other side of the living room stood a large den where a group of guys was playing PlayStation 2, which they had hooked up to a big-screen TV. They were shouting and cheering as if they were at a stadium.

There were sleeping bags and cots in every room in the house. Thirty people had shares here, Teresa explained, and they were allowed to bring two or three guests a season.

“Not a whole lot of privacy,” I said as Teresa led me out to the terrace in back.

“You got that right!” she replied. “But you’re never lonely. And you do get to meet some okay people.” She pointed to the glass doors at the back. “Come check out the pool.”

I glanced around. “Where can I change?” I had a T-shirt and shorts over my swimsuit.

“Just drop your stuff in any corner,” Teresa said.

We stepped through the glass doors. Pounding dance music greeted us. A beautiful swimming pool came into view. “Ta
da
! Not too shabby, huh?” Teresa said.

The pool was dark green and enormous, filled with people. I saw round hot tubs at both ends. And beyond the pool, I could see the beach and the bay, golden and green in the fading sun.

“Wow.”

Teresa grinned and pushed back her hair. “I spend most of my time back here working on my tan.”

I heard a squeal as a man tossed a woman into the pool. The tidal wave of a splash made several people sitting at poolside scream. And though the pool was really crowded, no one was swimming. Everyone was standing in the shallow end, drinking and talking.

Nine or ten people jammed the first hot tub. They had all taken off their swimsuits and tossed them onto the terrace. I saw a group of people leaning over a darkwood picnic table, having a serious shot-drinking contest.

Three guys struggled to get the beer keg going. On the deck on the other side of the house, a guy and a girl in white aprons manned two barbecue grills. I watched them turning enormous racks of ribs. Smoke floated up from the grills. The wonderful, tangy aroma reminded me of the annual Brat Festival back in Madison, the streets filled with the aroma of barbecued brats and ribs.

Teresa and I poured ourselves glasses of white wine. Then we found a free space by the edge of the pool and dropped down with our feet in the water.

“I entered you in the wet T-shirt contest,” Teresa said.

I sputtered wine down my chin. “You
what
?”

She laughed. “Kidding. Would I do that to you?”

I gave her a soft shove. “You are
so
not funny.”

I glanced toward the house and saw someone I knew walk out through the glass doors. It took me a few seconds to realize it was Jackson. “Hey, he’s here!” I exclaimed.

“Is that what’s-his-name?” Teresa lifted her sunglasses to see him clearly. “Hey, Ellie, he’s a total babe!”

I waved to Jackson, but he didn’t see me. I leaned on Teresa’s shoulder to help pull myself to my feet and went running over to greet him.

We shook hands awkwardly. “Hey, glad you came.”

His eyes flashed. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to run away this time.”

“Cut me some slack. I already apologized five times. Do you really think I’m crazy or something?”

He nodded. “Yes.” If he hadn’t chuckled, I would have believed him.

He wore faded denim shorts and a navy sleeveless T-shirt. When he shook my hand, I saw a tattoo near his right shoulder. Chinese letters.

“What’s that tattoo?” I asked. “Something deep and mysterious?”

“It’s my name in Chinese.”

I ran my finger over it. “Why’d you get it?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t think of what else to get.”

Teresa walked over, straightening the top of her bikini. I introduced them, and we chatted for a while. Jackson said he had three roommates in his apartment in college, but couldn’t imagine having twenty-nine.

“We have better parties this way,” Teresa told him.

Jackson glanced around. “When does the orgy start? Ellie promised me an orgy.”

I gave him a shove. “Did not.”

Teresa motioned to a couple at the far end of the pool. They were both dripping wet from the pool. He was on his back on the concrete, and she was on top, straddling him, locking him in a long kiss.

“Jeez,” she said. “I think it’s already started.”

I narrowed my eyes at Jackson. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He grinned. “I have
plenty
of ideas!”

The keg was finally tapped, so we went over to get beers. Then we talked and hung out by the pool, met some guys who recognized Jackson from the bike shop. We swam and had platefuls of smoky ribs and potato salad, danced a bit and had a few more beers.

I realized later on that I never stopped to wonder if I was having a good time or not. My mom is always telling me I think too much, that I overanalyze everything. And I know she’s right. But tonight, I was as laid back as Jackson and didn’t ruin my good time by wondering if I was really enjoying myself or not.

The party was still going strong at 1
A.M.
Some couples from another house were just arriving. But I’d had a full day of the kids and the beach, and I was starting to yawn.

“Did you drive?” Jackson asked. He had his arms around my waist, and we were slow-dancing at the side of the pool.

“No. I thought I’d call a taxi.”

He pressed his warm cheek against mine. “Let me take you home?”

I snickered. “On the back of your bike?”

He pulled his head back and frowned at me. “Just because I work in a bike store doesn’t mean—”

“Okay. Thanks. I have to say good night to Teresa.” I pulled away from him and started to search for her. But he pulled me close again.

“Listen, Ellie, I—uh—know what’s been going on with you. I mean, I saw it on TV. When I saw you with the police, I—I couldn’t believe it. Really. I felt so bad for you.”

“Jackson, I—”

“No. Let me finish. I guess you don’t want to talk about it. I mean, you haven’t all night, and I don’t blame you. But, I just wanted to say—well, if you ever
do
need someone to talk to. Or if you ever do need help of any kind, I—”

I didn’t let him finish. I threw my arms around him and pressed my cheek against his neck. “Thank you! Oh, you’re so sweet. Thank you!” Then I pressed my lips against his and held his face while we kissed.

Maybe things were going too fast. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions—trusting him too soon. I mean, I’d just met him. But he seemed so much calmer than any guy I’d ever been with. Like a real grown-up. Hell, I’d ditched him on the beach in the middle of the night, and he understood and didn’t think it was the end of the world.

We said good night to Teresa. She was sitting on some guy’s lap, a drink in one hand, her other arm draped casually around the guy’s neck. Her hair had fallen over her face, and her eyes were heavy-lidded and spacey. I don’t know if she heard me or not.

Jackson and I made our way through the jumble of people in the house, carefully stepping around couples on the floor. In front, cars had filled the driveway and spilled onto the lawn.

We walked arm in arm, leaning against each other. “I’m parked on the street,” he said. “By the time I got here, there had to be twenty cars lined up!”

Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow street. The windows of one car we passed were totally steamed up, and we could see the heads of a couple in the backseat bobbing up and down.

“That’s my car down there,” Jackson said, pointing to a new white Thunderbird convertible across the road.

“That’s yours? You’re kidding!” I cried.

He nodded. “Yes, I’m kidding. I’m driving a bright red Passat I borrowed from my brother.”

We walked past a curve in the road. “Stop,” I whispered. I held him back and pointed. “Look.”

A large deer stood in the woods, still as a statue, staring at us through the cars. Its dark eyes sparkled. It lowered its head slowly, watching us warily.

“Oh—!” I cried out as a bright light swept over us.

I clamped my eyes shut, blinded by the white light. I heard the squeal of brakes.

I forced my eyes open. The deer was gone. Vanished into the safety of the woods.

Jackson pulled me hard, and we stumbled against a black Mercedes. The car behind the headlights slowly came into view—a black SUV.

Before the car had even stopped, the driver was climbing out. He left the car door open. He came at us, stepping through the twin headlights, a rapidly moving shadow who quickly became real. Too real.

Clay.

I stepped away from the Mercedes. My throat tightened with anger. “Clay—what are you doing here?”

He ignored me. He kept his eyes on Jackson. “Keeping my girl warm for me?”

He was dressed in city clothes—a long-sleeved white shirt that had come untucked on one side, necktie loosened, pleated khakis. He strode up to Jackson, as if I weren’t there. “That what you’re doing? Getting my girl warmed up for me? Are you the warm-up act for tonight?”

Jackson turned to me, confused. “Who
is
this guy?”

“Clay—get
out
of here!” I shouted.

Again, he ignored me. He was breathing hard, short, wheezing breaths. “Why’d you do it, Ellie?”

“Clay, just leave.”

Jackson took a step forward. “You heard her.”

Clay didn’t back off. “Why’d you do it, babe?” Sweat poured down his forehead. His eyes were wild. His eyebrows kept flying up and down. “Why, babe? Why the fuck did you do it?”

“Clay, please—”

“Why, Ellie? I’m asking you a simple question. Just tell me why. Did you really think I’d chop up an old lady? Is that why you sicced the fucking cops on me? Why did you tell them it was me?”

“I didn’t. I—”

“Oh, wait. I get it. I
get
it. You were protecting this guy. Is that what it was about?”

I felt Jackson tense at my side. “I’m warning you,” he said softly.

“How could you do that to me, babe? I’ve got a job, you know. I’ve got a life. Do you think I’m crazy? Do you think I’m a fucking murderer?”

“You—you’ve been stalking me,” I said, grabbing on to Jackson’s arm. “What else could I think? First you sent me those disgusting black flowers and—”

“Huh? Flowers?” Clay wiped sweat off his face with his shirtsleeve. “I never sent you any fucking flowers. I sent you a birthday card. That’s it.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “You sent those black flowers. I had no choice. When the hand came, I—I had to tell the police about you.”

“I don’t know shit about any hand or any flowers, Ellie. I sent you a card, that’s all. How come you didn’t answer my phone calls? I called you every day. How come you didn’t answer? Because you were fucking
this
guy?”

Jackson lurched forward angrily. I tugged him back. “No, please,” I whispered. “He’s high. He’s totally trashed. He doesn’t know what he’s—”

“Yeah. I’m high,” Clay broke in. “So what? So fucking what about it?” He strode up to Jackson. “And what are
you
high on, pretty boy? You high on her ass?”

Clay bumped Jackson hard with his chest.

He’s out of his head, I realized. He’s dangerous. I was wrong. He’s much crazier than I thought. He really could be the one. Sure, he had an alibi set up. But he’s crazy enough to attack Mrs. Bricker.

“You want to do something about it?” he challenged Jackson. “You want to fucking do something?” He bumped Jackson again.

I still had hold of Jackson’s arm, but he pulled away from me. His face was tight with anger. He let out a low growl and grabbed Clay by the front of his shirt.

Clay threw a wild punch that sailed over Jackson’s head.

Jackson pulled Clay up by the shirt, dragged him across the street. Clay thrashed and flailed, trying to land a punch.

“No, please!” I screamed, my heart pounding, hands pressed against my face. “Please, Jackson—don’t!”