I spun around to face her. “So George has spent his life hearing the story of the nut who got him hurt then.”
“Not so,” Rita said. “Bubbles never talked of it. And George does not remember the accident. No, I do not think George knew anything, not until last week when your mother called and Bubbles got a little crazy. Who knows what she finally told him? But, well, I imagine it makes him…”
“…suspicious? Like I’m picking up the ghost trail where she left off? Rita, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know about any of this. If I did, I’d’ve run away from home rather than show my face here…did he go ballistic when he found out I was coming?”
“You wish to know all the details. I understand. But later. Tonight, in the study.” She tipped her head toward the door.
I was dismissed.
The universe is made of stories, not atoms.
—Muriel Rukeyser
With nowhere else to go, I went back to my room, where I attempted to distract myself by reading, working on my short story assignment, checking out the furniture. Whenever I peeked out the window, I saw Vincent shoveling the back walk or carrying in firewood from the shed. Later, dinner smells started wafting through the floorboards, and I knew Rita was directly below me. Nice, but not nice enough to ward off my boredom and loneliness, much less my outrage at Mom.
For the first time ever, I found myself wishing I knew more about Mom’s past. As it was, I’d only heard a couple of her stories, none of them firsthand. From Grandpa Quinn, I knew she collected imaginary friends worryingly late into childhood. From Uncle Cosmo, I learned about her stash of books on the occult. And from Great Aunt Aggie, I found out about Mom’s infamous high school career. It didn’t start out so bad, actually. In fact, when she was a sophomore, she got an academic scholarship to some chichi private school on the North Shore of Boston. Things were okay there until her Spanish class took a trip to Mexico junior year. P.S., Mom got sent home early with the “suggestion” that she seek “other educational opportunities.” So what went down in those Mexican ruins—boys, drugs? Whatever it was, Mom was sufficiently unnerved that to this day she won’t talk about it.
Apparently, she wasn’t so unhappy about the expulsion though. She gladly traded her pleated skirt uniform for a pair of grungy jeans, hopped the city bus for the crowded public school, and joined the photography club that met at the local library. Wait, was it the photography club or the paranormal club? I couldn’t remember. I knew my mother better than I knew The Donor, but I didn’t really know her, not by a long shot.
Just as the afternoon sun was taking its last gasp, the phone on my nightstand rang—loudly—and I jumped up. “Hello?”
“Hi honey, it’s Mom.”
Mom, oh God! Should I confront her about what I now knew? Should I make her admit that she dropped me in the middle of the minefield she planted all those years ago? I was dying to tackle her on this. I was furious with her, and I needed her to know it.
“Honey?” she repeated.
“Right here, Mom.”
“How are you settling in? You’ll never guess where I am.”
“Aren’t you still in Idaho?”
“Yes, of course, but wait till you hear this. I’m in Boise, the capital, and I’m at the big radio station here. I’m going to interview the owner of the Shotgun Murder Mansion and the President!”
“The President?”
“Of the Paranormal Society, silly. Right after he does a call-in show about the sighting at the mansion, he’s going to talk to me. Can you believe it?”
“No kidding.”
“Anyway, what about you? And Bubbles? How is she?”
“To tell the truth, I haven’t seen much of her yet. We’re having supper together tonight, so I guess I’ll—”
“Get her to tell you about our old bra designing contests,” Mom giggled. “She’ll have you peeing in your pants…oh my golly” (I swear, she actually said ‘oh my golly’), “I think I just saw the President walk by. It must be almost show time. I should probably—”
“No, Mom, don’t go yet. We need to talk.” A zap of static came over the line. “Mom?”
“Right here, honey. What’s up? Is everything all right?”
I collapsed onto the bed. “No, everything is not all right. Everything is awful. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you at least warn me about you and Bubbles, about what happened, how you haven’t talked in years?”
“Well, I—”
“Jesus, why did you send me to a place where we’re persona non grata?”
“Persona non grata—what are you talking about, Penny? Someone has you thinking I’m on the outs?”
“Spare me the act, Mom. I know all about the crawlspace accident.”
There was a short silence on the line followed by more static.
“Mom, are you still there?”
“It’s my battery, I think—it’s starting to go. Look, I want to tell you something before this phone dies completely. It’s true that when I phoned Bubbles last week, we hadn’t talked in, what, sixteen, seventeen years. But it’s not my fault. It’s not anything I did.”
I didn’t respond.
“Penny, did you hear me?”
“I heard you. I just, I don’t think I believe you.”
She made an almost laugh. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to believe someone you just met over your own mother?”
“I guess you’re going to have to convince me. Convince me that there’s some other explanation.”
“I will not,” she barked. “It’s nothing I want to talk about, nothing I’ve ever told anyone, and I’m certainly not going to start by telling you. If it’s details you want, I’m sorry. I’m not going there.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“I guess there’s nothing else to talk about then. Goodbye, Mom.”
“Penny, wait. Let’s not end like this. I hate to hear you so upset.”
“Then help me.”
“Not the way you’re asking me to help you. Let’s try—”
“Goodbye.” I hung up, feeling more miserable than ever. It was bad enough that Mom omitted vital information before sending me here. But now, to lie about it when I asked, that was unforgiveable. She really must not give a damn about me.
I was thinking very seriously about having myself a good cry—I was already looking around for some tissues—when there was a knock at my door. Wiping my eyes on the back of my hand, I pulled myself up off the bed and answered it.
I found a nice-looking guy leaning against the doorframe. Thick black hair hung over his chestnut eyes, and a few freckles punctuated his caramel face. He wore work boots, jeans and a maroon flannel shirt. He wasn’t much taller than me, but his athletic build made him look bigger.
“I’m here to double-check the windows,” he said. “The temperature in some of the rooms is a little low, and we’re trying to figure out why. Is this a good time?”
So Vincent had some help around the place—good. “Sure,” I said, waving him in.
“I’m