Mirrored

  Dr. Alvarez nods.

  “But the strange thing, Doctor,” Dad says, “is my wife is having the same symptoms. They couldn’t both be hysterically mute at the same time, could they? It would be an awfully big coincidence.”

  It would be except that Violet’s faking. She cast some sort of spell on me, then pretended to lose her voice too so it would seem like an illness. That was obvious.

  But I can’t say it. I mean, aside from the obvious fact I can’t speak, insulting Violet seems dangerous, considering she killed my mother. I’m just realizing that’s what I’m saying about her. I believe that’s true. I believe she murdered my mother so she could claim my father for her own.

  And, if that’s the case, I don’t want to get her any angrier at me than she already is.

  If she killed my mother, she could kill me next.

  I get Dad to drop me off at school after the doctor. I have to tell Connors.

  She sort of flips out when I do. It takes me a while to persuade her that I can’t talk at all. She says maybe I’ll be better for tomorrow’s performance. I know I won’t.

  I attend both performances, in solidarity with the cast. I watch my understudy screw up my part. I cry softly in the audience because softly is the only way I can cry. I tell Goose I can’t go to the cast party. The cast party is for people who were in the cast. He begs me to come anyway, but I’d feel too awkward.

  When I wake Sunday morning, my voice is back. Like I knew it would be.

  So is Violet’s. Like I knew it would be.

  “It’s like magic,” she says.

  Exactly.

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  10

  I spend as little time at home as possible. I study with Laurel, stay at her house most nights, and only go home to refill on clothes or money or if I need something signed for school. My drama friends haven’t ditched me (most pity me), so I hang with them too. When I do go home, I try to leave for the bus as early as possible.

  Sunday night, two weeks after the play, Dad picks me up at Laurel’s. I hear him in the kitchen, talking.

  “So have you adopted my daughter?”

  “She and Laurel love spending time together,” Mrs. Mendez says. “It’s so nice that they’re friends. She said she asked you if she could stay over those days. Didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she texts me at nine at night and tells, not asks.”

  “Is that true?” Mrs. Mendez notices I’ve entered the room.

  “What’s the big deal?” I ask Dad. “Violet doesn’t want me around. I’m just granting her wish.”

  “That’s not true,” Dad says.

  “It isn’t? So if Violet had a choice between living with both of us or just you, she’d choose both?”

  Mrs. Mendez takes the pot she’s stirring off the stove then starts for the door. I don’t blame her. “I’ll just let you two talk.”

  “We’re leaving. Thanks for having her.” Dad takes my overnight bag from me. “Violet loves you.”

  “Yeah, I can see the adoration in her eyes. She practically busted a gut from pride when I got the lead in the play. She wasn’t crazy-jealous at all.”

  “We’ll discuss this in the car.” He opens the door and waits for me to go out.

  In the car, he puts on his serious Dad voice and matching expression that he must copy from reruns of Full House. “Celine, Violet is a successful lawyer. An adult. Why would she be jealous of a teenage girl?”

  “You’d have to ask her that. I just know she is.”

  “Violet tries. She just doesn’t know about kids. That’s why we didn’t have any.”

  She has him so brainwashed. I wonder if that’s witchcraft. “Give me a break. I’m not some baby crying. She was fine when I was a kid. It’s now, now that I’m old enough to be a threat.”

  “Why would you be—?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the stuff that’s happening.”

  He stares at the road, taking the Dad-eyes off me. “What stuff?”

  Well, first off, my mother being killed by a freaking MONKEY.

  “You ignore it,” I say. “You ignore it all. You’re so hot for her you don’t see what she is.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A witch.”

  Stunned silence. All I can hear is the car’s air-conditioning, blowing too cold on my leg.

  Then, Dad laughs. “Good one, Celine. I thought you were going to at least tell me she was a criminal, something that could be real.”

  “This is real. You know it. She reanimated a bird when you were kids. Then, she made that dog attack my mother in high school. Then, she made a monkey kill her. You were there when all those things happened. You saw it!”

  “You’re insane.” My father is practically shaking. “You need help. I should—”

  I stop talking. Violet would be completely happy to have him put me in some facility for troubled teens. I may be troubled, but I’m not crazy. I’ve just finally—finally—realized the truth.

  But Dad’s never going to see it. He’ll never believe she’s a witch even with all the evidence. No one would, I guess. But he’s not even going to admit she hates me, that she hurts me on purpose.

  The other, harder, truth is that my father loves Violet more than he loves me.

  “Fine,” I say, “maybe it’s my imagination. But I’m not imagining that she doesn’t like me. You know she doesn’t want me around, even if you won’t say it. So why can’t I just stay at Laurel’s?”

  “You can go there after school sometimes, but you can’t live there. You’re my daughter.”

  We’re pulling into our driveway now. I say, “Fine,” knowing I’m going to do whatever I want. I jump from the car as soon as it stops moving.

  “Violet has a good heart,” he calls after me.

  I don’t answer. Anything I say would be worse than saying nothing.

  I don’t speak to Dad for the next few days. It’s not obvious because I just go to school early and come home late. I sleep at home and avoid the cats like they’re murderers—which they may be.

  Friday, I’m standing, waiting for the bus with Laurel, when Goose comes running up to me. “There’s been an accident! It’s your dad.”

  “What? What kind of accident?” I flash back to the day with my mom, and it feels like a fist squeezing my heart. Would Violet hurt Dad?

  “A woman came up to me and told me to get you. Your father’s been in a car accident. He was airlifted to Jackson. That’s all she said. I can take you there.”

  “Who? What woman? Did she have red hair?”

  “No. She looked a little familiar, but I’m not sure from where. Come on.”

  I follow him and Willow in silence. What is this? Why would Violet hurt Dad? And who was the woman Goose talked to?

  Please let Dad be okay.

  We pull up in front of the emergency room. Now that we’re here, it seems so much more real. Airlifted to Jackson. What if he’s really hurt or . . . worse? “I don’t know what to do,” I tell Goose.

  “I’ll go in with you. Let me figure out where to park.”

  Then, I see Violet running toward me.

  “That’s my stepmother,” I say to Goose. I start out of the car.

  “I can still come with you. Just follow her, and I’ll catch up.”

  I really want Goose to stay. Really. But I know he probably wants to leave. And I’m sure Willow does. It would be too weird to have them stay at the hospital.

  “It’s okay. Thank you. I’ll go with Violet.”

  “All right. Let me know what’s happening. Text me, day or night.”

  “Okay.” I run after Violet.

  V
iolet’s hair is half up, half down. She’s taken off her five-inch heels to go faster and holds her shoes in her hand. When I catch up to her, I can see that her face is tearstained. It’s the one time I’ve seen her not perfect. She runs to the front desk. “I’m looking for my husband, Gregory Columbo. He was airlifted here. He was in a car accident.” A huge sob rips from her throat.

  “You’re Mrs. Columbo?” a nurse asks.

  “Yes.” Violet’s still sobbing. “Where is he? You have to take me to Greg!”

  “Just wait a moment. I’ll get the doctor.”

  “Please! You have to take me—” But the nurse walks away.

  Violet follows her. “Maybe you shouldn’t follow her in there,” I say.

  She looks at me like she’s just realizing I’m there. “I have to. Time is ticking.” I can hear her breath, shallow, like a panting dog’s, and that’s how I know she suspects what I do: He’s dead. My father is dead. I go to put my arm around her, but she shoves me aside and runs after the disappearing nurse, through the emergency room doors. “Greg! I have to see him! Greg!”

  She’s intercepted by a female doctor in a white coat. “May I help you? You shouldn’t be back here.”

  “It’s my husband, Gregory Columbo. He was brought here. I need to see him.”

  “Yes, I was on my way out to you. I’m Dr. Martinez.” The doctor is about Violet’s age, short with blond hair in a messy bun. She looks like a mom, and her voice is soft. “I’m so sorry, We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it.”

  “Noooooo!” It’s a shriek. I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I wish Goose had stayed. I wish Goose had stayed. But Violet’s reaction is much, much more. The sound is inhuman. “I have to see him! You have to take me to him!”

  The doctor tries to get in front of Violet, who shoves against her. “He was badly injured. It may be upsetting. In a little while, you can identify the remains.” She places her hand on Violet’s shoulder.

  “No! Not a little while!” Violet’s voice fills the room, and the doctor jolts back as if shocked. “You have to take me to him now! Right! Now!”

  I hear glass shatter. The window on one of the doors has broken, but no one touched it.

  “Very well. Just calm down,” the doctor says. “You might want to have the girl stay here. She shouldn’t see him like this.”

  “She can stay.” Violet wipes the tears from her face, but they just keep coming. “I have to see Greg! Greg!” It comes out a wail.

  “Follow me.” I notice the doctor keeps her distance from Violet.

  Violet follows, still breathing like a mastiff, practically running and almost overtaking the doctor. Despite the doctor’s instructions, I follow, but when I get to the door she holds open, I stop.

  My father—his body—lies motionless on a bed, a sheet covering most of him. Still, I can see that his head is bashed and bleeding. His face is almost unrecognizable. I stop. He isn’t my father anymore. The doctor is right. I don’t want to see him like that. But Violet elbows past me into the room.

  “Greg!” She throws herself onto his body, embracing him, like she’s trying to touch as much of him as possible, give her life to his, and she begins to make weird noises. It sounds like she’s praying or speaking in tongues, but not exactly. Not exactly words, either. She isn’t crying anymore, but her voice rises to a wail in the quiet room, and her whole body vibrates.

  I remember what Laurel’s mom said about the bird that was dead, then wasn’t. Is Violet trying to bring my father back? Can she?

  I would be willing to deal with everything about Violet if she could do that, anything to have him back, even for a minute, anything to make things right.

  The doctor comes up behind me. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let her . . . I’ll get a nurse for your mother, with a sedative.”

  I nod, biting the back of my lips, then get out, “My stepmother. She adored him.” I know it’s true. If I ever doubted Violet’s love, seeing her writhing, covered in my father’s blood, changes that. Violet is insane with grief. I feel my own, like a weight on my chest. I have no one I can turn to. I have no one but Violet.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor says.

  Violet’s on the floor now, still wailing. But now, I understand words. “Greg! Come back to me! I can’t lose you so soon! I can’t . . . I can’t! I caaaaant!”

  I run to her, trying to avoid looking at Dad’s body.

  “Violet, let’s get out of here. Looking at him can’t help.”

  “He can’t be gone!” she screams. “What good is it to be able to fix birds and cats when the only one I want is dead on a table?”

  Birds and cats. But I lead her out into the hallway. I try to embrace her, but she falls to her knees. She throws her head back and shrieks so loudly that the floor seems to shake like the ground is opening. The doors rattle, and again, a glass window breaks. Then another. And another. How is this happening? Is her grief so huge that she could make this happen? Is there a tornado outside? Did Violet cause it? Is she really a witch?

  I know the answer. If I didn’t before, I know it now.

  “Violet, stop!” I yell. “You can’t do this. It won’t—”

  “Violet!” A woman is walking toward us. She’s about Violet’s age, with a beautiful face and dark hair streaming down her back. The woman from Target. Kendra.

  Goose said the woman who spoke to him looked familiar. It was her.

  She wears a black dress that looks like it’s from another era. An orderly tries to stop her, but she stares at him, and he backs off. “Violet, I’m here.”

  “Kendra.” Violet collapses in a ball onto the floor. “How did you know I was here?”

  The woman, Kendra, kneels by her, embracing her. “I knew, my darling. I am always there for you, Violet. It’s all right, my sweet.”

  “No!” she sobs. “No! He was my life! Now, he’s gone. He’s dead, and it’s all for nothing. Nothing! It’s all worthless. I’m worthless without Greg!”

  The orderly who tried to stop Kendra is with Dad now, covering his body, covering his face so I don’t have to see it again.

  “This is a punishment!” Violet wails, “a punishment for what I’ve done, for what I am!”

  “There, there, Violet.” Kendra rocks her, like a mother with a small child. “There, there.”

  Between sobs, Violet says, “But Greg was the only one who ever loved me!”

  “No, dear,” Kendra says. “I love you. I love you, and I will be with you forever. Forever and ever and ever when everyone alive today is gone. I love you.” She holds Violet for a long time, letting Violet’s sobs shake them both.

  Finally, she looks up at me. I know I’m staring, and I feel that my mouth is open. I shut it.

  “You’re Celine. We’ve met before,” she says. When I nod, she adds, “Poor child, both parents gone. You and Violet are all each other has.”

  Horrible thought. My throat feels full at that thought, like I might never swallow again, like I might choke and die and be with my parents sooner, and be happy. But I nod. I breathe through my nose until I can speak. “But who are you?”

  “I’m Kendra,” she says. “I am Violet’s sister.”

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  11

  Kendra, at least, turns out to be normal, though I’m still not sure about the sister thing. Wouldn’t we have known if Violet had a sister? She talks to the hospital and police about my father’s body. Together, she and I visit the funeral home and make the plans. Violet stays in bed the whole time.

  “Celine?” Kendra taps my leg. I look up from my phone. I’d been thinking about sending a text to Dad. It seems like I should be able to. After all, it’s only been a day.
How can everything change in a day?

  “I’m sorry, dear,” Kendra’s saying, “do you prefer dark wood like mahogany or cherry? Or we could get something light like poplar.”

  “What?” I put in Dad’s name, text I love you.

  “For the casket. I’m so sorry.”

  “They’re all nice,” I whisper. Now that I’ve sent the text, I can see the whole line of others, all from me, unanswered, saying I’m sleeping at Laurel’s. I slip the phone back in my purse and jab my finger at a reddish-brown one. “That one.”

  Kendra nods. She plans everything and doesn’t ask me anything else.

  The next day, the day before the funeral, I go to school. It seems better than staying home with Violet, better than thinking about Dad being gone.

  But as soon as I get off the bus, I realize it’s a huge mistake. I stand there, not sure what to do, staring down at the sidewalk where the class of 2014 has painted lots of happy, green cougar paw prints, walking toward the school. All I can see are everyone’s feet, yellow Converse, blue Converse, plaid Converse, flowered fake combat boots, white Vans, all walking with and against the paw prints, turning into an impressionistic painting as my eyes fill with tears.

  “Hey, hey, why are you here? You shouldn’t be here.”

  I’m still looking down, but I can see the top of Goose’s head, one dark curl going into another. He looks at me, his eyes meeting mine.

  “I just figured that out,” I say, and then, I start to sob.

  Goose begins to reach up to put his arm around me, then stops and tugs my hand instead. “Come on,” he whispers.

  “Come on where?”

  “Shh. Quick. Get in my car. It’s still early.”

  “What about you?”

  “Shh. Be quiet. Have to be casual in case someone sees us. School doesn’t start for twenty minutes.” He tugs on my hand.

  “Won’t Willow wonder where you are?”

  He looks away. “We broke up. I don’t want to discuss it. Or anything. Be quiet.”

  He pulls me along, through the Converses, Vans, Keds, and I follow. I don’t want him to take me home.