Mayday

  “My fault,” I said, and jarred my gaze free of Adele. “I was showing Crow where I lived.”

  Mom whipped around. “Which is . . . ?”

  “Alabama.”

  Mom’s face twitched. “I’m guessing you’re Shane Owen Raine.”

  “That’s what they’re calling me. I admit the last name was borrowed without permission.”

  I tried hard to stay callous, detached. But the whole scene was too much: Mom barking at me; Addy leaning against the bedpost, her knees tucked up beneath her chin; and Crow collapsed on a bed, looking very similar to the crooked soul I’d seen in the hospital.

  I wanted to scream, It’s me. I’m back! I’m Crow’s soul-mind, whatever that is. Do you have any idea what’s going to happen in just a few days?

  Instead, I eased onto Crow’s bed and glanced around at everything that once had been mine. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Raine.”

  “Yeah.” Mom said, nodding slowly. “Seeing as how you live here, it’s nice to finally get a look at your face.” She glanced at Crow. “Meat loaf in the fridge.”

  Crow looked at her hard. “The Monster’s in there, too.”

  Mom wiped her brow with her middle finger. “That monster is my husband, a fact I hoped you would have accepted by now.”

  Crow shook her head.

  “What?” Mom raised her eyebrows. “No comeback? No sick, perverted accusations against him? Shane, you’re already having a positive effect.” She glanced at the three of us. “I need to consult with Jude.” Mom kissed Adele and left the room.

  A strange silence settled over us. Adele, immune to the gravity of such moments, found her voice first.

  “The girl from the bus. So you’re the one Crow’s told me about these last nights. You’ve really been living in our backyard?”

  I peeked out the window. “Yeah, I hope that’s okay.”

  She grinned. So gentle, so at ease with whatever came into her life. Adele plopped down next to Crow and stroked her hair. Crow slowly closed her eyes. “Thanks for anything you did for my sister.” She paused. “I’m sorry for Mom. She’s having a rough day.”

  Crow shot up to vertical, red eyes wide. “It’s more than a day. We can pretend later, but I’m not lying to Shane: this is every morning, this is every night, this is her.”

  Addy lowered her head and folded her hands.

  “And I’m getting it. I’m getting it all, you know that,” Crow continued. “But you know how half of this is Jude speaking through her. He puts on that therapist face and pretty much convinces her the sky is green. He’s taking over the house, Addy.”

  Addy peeked up and whispered, “I don’t want to talk about this again.”

  Crow glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “But we have to. Jude isn’t right.”

  “He’s friendly enough.”

  “To you. Do you notice? Only to you. Touchy, waiting, watching.”

  Addy rubbed her arms, “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Why did Dad leave? I know I made it tough. I get that, so I’m not innocent.” Crow peeked at me, her face softening. “But I’ve been thinking lately: there must have been another reason. That reason is Jude.”

  Keep talking, Crow.

  “Dad’s probably happy, wherever he is. Adele, we don’t have to stay either. You and I could—”

  “I’m not leaving Mom. She needs us. I need her.”

  How many times I’d danced around the issue: Run away with me! We could do it. Each time it came back to the same thing. This curious, unreasonable connection between Adele and Mom. Though Mom was little more than an extension of Jude, Addy would not let her go.

  The sisters fell silent.

  “The main thing is that you two stay together,” I said. “And more than together, trust each other, trust that you have each other’s best interests in mind.” They glanced at me, and at each other. Then they hugged.

  I should have been a therapist.

  “So you’re the daughter of my ex-husband.” Mom strutted in. “Given your age, my ex would have likely rushed from Regions Hospital, where I had Crow, to the bedside of his mistress, who would have been busy producing you.” She paused. “Then again, Crow’s entrance into the world would make almost any man do that.”

  Her face darkened, the face that blamed Crow for Dad’s departure. “Yes, Crow would make any man hungry for a different home.”

  “No, Mom,” Addy grabbed Crow’s wrist. “You need to stop saying that. He loved us both.”

  Crow stormed out of the room, and my gaze followed. Those digs had been so common, so everyday; I never felt their cruelty, not from the inside. But now, I saw the sickness of the words, the disease that spread through the house.

  “Maybe Dad was a polygamist,” I said. “Or a sperm donor. Or maybe you just forgot that you had a third child, ever thought of that?”

  Adele burst out laughing, and the dark shadow passed from Mom’s face. She chuckled. “I declare, you are something.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are something. You know, you do look like Cameron. It’s in the eyes.” She sighed. “So the school wanted to know if I claimed you. I told them that depended on whether you tilted toward Crow or Adele.”

  “Two fine choices, if you ask me. What do you think?” I asked.

  “Time will tell. I don’t know where you rightfully belong, so I won’t sign anything legal, but if you can keep Crow on the straight and narrow, you can stay here for life.”

  • • •

  Straight and narrow. I hated those words, and they kicked me into a memory.

  Confession time. Aside from my little thirteen-year-old flirtation with an empty garage and Jude’s Winstons, the only place I ever drank or smoked was at Dove’s. I did no other drug, and committed no crime other than those against my own body. I couldn’t afford to—I had to be coherent for the nights.

  Despite my reasonably responsible attitude toward substance abuse, I found myself in juvenile detention four times, four of the most terrifying nights of my life. I was never there for more than a night, and never for an instant was I frightened for myself. Though Jude’s nighttime visits to our room had long since ended, fear for Addy’s safety died hard, if at all.

  I was sixteen when I had my first juvie sleepover. The night had started innocently enough. Basil came over to the house and picked me up on his new pea-green snowmobile. Proud fool. I threw on my leather jacket and ran out the door. Mom called, “Basil, now keep that daughter of mine on the straight and narrow.”

  This frustrated me for two reasons:

  Mom was acting like a mom. There’s a joke.

  Had Mom ever seen the inside of Basil’s room, she’d have discovered a boatload of dubiously acquired electronic devices. I will not say he was a thief. Thieves actually believe they are taking someone else’s property. Basil simply possessed an entitlement mentality—he felt entitled to Jack Logan’s iPad and Mr. Scapelli’s laptop.

  “Sure thing,” Basil answered. He smiled and messed my hair. “Crow on the straight and narrow. You can trust me.”

  We ended up at the Shack, home of the most incredible pizza pies. If I remember correctly, Basil ended up with a hot pepper fleck lodged in his eye, which swelled to the size of a golf ball. He whimpered and whined until I demanded he take me home.

  We sat and talked on his sled in my driveway. That’s when I noticed it, the bungee basket, not exactly standard equipment for a new snowmobile. I lifted the lid. Five cans of spray paint.

  Basil offered a sheepish smile. “I thought maybe—”

  “What maybe were you thinking?”

  “Why let jocks have all the fun?” He climbed off the sled, removed a can of paint, and shook. “Big game tonight. I thought we could head over to East High and show some school spirit. I always thought you and I should paint this town.”
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  “Have a nice night, Basil.”

  I slid off his machine and took one step.

  “Hey, Crow.”

  I turned. I should never have turned, but I did, and Basil released a blast of paint that speckled my hair, my coat, my shoes.

  “Jerk!”

  I stumbled through the front door at exactly nine o’clock, an important detail here, and tripped over a pile of Mom’s junk. I reached the bedroom and vented to Addy, who spent the rest of the evening removing all hint of yellow from my hair. The next morning, a Saturday, not five minutes after Addy left for basketball practice, Principal Hawkins and Basil’s dad showed up on my doorstep with “evidence” that I had defaced archrival East High School. Apparently, the letters C R had been sprayed all over their school in bright yellow paint.

  “It wasn’t smart, Crow. I could overlook you defacing their field house, but the school itself?” Officer Dewey shook his head. “Signing your initials doesn’t show much remorse. Not smart.”

  “What’s not smart is your thinking I’d do that. Have you spoken to Basil about last night?”

  Dewey cleared his throat. “I took that liberty, Crow. According to my son, he had you back here by nine. Where you went after that is, sadly, a bit unclear.”

  “Unclear?” Principal Hawkins stepped into the house. I pointed to his foot.

  “Can he do that? Legally, can he do that?”

  Dewey gentled out the steaming principal and asked for my mom. I explained to all of them that I was in my bedroom out of habit, one formed from spending my childhood protecting my sister from a psychotic stepdad bent on sexual abuse.

  Mom offered a nervous laugh. She much preferred the principal’s rendition of the previous evening.

  “Crow, I’m sorry, but it’s the right thing to do.” She opened the closet and removed my leather coat, speckled with Basil’s stupidity. Mom assumed her most pained look. “No parent likes to see her daughter in trouble.”

  It did not matter to them that C R also stood for Central Rules, or that yellow was our school’s color. Nor did it matter that sportos always spray-painted after said contest.

  My jacket flecked yellow.

  I had signed my handiwork.

  They found their culprit.

  Case closed.

  The cost of covering for my friend was steep. Mom let me sit in juvie for the remainder of the day and throughout the night, I believe as much for my attempted whistle-blowing as any perceived misdeeds. Sunday morning she skipped church to pay me a visit.

  We stared at each other on a television monitor, the phone crackling and whistling. “When are you going to stop?” she asked. “What exactly does ‘straight and narrow’ mean to you?”

  “Death, or killing Basil, whichever comes first.”

  Mom’s jaw tightened.

  “Wrong answer?” I looked away, and then stared her straight in the eye. “‘Straight and narrow’? How about marrying a guy who prefers you over your daughter?”

  Click.

  I slowly hung up. I’d never said it so clearly, and the playback made me wince. It would be two more months until Mom next spoke to me.

  • • •

  I shook my head back into the present, or the past. Whatever.

  Adele jumped up. “Oh, I really like her. Can she sleep in here?”

  Here, Mom’s face lost its mirth. It seemed clear that a piece of her knew this room wasn’t safe for a girl.

  Adele shrugged. “Or you can put her in the guest room—”

  “No!” Mom said, anxiety getting the best of her face. “Best not sleep there alone. I mean, what’s the fun in that? Crow’s in here. This is where you can spend the night. Shane, I do need to know where you belong. I’m not like Dove. Do I need to call Alabama?” Her face softened, coming as near to concern as I’d ever seen it venture. “Isn’t someone, somewhere, going to miss you tonight?”

  I shook my head. “I’m unclaimed.”

  Mom tightened her lips, and Adele ran over and hugged me. “I claim you!” Firm and trusting and Adele: I felt it, I felt her. How long I’d waited for her embrace. It was all worth it.

  She ran into the hall and quickly returned with Crow.

  “What did you say to Mom?” Crow asked.

  “I told her your dad was a polygamist.”

  Crow cocked her head. “You know just what to say. To everyone.”

  The cuckoo clock struck nine. Both Crow and I looked at Adele, spoke in unison, “Get in bed, Addy. You’re safe tonight.”

  Crow shot me a horrified look.

  I winced. “That was weird, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure. Weird.” Crow shoved her bed in front of the door and grabbed a compilation of Greek myths. She hopped onto the comforter and started to read. I grabbed the Iliad and joined her, leaning against her footboard. A few minutes into Homer, I set down the book.

  “I’ll take a shift, Crow. Get some rest. You look, well, awful.”

  Crow gazed longingly at her pillow, then flew to the bottom of the bed and grabbed my collar. “Do you know what I’ll do to you if you let me down, if you fall asleep?”

  I gently grabbed her wrist, and she let go. “You’re safe tonight, Crow.” I glanced at Adele, so at peace, already drifted into a safer place. “Give it to me.”

  Crow bit her lip, leaned back, reached beneath the mattress, and removed the butcher knife. She lay it carefully between my outstretched legs and snuggled down. A minute later, Crow slept. It was fitful and shallow, but it was sleep. Maybe enough to turn her eyes from red to pink.

  The urge came to turn out the light. At least the ceiling light. The lamps would be enough to keep me awake. But I watched Crow toss, desperate to rejoin Adele, and realized her belief in me was complete. No, every light would stay on. I would take no chances.

  I stared up and counted lumps on the textured ceiling. My mind relaxed. Jude would risk nothing tonight, not with a guest over.

  I reached 8,276, and wind rattled the window. The night was calm and the orphan breeze departed, but its sound, like gentle breathing, remained. I eased myself up and pressed my ear to the door. A shuffle, and then all was still—Jude motionless, but not breathless. I swung my feet off the bed, and Crow’s eyes shot open. Her eyebrows raised, and I pointed at the knob. I reached for a pad of paper and a pen, scribbled a note, and handed it to Crow. She mouthed the words—We won’t let you touch her, Monster—looked at me, and grinned. Carefully, she slid under her bed and slipped the note beneath the door. It quickly vanished.

  Footsteps thudded away down the hall.

  Crow crawled back onto the bed. I looked at her, and she stared at Adele.

  “Shane, what do you think of when you look at me? I mean, nobody else lives like this. Am I crazy?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. When next I opened them, Crow fiddled with a locket suspended from a chain around her neck. A locket I knew well.

  “My dad was a writer.” She pointed over her shoulder at her “shelf of great minds,” which was bulging with philosophy books. “He bought me all those; I guess he thought I’d read them someday.”

  “Was he right?”

  Crow gazed at her hands. “There’s one I read a lot. My dad wrote it. I write, too, did I tell you that? It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Write, like Dad.”

  I felt a tear forming and squinted it back. “So why don’t you?”

  Crow looked over at Adele, then down to her locket. “I’m so tired. The ideas come, they go, and I can hardly hold them in my head. But the real reason?” She sighed. “Dad came into the room. I pretended to be asleep. He kissed Addy. He kissed me. ‘My Coraline, look after Addy when I’m gone.’ That’s what he said.” Crow paused. “So at five, my life was already planned. Dad gave me a job, and it wasn’t to write, and I vowed I wouldn’t fail him. So far I haven??
?t.”

  She tucked the locket back in her pajamas.

  “Do you know how much Adele looks up to me? I’m her hero. She’s nearly perfect and I’m such a nothing, but I’m her hero. Why is that?”

  “Because a minute ago, when you slipped Jude that note, you were a hero.”

  Crow puffed out air and stared at her sister. “You aren’t going to stay with us long, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Why?”

  She curled up and flung her Greek myth compilation at my chest. Crow’s body seemed smaller, and her words shook. “Read the book: All the good people go. Only monsters remain.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE THOUGHTS OF C. RAINE

  C’est une chose anormale de vivre. Living is abnormal.

  Eugène Ionesco

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING with an anxious chord pounding in my stomach. I rose from the bed and peeked in the mirror. Still Shane. Addy rolled over and drew her blankets over her shoulders. Safe there. I grabbed my balled-up jeans from the day before and dug out my locket. The vibrant green was gone, replaced by a dull pastel glow. Something was changing. Time was passing.

  No matter, I’m just days away from changing everything.

  Crow looked a little better—that being, of course, in measures of small degree. Three years of sleep deprivation is not cured in a night, and that’s what she carried.

  A word about her ritual, which was my ritual, and the night it started.

  I was ten, and still trying to make sense of Dad’s departure. Mom’s blame was hard to dispute. Their final night’s argument had raged throughout the house and was punctuated with plenty of “Crow.”

  Jude the Monster was well entrenched in our home by then. He had first turned his perverted eye in Mom’s direction when she and Dad went to consult with him in his role as family therapist/marriage counselor. I recall Mom returning from those sessions with a certain glow, strange to a child, but certainly noticeable. Dad came home equally affected, though in a dour direction. Soon Dad was gone, Dr. Jude had filled his shoes, and we assumed the shape of the typical American family.