The Form of Things Unknown

  “What have you done with them?” she shrieks. Lord, the neighbors can probably hear her. “You think you’re so smart, stealing all of my thoughts. You think if you turn them in to the police they’ll put me in prison and you’ll be rid of me.”

  “Judith,” my mom begs, in a totally non-confrontational way, “I didn’t take your notebooks. I’m not giving anything to the police.”

  “You want this house all to yourself, but that will never happen. I’m never going to die, sweetheart.”

  The way Grandma calls my mother “sweetheart” sounds malicious. Mom sees me in the foyer and tries to distract Grandma. But I’m drawn into the drama anyway.

  “You’re on her side, too,” Grandma says accusingly when she sees me. “You think she’ll take care of you when you lose your mind? Ha!”

  Mom looks like she’s about to cry. “Where is Dad?” I ask her.

  “Tell me what you did with my notebooks, bitch!” I’ve never heard my grandmother cuss before.

  My mother doesn’t even bat an eyelash, but I can feel an icky, tense energy filling the house. “We can look for them in your bedroom, Judith,” Mom says. “I haven’t seen them down here.”

  I pull my phone out of my purse and call Dad. His phone goes straight to voice mail. Where the hell is he? I wonder if I should call David for backup. I don’t know what he’d tell Colton and the others, though. Mom and I should be able to handle this.

  “Grandma, would you like me to help instead?” Mom obviously needs to have a break. She deserves a week in the Bahamas, or at least a weekend at her favorite hotel in Hilton Head, but maybe I can at least give her a few minutes.

  My grandmother glares at Mom and then at me. Her eyes shift back and forth rapidly. The crazy is right there, beneath the surface. She might explode at any moment. “Did she tell you where she hid them?”

  “I’m sure they just got misplaced,” I say, going up the stairs and hoping she’ll follow me. “Maybe I accidentally put your laundry on top of the notebooks yesterday. Remember? I left out the fabric softener like you asked?”

  She’s following me. That’s a good thing. “I hate the smell,” she mutters. “Reminds me of Jim.”

  Ever since Grandpa died, I think Grandma’s had a hard time. She’s not taking her meds anymore, and I don’t think she’s grieving properly. She didn’t go to the funeral. She wasn’t released from the hospital until two days after Grandpa was buried. “Maybe we should find a different brand,” I say, opening the door to her room.

  It’s a mess in here. The laundry basket I brought up last night is turned over on the bed and clothes are strewn everywhere. There’s an empty coffee mug on her dresser and another one half-full of cold coffee on her nightstand. I’m still shaking from her and Mom’s confrontation downstairs.

  Grandma pushes past me and starts pacing. She’s forgotten to bathe again and the smell makes me want to gag. It makes her small bedroom seem even smaller. I stay in the doorway, ready to escape at a moment’s notice. I don’t think she’s ever become violent, but right now I really can’t trust her.

  That realization makes me tear up. I lean against the door frame. “Maybe they fell under your bed?” I suggest, hoping my voice sounds normal. “Or behind it?”

  “Only the rats live below,” she mutters.

  “There aren’t any rats here,” I say. We’ve all been taught to counter her hallucinations with quiet truth. Reassure. Reaffirm. And for me, I pray I never see the same things she sees. To tell her there are no rats is also me reassuring myself. Otherwise I might end up unable to sleep tonight in the attic as I listen to every noise this old house makes. “Want me to look under the bed?”

  “They’ll bite you,” she says, but she makes no move to stop me.

  I wish David were here. Or Dad. But I can brave the rats and God knows what else is under her bed all by myself. “Let me grab a flashlight,” I say.

  “Here,” she says, pulling a heavy one out of her nightstand. She hands it to me and puts her hands on her hips, waiting. The crazy is still there, right under the surface.

  I click the flashlight on and get down on my hands and knees. I hold my breath, almost scared to see what’s under there. Socks, a dirty bowl with a spoon, books. Maybe a notebook. The flashlight’s beam hits two green eyes and I shriek.

  Grandma jumps behind me and climbs up on a chair as her cat hisses and darts out from under the bed.

  “Nat?” Mom comes rushing into the room. “What’s wrong?”

  “It was just Zora. I’m sorry.” My heart is pounding.

  “The notebooks are gone,” Grandma says, climbing down off the chair. She sinks down on the bed and lets out a sob.

  “They might still be there,” I say. “I need something long to poke under the bed so I can push everything out.”

  Mom goes back downstairs and comes right back with a broom. I get back down on my hands and knees and sweep under the bed with the broom. A pile of junk is pushed out from the foot of the bed.

  Grandma jumps up. “Get out!” she yells at Mom. She doesn’t want her to see her precious stash. “You, too!” she says, getting in my face as I stand up. I try to take a peek at the stuff I’ve rescued from under the bed. There’s a notebook in that junk after all. “Now, please,” she says, but not politely.

  I grip the broom tightly, not because I think I need to hit her with it, but because I worry she’ll snatch it away from me. “Okay, I’m leaving.”

  I follow Mom into the hall and the door slams shut behind me. Neither of us speak as we escape downstairs to the kitchen.

  Mom takes the broom from me and puts it away before giving me a hug. I’m shaking from the confrontation. We cling to each other in the kitchen, and I promise myself I will never, ever, ever forget to take my medicine. I can’t do that to my family.

  Except I don’t think I took my pill tonight, but I did have alcohol and I can’t mix them, can I? Also, I don’t want Mom to see me and realize I forgot to take it earlier.

  Dad comes in and when he sees us holding each other like war orphans, he stops. “Is it that bad today?” he asks, half-joking.

  Mom glares at him, ready to take her frustrations out on him. I grab a banana and a Dr Pepper from the fridge and retreat to the stairs. I am tired of all the fighting today. I don’t need to be here for this battle.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she asks quietly, but with ice in her voice.

  “Working late.”

  “She won’t bathe and she’s attacked both me and Natalie tonight because she thinks we took her damn notebooks.”

  Dad sighs and I hear him set his laptop down on the kitchen table. “I don’t know what you think I can do.”

  “You can be here for dinner, for starters.”

  “I told you I was working late. There was a three-car wreck with multiple traumas. I couldn’t just leave.”

  I reach the attic and blink back tears as I close my door. Tonight would be a good night for Grandma to blast Beatles’ songs on her stereo. She’s probably listening to my parents fight, though. Does it make her happy? Does she feel any guilt for the upheaval she causes in this house? I was mortified when I realized how much I had scared my parents.

  I don’t even want the banana or the drink anymore. I get ready for bed, sneak to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I stare at myself in the mirror.

  I’m looking for my own crazy, hiding right beneath the surface of my skin. I see heavy shadows under my eyes, but everything else appears normal. With a tiny sense of relief, I sneak back to my room before anyone sees me.

  I sink down onto my bed, suddenly overwhelmed and exhausted. It’s past midnight, and the séance seems like it was days ago. I pray I’m too tired to have any nightmares tonight. I don’t want to dream about ghosts in the theater. Or Grandma’s angry face. But most of all, I don’t want to dream about being locked up at Winter Oaks again.

  Tomorrow, I’ll be sure to take my medicine.

  CHAPTER 8

&nb
sp; I wake up to the sound of Grandma, singing in the shower about Maxwell’s silver hammer having a close encounter with her head. Loudly.

  At least it’s not off-key. I shudder and throw a robe on before going downstairs to the kitchen. Mom is making cupcakes. Dad has already left for work.

  I pour myself a glass of orange juice and open my pill case. “I thought you were taking the Zyprexa at night,” Mom says. “Because it makes you sleepy.”

  Busted. “I forgot to take it last night,” I say.

  Mom sighs. “Do you want to go back and talk to the doctor about the shots?” They have a new injection they can give you once a month that works the same as a daily pill. But I hate needles.

  I shake my head. “No shots. I’ll do better, I promise.”

  “I read that they’re doing studies to see if they can space the once-a-month shot out to once every three months,” Mom says. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

  “Maybe,” I say. But I really, really hate needles.

  Grandma’s voice booms from the bathroom again. That silver hammer sounds deadly.

  Mom shudders with a glance up at the ceiling. “At least she’ll smell better after her shower.”

  I want to laugh, but I’m embarrassed for Grandma. At least I didn’t withdraw so much I stopped caring about personal hygiene.

  “I hate that she takes so much of her anger out on you,” I say. “What would Dad do if you just got a job and told him you didn’t want to stay at the house with her anymore?”

  “I can’t just run away, Nat.” She pulls a pan of cupcakes out of the oven. Mmm, red velvet. “As much as I’d love to.”

  “But that’s what Dad did,” I say. “He doesn’t even stay home during the weekends.”

  “It’s okay,” Mom says. “We need the money right now. And the extra shifts he’s pulling at the hospital really help.”

  My stomach twists with guilt. I have no idea how much a two-week stay at a psych hospital costs, but I heard Mom arguing with the insurance company on the phone. They didn’t pay very much of the bill.

  To make matters worse, our house in Athens still hasn’t sold, so Dad’s still paying the mortgage back there. I miss that house. I miss our swimming pool. And my old room.

  I know Mom feels guilty, too, since she doesn’t have the catering business she did back in Athens, but it’s not her fault. We’re all trapped here in this situation.

  Movement catches my eye in the front window. The kid who lives across the street is dribbling a soccer ball back and forth across his yard.

  Mom stands behind me. “Have you given any more thought to signing up in the fall?”

  I used to love soccer. Our team in Athens racked up shelves full of trophies, as division champions for four years straight. I used to think of my teammates as sisters.

  That was before our coach was arrested for sexual misconduct with one of those teammates. And then there was the Incident with Caleb.

  I turn away from the window with a sigh. “I can’t, Mom. It will never be the same.”

  “But it might still be fun.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll join the drama club.” If I don’t freak out during this play.

  Mom plays with my curls. It makes me feel like I’m five again, and all of a sudden I want to cry. “I always thought of you more as an artsy-type person than an athletic type,” she says. “Do you remember the fairy-tale comics you drew when you were little? The characters had the most amazing outfits. I still have the drawings.”

  The Natalie who played soccer and used to draw pictures seems like a different person. Just like the grandmother I knew when I was little is not the same person I saw last night, screaming at us like a wild banshee. The grandma I once knew was smart and beautiful and always giving me books about princesses and dragons. She was never overly affectionate—I don’t think I ever saw her hug anyone—but I still knew she loved me.

  * * *

  Grandma comes down the stairs and I see Mom tense up. She hurries to wash the bowls in the sink while I drink my orange juice, slowly. I have practice later tonight, but if the Zyprexa makes me sleepy, I think I have time to take a nap. I go ahead and take the pill.

  Grandma sees me and frowns. “Glad to know the side effects don’t bother you so much,” she grumbles. She looks a lot more like the old grandma this morning, dressed in a colorful sundress and wearing makeup. She pulls a coffee mug from the cabinet. “Good morning, Elaine.”

  “Good morning, Judith,” Mom says. She doesn’t offer to make any breakfast for Grandma. She knows a) Grandma doesn’t trust Mom’s cooking, and b) she has never been a breakfast person.

  Grandma brews herself a cup of coffee and sits at the table across from me. She’s alert and normal-looking today. She also looks embarrassed about last night’s drama. She won’t apologize, though. She did that once, after the fire, and it was so awkward for everyone that now we just pretend these episodes never happen. No matter how difficult that gets.

  “How is the play coming along, Natalie?” she asks.

  “Dress rehearsals are next week,” I tell her, eager to get on with the pretending that everything is normal. “I can’t wait to see my dress. All I know is that it’s lavender and sparkles. And that I have wings.”

  “Goodness, already?” Mom asks. “Do you know all your lines yet?”

  I nod. “Tickets go on sale next week, too.”

  Grandma looks down at her coffee. She really doesn’t do well in crowds. And I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “But you all know you don’t have to come,” I add. “David would probably be embarrassed for you to see him in glitter and horns.”

  Grandma looks up and grins. “Shirtless? I bet all of the fairy boys will be shirtless?”

  Ew. “Um, possibly?” No, none of our family needs to come see the play, now that I think of it.

  With a weirdly normal-sounding chuckle, Grandma gets up from the table and refills her coffee mug. “Elaine, if you go out today, would you mind picking up a few things for me?”

  Mom’s face is carefully blank. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Thank you, let me go write a list for you.” She disappears back upstairs.

  They’ll never be best friends, and I’m pretty sure Mom hasn’t let her guard down, but at least the outright hostility is gone for the moment.

  Maybe the old grandma is back. At least for a little while. Which means there’s still hope for the old Natalie, too.

  When she comes back downstairs, David is here, with a basket of dirty laundry. “Nat, if you could wash these this morning for me, I’ll get them when I pick you up this afternoon for practice.”

  “No problem,” I say.

  “Well, hello, young man,” Grandma says. “You are just the person I’m looking for.”

  David’s eyes grow wary. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m in a hurry.”

  “I need you to look at the battery in my car out there. Poor Natalie has no wheels and that Volkswagen is just sitting out there getting covered in dust and pollen.”

  Grandma follows David out onto the porch. Colton is leaning against David’s truck, looking moody and glaring at Grandma. “Look, your friend can help you.”

  As much as I want a car of my own, I dread the idea of driving Grandma’s Jetta. I know she’ll be expecting me to take her to Lord knows where.

  “Grandma,” David whines. “I thought Dad was going to look at the battery.”

  “You know damn well he doesn’t know his way around a car engine. And I know for a fact that you do. Who installed the stereo Grandad and I bought you for Christmas two years ago?”

  That was David. He really does know what he’s doing when it comes to cars.

  Colton is frowning at his phone. “David, we’re going to be late. My shift starts at eleven.”

  “I’m coming. Grandma, I’ll see what I can do this weekend. Love you.” He waves and gets into his truck. “Nat, I’ll be back at six.
”

  Grandma puts her hands on her hips, and we both watch him drive off. “I tried,” she says. “Maybe by next week we’ll have us a mode of transportation.”

  I have no idea what she’s plotting, but I nod and follow her back into the house. I have laundry to do.

  CHAPTER 9

  David picks me up for rehearsal later, and as we pull away from the curb, I think about the conversation I had with Lucas last night.

  “Did you feel anything spooky during the séance?” I ask my brother. “Do you think there’s really a ghost?”

  He stalls by searching for a good song on the stereo.

  “Or do you think I was just hallucinating?”

  David sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know. Last night, when we were there, with the candles and the smelly oils, it was easy to believe that there was a ghost talking through the board. But now that I think back on it? Rationally? I think we saw what we wanted to see because we were all drinking. Which, by the way, was seriously bad for you.”

  “I know. I really didn’t have that much. Just enough so the girls would think I was like them.”

  “What do you mean? Why would you want to be like them?”

  “You know. Normal. Not on medication. You didn’t say anything to Colton, did you?”

  David shakes his head. “Why would I? Not that I’m embarrassed by you, Nat. You know that. But you know I wouldn’t have any reason to bring it up.” He’s floundering. Badly. “Still, normal is overrated.”

  My smile is weak, but I feel obligated to make him feel better. “Just stop, please.”

  He glances over at me, and I can see the relief in his face when he realizes I’m not pissed at him. Am I that fragile? Does he worry about me like we worry about Grandma? I keep smiling, but I’m no longer happy with my brother.

  “Anyway, I took my medication today, and I’m not going to drink anymore. So, stop worrying about me.”

  “Fine. But I’m still not sure about the ghost.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to have another séance,” I say.

  “Great,” David says, with only a hint of sarcasm.