CHAPTER 12 AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST
I stick my head in the kitchen. “What is going on?” I ask. “Do you know those people?”
My mom ties her apron tightly at her back. She seems flustered. “I’ve seen them before.”
She’s not answering my question but I can’t understand why. “The way you’re acting is weird and the way Dad is acting is weird,” I say. “You know that, right?”
“Can you put away the rest of those boxes?” Mom asks, brushing off my concerns. “I need your help in here.”
I sigh. “Does it involve me getting to taste whatever you’re cooking?”
“Maybe,” she says.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I pick up both boxes from the hall and even though I feel like my forearm is about to snap, I lug them out to the supply shed.
The sun is setting and the temperature is about to plummet. I’m so busy thinking about how good it’s going to feel to crawl under my blankets and cut on the space heater as I set the boxes in the snow that, at first, I don’t realize I’m unlocking the padlock . . . again.
I’d already opened it when I brought out the first box and I don’t remember relocking it. I had more boxes to bring out so I wouldn’t have locked it anyway. It’s something I do so often maybe I did it out of habit. I quickly set the boxes inside the shed and lock it back up.
A rustling from the area of the dumpster draws my attention. The air is biting but the frigid chill that runs through me isn’t from the weather.
“Somebody there?” I ask. I kick myself for asking. Watch it be Mr. Lions who jumps out and finishes what he started at Kate’s. “I’ll beat the brakes off you,” I say. Again, not having been in a fight in years, I’m not confident that I wouldn’t get my ass whooped but I say it anyway.
I step into the snow to try and peer around the dumpster but as I do, something catches my eye.
There is a piece of paper sitting on the back step.
I must have walked right over it when I came out.
I approach the paper, whatever it is, like it’s a snake in the grass, like it’s dangerous.
It’s sitting right in the center of the step, free from snow as if it fell out of the sky.
The beating of wings and rush of black feathers swoops past my face and I stumble back. A raven lands in my dad’s bird feeder and pecks at the remnants of broken sunflower seeds before taking to the air again.
My heart is in my throat.
It’s not a piece of paper, but an envelope—with my name scrawled across the front. I look over my shoulder. I know someone is standing there. I can feel it. I snatch the paper and stumble inside, slamming the door shut and locking it.
“What is going on?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Why are you slamming doors?”
I peer through the glass but I don’t see anything or anyone. I back into the kitchen as the panicked feeling falls away from me.
“I—I unlocked the shed, but when I went back out it was locked again and I heard a noise.”
Mom looks up from peeling potatoes. “What?”
I don’t know what to say. Maybe I’m still shook from what happened at Kate’s or how strange both my mom and dad were acting. I don’t know, but something just doesn’t feel right.
“What’s that?” Mom asks, her gaze flitting to my hand.
I stare down at my hand like the fingers clenching the envelope aren’t mine.
“It was sitting on the back step,” I say. “It has my name on it.”
There’s a muffled thud from somewhere outside. Mom raises her chin and tilts her head like she’s listening.
“The wind is kicking up out there,” she says. She scrapes the potato peeler down the side of a russet and lets the skin fall into a bag in the sink. “Meka, baby, you got me worried. What’s in the envelope?”
I examine the writing again, then tear it open. There’s no letter inside but there is something. I tip up the open envelope and let whatever it is fall into my hand.
It’s a bracelet.
I set it on the kitchen counter and back away as if it might suddenly come alive and strike out at me. The mixture of horror and confusion coursing through me is a potent mix. It makes my head dizzy.
“Meka,” my mom says. “What is it?”
I stare down at the bracelet. “No. No, this can’t be real. Why would somebody do this? Why would somebody leave this here for me?”
My mom turns around and pushes her hand down on her hip. “Meka, please. What is going on?”
“That’s—that’s my bracelet,” I stammer. My mouth is dry, and the words don’t come out right.
“Okay?” my mom asks. “Did you lose it somewhere?”
“No,” I say. Now my voice sounds far away like it doesn’t belong to me. “I put it on Noah right before the funeral. He—he was buried with it.”
“Meka,” my mom says. She’s got a look in her eyes like she pities me. “Meka, that—that just can’t be.”
“It is,” I say softly, knowing how impossible it sounds. “I would know it anywhere. He—he gave this to me and then I put it on him.” I pick it up. “Now it’s here. How?”
“Baby,” my mom says.
I shake my head. I don’t want to be told that I’m losing my mind or that I haven’t slept or that I’m hallucinating.
This isn’t a similar bracelet. It’s the exact same one.
I pass it back and forth between my hands, holding it close to my face so I can see all the small details.
The silver clasp is the same. The wide flat bead with our initials engraved is the same.
“This bracelet was on Noah when we buried him so why is it sitting on the back step in an envelope with my name on it?” I ask, as if there is an answer that would satisfy me.
I pick up the torn envelope and study the handwriting on the front. If I didn’t know any better I would say that I almost recognize it . . .
“Meka,” my mother says more forcefully this time. “Whatever you think this is, it just can’t be. It . . .” she trails off, shaking her head. She turns around and starts peeling potatoes again.
“What? So we’re not going to try to figure out what this is or why it’s here?” I ask. “Nobody knew about this except me and Noah. He—he died before I could show it off and I wanted him to have it when we buried him.”
Tears sting my eyes and a knot claws its way up my throat. I grip the edge of the counter and stare at the bracelet.
“Mom,” I say.
She doesn’t answer me. She just keeps peeling the damn potatoes. Something inside me breaks open.
“Mom! Please listen to me! I’m not crazy! We have to—”
My mom gasps and stumbles away from the sink, clutching her hand against her chest. She drops the potato peeler on the counter and grabs a dish rag, wrapping it around her hand.
“I’m sorry,” I say rushing to her side. “You cut yourself? Is it bad?”
My mom presses the rag tight. She peeks under it and her eyes grow wide with fear. “I—I might need stitches.”
“Oh no,” I say, feeling like it’s my fault for distracting her. “Let me see. Maybe it’s not too bad.” I reach for the cloth but she yanks her hand away.
“No,” she says. “Don’t look at it.” She scoots past me and heads toward the stairs. “Do me a favor and call your dad. Tell him to come home right now.”
She bounds up the stairs and I take out my phone. My hand is trembling so bad I almost fumble it. I call my dad. His voicemail picks up immediately and I hang up. I text him.
ME: I need to talk to you. Mom cut her hand and we gotta go to the hospital. Please pick up the phone.
All I can do is stare at the bracelet. How the hell is this here?
I take it to the sink where the little light under the cabinet is brightest. I hold it there, examining it.
I’m even more sure that it’s the same bracelet and not just a similar one but I know that’s not right.
Somebody knew about the bracelet. Somebody put a replica on my porch.
I shake my head. That scenario makes even less sense than anything else.
“Mom,” I call out. “Let’s go to the urgent care. They do stitches there.”
I set the bracelet on the counter and glance down into the sink.
There, among the peeled potato skins, is a chunk of skin.
My stomach turns over. My mom is definitely going to need to go to the hospital.
Half of her damn finger is lying in the sink.
Can it be reattached? That’s only if the whole thing’s cut off, right?
I don’t know, but a part of me feels like I need to snatch the piece of flesh up and put it on ice.
As I consider doing this, I see the discarded potato peeler lying next to the sink where my mom had dropped it.
The plastic handle is broken at the tip and the blades are dull.
How my mom had managed to cut off such a huge part of her own finger with it is beyond me.
I look at the little piece of flesh again.
Something about it makes me pause. There is no blood.
The chunk of skin is neatly flayed off and curled at the edges almost like . . .
My heart nearly stops.
No.
That can’t be right. Too much is happening all at once and my mind is playing tricks on me. Still . . .
I grasp the potato peeler and poke at the little piece of skin and finally, unable to resist testing my theory any longer, I pick it up with my bare hand. I press it between my thumb and forefinger. It’s soft, moldable . . . like wax.
Mortuary wax.
My phone vibrates on the counter and I almost jump out of my skin. I pick it up, hitting the green button.
“Dad!” Silence echoes on the line. “Dad?” I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen.
It’s not my dad’s number that’s there. It is a name and number that I haven’t deleted from my phone because it still hurts too much and there it is, right alongside a picture of his beautiful, smiling face.
Noah.
I press the phone to my ear. “Who—who is this?”
“Meeks,” a painfully familiar voice says.
My blood turns to ice in my veins. The room tilts. Am I awake or am I dreaming? I can’t tell.
“Noah?” I ask, the words made of nothing more than bated breath.
“Get out of the house,” he says. “Now.”