Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
“Who’s that?” I asked Henry one afternoon while we sat at the kitchen table with his playdough. On his mat was the figure of a person with yellow hair. “Is it Addie?”
He shook his head without looking up, still pressing tiny buttons onto the shirt. “It’s David.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding. I tapped the table beside the playdough version of David. “I like his shirt.”
Henry grabbed the can of brown playdough and pinched a couple of pieces from the can and began molding them together. “It’s a jacket. He wears a jacket. This is the wrong color, but David likes it.”
“A jacket?” I echoed. “Very nice. Are those shoes you’re making?”
Henry nodded.
“Do you want to see what I’m making?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
He shrugged. “I guess.”
I blinked at him. “You guess? Where are your manners?”
He heaved the long-suffering sigh of a much older person before answering. “Yes, ma’am.”
I gently touched his arm. “Hey, what’s going on with you?”
He shrugged again.
“Did you have another nightmare?” I pressed.
“No, ma’am,” he said, setting aside David’s shoes and sliding off his chair. “I’m tired. Is it okay if I take a nap?”
“Sure, baby.” I watched him go, frowning. Maybe it was time to call his doctor, see if he needed a treatment.
I started cleaning up, pulling apart my own creation and putting the pieces in their cans. I reached for Henry’s, but I stopped short, my blood going cold. Playdough David’s head had been ripped off and set to one side. And strips of red playdough crossed the abdomen like wounds.
“Sweet Jesus,” I breathed. I hadn’t even seen Henry make the gruesome changes. When the hell had he done that? I could’ve sworn that the head was still attached when he left the table.
Unnerved and concerned that Henry’s nightmares were infiltrating his waking hours, I quickly tore the figure apart and sorted the pieces into their respective color cans then sealed each container and pushed them together into a neat cluster in the center of the table.
I stared at them, my thoughts going back to the first day in the apartment and the drawings hidden away in the desk that had depicted a crazed woman with a knife and a decapitated child.
I’d assumed the child was a little girl, thinking it was Addie because of the yellow curls. Could it have been David?
I pushed back my chair and started for the kitchen doorway, intending to go find the drawings and take a closer look, when something hard nailed me between my shoulder blades.
I yelped in surprise and spun around just as a can of playdough hit me in the chest. I grunted, but before I could react another can flew off the table, whistling past my head to slam against the doorframe.
“Stop it!” I snapped, my fists on my hips. “Stop it right now, David! Throwing a tantrum isn’t helping anything. I’m trying—”
The doorbell rang, cutting me off.
“I’m trying,” I repeated to the empty room, softer this time. I hurried to the apartment door and opened it a crack to make sure my visitor was of the corporeal variety.
I sighed with relief when I saw who it was, then slid the chain free and opened the door. “Hi.”
Whit’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Everything okay? Should I come back later?”
I pushed my hair back from my face with my forearm and shook my head. “No. Sorry. It’s been a…weird day.”
He lifted a few grocery bags, offering a tentative grin. “I brought you dinner.”
I stared at him for a few seconds, not comprehending. “Did we…I didn’t know…” Heat flushed up my neck and burned my cheeks as I realized I was in my ripped jean shorts and a too thin tank, bra-less because of the rising temperatures as Savannah crept toward summer.
“Sorry—I should’ve called first,” he said. “I moved some of my stuff into the apartment down the hall so I can start on the renovations and wanted to proactively apologize to you and Henry for any noise.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, still rattled by the experience in the kitchen and now taken off-guard by Whit’s unplanned visit. “Come on in.” I gestured to the kitchen. “Feel free to take the groceries in there. I’ll…uh…be right back.”
I hurried to my bedroom and stripped out of my shorts and tank, swapping them for a sundress and quickly raked my fingers through my hair before pulling it up into a messy bun so I at least looked somewhat presentable.
“Sorry,” I called, heading to the kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting anyone, so it’s kind of a mess…”
My words trailed off as I entered the room.
Every cabinet door and drawer gaped open. The refrigerator also stood wide open. A bottle of ketchup had been emptied, the contents splattered across the floor and cabinets as if someone had stood in the middle of the room and shaken the bottle indiscriminately.
“What the hell?” I breathed. I looked at Whit, who stood in the middle of the chaos looking equally baffled. “Whit?”
He shook his head. “It was like this when I came in.”
I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly to hold back the tears that stung the corner of my eyes. Apparently, David’s tantrum with the playdough was just a warmup.
When I opened my eyes, Whit had set the groceries aside and grabbed a roll of paper towels.
“You don’t need to do that,” I said, carefully stepping around the ketchup on the floor to take the roll of paper towels. Tears of frustration and exasperation and helplessness and a jumble of other emotions spilled onto my cheeks despite my efforts to hold them back. “I’ll get it.”
I tore off a wad of paper towels and ran them under the faucet. I’d just started to the counters when Whit’s hands settled on my shoulders.
“Leave it,” he said, gentle but firm. “I’ll take care of it.”
I turned to him. “I’m not letting you clean up my apartment, Whit,” I snapped. “You’ve done enough for me. Jesus—I’m not completely helpless!”
He stepped back, raising his hands. “I never said you were helpless. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel that way.” He moved aside and let me work, not interfering while I finished wiping up the mess.
When I threw away the last of the paper towels, he asked, “What happened?”
I hesitated, weighing how much I could tell him—how much I should tell him—about what had been going on without sounding unhinged. I didn’t want his pity. Not for me. Not for Henry’s health. But I needed someone to talk to, someone to tell me it would be okay.
And I wanted that someone to be him.
I turned away and began closing the cabinet doors so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “I’m worried about Henry,” I said, starting with the safest topic. “He’s struggling again. I’m taking him to the doctor this week. We’re probably looking at another transfusion. But those only work for so long.”
“If you’re worried about the medical bills—” Whit began, but I cut him off.
“No,” I said. But of course, I was. “I’ll figure that out somehow.” A bitter laugh slipped out. “What’s one more payment plan, right?”
“Zellie—”
I shook my head. “It’s fine, Whit. I’m just tired.” I closed the final cabinet door and leaned against the counter, suddenly feeling the weight of…everything.
“All the more reason to accept help where it’s offered,” he said from where he stood across the room, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” I sighed. “I’m just not used to having help. I appreciate everything you’ve done for Henry and me—what all of you have done for us.”
He gave me a crooked grin. “Well, I hope you’re still grateful after dinner. You saw my last attempt at cooking.”
I laughed, the sound half-hearted, betraying my exhaustion. “Well, it can’t be worse than what I just cleaned up. David’s in rare form today.”
He blanched at my words. “Who?”
Damn.
I hadn’t meant to tell him about anything going on with the intruders. Henry and I had grown so comfortable talking about David that it just slipped out.
“David,” I repeated. “I originally thought he was Henry’s imaginary friend, but…I think he’s a ghost. We’ve had a lot of weird things happening.”
Whit’s frown deepened. “Weird how?”
I waved a hand dismissively, vaguely noting he hadn’t even questioned the “ghost” part of my statement.
“Oh, you know…the usual. Lights turning on and off, feeling watched, stuff moving on its own, noises…” I laughed, trying to make light of it, not yet ready to share the more horrifying events.
“All the usual activity you see on those reality TV ghost shows.”
His eyes narrowed—not with disbelief, but more like quiet, searching concern, as if he was trying to figure out if there was more that I wasn’t telling him.
And because there was a lot more I didn’t want to tell him, I turned away and started unpacking the groceries.
“So,” I said looking over my shoulder with a smile, “what’s on the menu tonight? ”
Henry rallied during dinner, animatedly chatting with Whit about TV shows and books Whit clearly knew nothing about but still listened to Henry as if he were the most fascinating person in the world, asking questions and commenting on Henry’s vivid descriptions.
But as the evening wound down, Henry started to complain about his bones hurting.
“You must be growing,” Whit said. “Where does it hurt?”
Henry rubbed his knees, wincing, and then pointed to his shoulders, arms, hips.
“C’mon, baby,” I said, picking him up. “Let’s get your medicine and a warm bath.”
“I’ll clean up,” Whit said, rising to gather the dishes.
I shot him a grateful look then took Henry to the bathroom to get him ready for his bath.
“Mama, I don’t like this,” he whimpered, his voice thick with tears. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.”