Chapter Eight
IN BARRON’S BATHROOM the beige tile walls look too familiar, but like I’m seeing them from the wrong angle.
It’s crazy, the idea of Lila being a cat. The idea that Barron had her locked up in his house all this time is even crazier. And the idea that I might not have killed Lila throws me so off balance that I don’t know how to right myself.
I look in the mirror—staring at my face. Looking at the scraggly hair curling around my jaw and my ink-blot eyes, looking to see if I should be afraid. If I’m still a murderer. If I’m cracking up.
There’s a dizzy sense of déjà vu as I glance at the reflection of the tub behind me. I stumble and barely catch myself.
I thrashed in the water and my hands turned to arms turned to starfish curling like snakes. Everything went wrong and I was coming apart and water closed over my head and—
More things I half-remember.
I turn and crouch on the floor, touching the tile near the tub faucet. I can almost recall my fingers reaching for the same handle, but then the memory goes surreal and dreamlike and my fingers become scrabbling black claws.
Animal fear, instinctual and horrible, overwhelms me.
I have to get out of here—that’s the only thing I can think.
I head for the front door, barely smart enough to twist the knob so that the door locks behind me when it closes.
I get into Grandad’s car and sit for a moment, waiting to feel like a stupid kid running from some pretend ghost. I eat one of the candy bars while I wait.
The chocolate tastes like dust, but I swallow it anyway.
I have to sort things out.
My memories are full of shadows, and no amount of chasing them around my head seems to make them any more substantial.
What I need is a worker. One that’s going to give me answers without asking a lot of questions. One that can help me make these puzzle pieces fit together and show me the picture. I turn the ignition and head south.
The dirt mall on Route 9 is less a mall and more one big warehouse with aisles of individual shops separated by counters or curtains.
Barron and I would get Philip or Grandad to drive us, and then we’d spend the day eating hot dogs and buying cheap knives to hide in our boots.
Barron would complain about being stuck with me, but as soon as we got there, he’d disappear to chat up the girl who worked selling pickles out of vats.
The place doesn’t look all that different from how it did then. Out front a woman stands by a barrel of pastel-colored baskets while a guy is trying to hawk a bunch of rabbit pelts. Three for five bucks.
Inside, the smells of fried food make my stomach growl.
I head toward the back, past the eel-skin wallet stall and the place with the heavy silver rings and pewter dragons, toward the fortune-tellers with their velvet skirts and marked cards.
They charge five dollars to say “You sometimes feel lonely, even in the company of others” or “You once experienced a tragic loss that has given you an unusual perceptiveness” or even “You are usually shy, but in the future you are going to find yourself the center of attention.”
There are lots of little malls like these in Jersey, but this one’s only twenty minutes from Carney.
The fortune-tellers’ real business is selling charms made by retired residents; a few workers even freelance their services out of the back.
It’s the best place to go for a little cheap curse work that’s not directly related to the crime families.
And the charms are a lot more reliable and varied than the kind you get from a regular mall or the gas station.
I walk up to a scarf-draped table. “Crooked Annie,” I say, and the old woman smiles. One of her teeth is black with rot. She’s wearing plastic and glass rings over her purple satin gloves, and she’s got on several layers of dresses with tiny bells along the hem.
“I know you, Cassel Sharpe. How’s your mother?”
Annie’s been selling magic for longer than I’ve been alive. She’s old school. Discreet. And with as little knowledge as I have, the one thing I’m sure of is that I can’t afford to share it.
“Jail. Got caught working some rich guy.”
Annie sighs. She’s in the life, so she’s not surprised or embarrassed for me, like people at school would be. She shifts her weight forward. “Out soon?”
I nod, although I’m not sure. Mom keeps saying she didn’t do it (which I don’t believe), that the evidence against her is prejudice and hand waving (which I sort of do believe), and that it will be overturned on the appeal that’s been dragging on. “You miss your mother, don’t you?”
I nod again, although I’m not sure about that, either. It’s easier with her slightly removed, unable to upturn our lives at a moment’s notice. From jail she’s a benevolent, slightly crazy matriarch. At home she’d go back to being a despot.
“I need to buy a couple of charms. For memory. Good ones.”
“What? You think I sell ones that are no good?”
I smile. “I know you do.”
That turns her grin wicked. She pats my face with a satin-covered hand.
I remember that I haven’t shaved and that my cheeks are probably rough enough to catch the fabric, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
“Just like your brothers. You know what they used to say about boys like you? Clever as the devil and twice as pretty.”
It’s kind of a ridiculous compliment, but it embarrasses me into looking at the floor. “I have some questions, too. About memory magic. Look, I know I’m not a worker, but I really need to know.”
Annie pushes aside a worn pack of tarot cards.
“Sit,” she says, and rummages under the table, pulling out a large plastic toolbox.
Inside it is an array of rocks. She pulls out a shining piece of onyx with a hole bored through the middle, and a chunk of cloudy pink crystal.
“First things first. Here are the charms you’re asking for. ”
Lots of really good amulets look like junk. These don’t look so bad.
“I hate to ask,” I say, sitting down backward on the hard metal folding chair. “But—”
“You want something fancier?”
I shake my head. “Just smaller.”
She mutters under her breath and turns back to her stock. “Here, I’ve got this.” She holds up a pebble, maybe a piece of driveway gravel.
“I’ll take these,” I say, pointing to the pebble and the onyx circle. “In fact, give me three of the little ones if you’ve got them. Plus the onyx.”
Annie raises her eyebrows but says only, “Forty. Each.”
Normally I would dicker with her, but I figure she’s inflating the cost so she can justify giving me the information. I pull out the bills and slide them over.
She grins her black-toothed grin. “So, what do you want to know?”
“How can you tell if your memories have been changed? Is there just a black hole in your thoughts? Can memories be replaced with other memories?”
She lights a hand-rolled cigarette that stinks of green tea leaves.
“I’m not admitting to knowing anybody when I answer this.
I’m just speculating, you understand? All I do is I make some of these amulets and I sell a few that my friends make, and the government hasn’t managed to make that illegal yet. ”
“Sure,” I say, affronted. “Just because I’m not—”
“Don’t get your nose in a twist. I’m not explaining for you. I’m explaining it for the edification of anyone who happens to be listening in on this conversation. And they do.”
“Who does?”
She gives me a long look, like I’m slow, and sucks on her cigarette, blowing herbal smoke into the air. “The government.”
“Oh,” I say. Even though I’m pretty sure she’s just paranoid, possibly with a touch of dementia, I feel an intense urge to look behind me.
“On to your questions. How it feels depends on who did the working. The best workers make it seamless. They’ll remove a memory and replace it with a new one.
The worst ones are slobs. They might be able to make you remember you owe them money, but if there’s no money in your pocket and you don’t remember spending any either, you’re going to start asking questions.
“Most memory workers fall somewhere in the middle in terms of skill. They leave behind pieces, threads. A blue sky without the rest of a day. Aching sorrow with no cause.”
“Clues,” I say.
“Sure, if you want to call them that.” She takes another long drag on her tea cigarette.
“There’s four different kinds of memory curses.
A memory worker can rip memories right out of your head, leaving that big hole you’re talking about, or they can give you new memories of things that never happened.
They can sift through your memories and learn stuff, or they can simply block your access to your own memories. ”
“Why would they do that last one? The blocking access one?” I touch the smooth black circle of the memory stone. It glides against the pad of my gloved finger.
“Because it’s easier to block access than to remove a memory entirely, which makes it cheaper.
Just like changing a single piece of a memory is easier than creating a whole new one.
And if you remove the block, then the memory comes back, which is nice if you want to be able to reverse the process. ”
I nod my head, although I’m not sure I’m following.
“A shady memory worker will charge for ripping a memory but just put a block in. Then he’ll go and charge the victim to take the block back out again.
That’s bad business, but what do these kids know?
They’ve got no respect anymore.” She looks at me intently.
“Your family never told you any of this?”
“I’m not a worker,” I remind her, but shame heats my face. I should know; my family should have trusted me enough. That they didn’t speaks volumes about what they think of me.
“But your brother—,” she says.
“Can it be reversed?” I ask, interrupting her. I really don’t want to talk about my family right now.