Haunted by Lynn Carthage Read Free Book Online Page B

“That’s sweet of you. One less thing to . . .” Her voice drifted off.
    â€œSeriously! It’s not a big deal. I just didn’t hear you!” I protested.
    They were studiously ignoring me. Such is the fate of the teen who has let down her family. My eyes filled with tears, and I turned around and went back to my room. I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t need dinnertime chatter. I sat on my bed and imagined a window where no window existed: I let curtains billow in a breeze and send the fragrance of roses to me. I calmed. I didn’t even end up crying. I would just have to make a better effort from now on. Try harder.
    Â 
    Nighttime.
    Tabby woke up crying and I listened through the wall as Mom went in and changed her diaper and sang her one more lullaby.
    I’d been awake for hours, thinking about what I’d experienced: seeing Madame Arnaud although I knew I hadn’t, spending hours at the pool in a weird daze. Even the simple example of forgetting to set the table.
    They had meds for this kind of thing. I could ask Mom to make me an appointment. I’d be assertive with her, and I wouldn’t let Tabby get in the way of saying what I needed to. This time I’d be completely clear, and I wouldn’t let anything divert me from talking to her. I need to see someone, I’d say. A therapist. I’m seeing things, Mom.
    I wished I could call Bethany, but I hadn’t charged my cell and it was dead. She’d be cycling through Web pages to find me the best therapist, and the whole time she’d be babbling and laughing so I wouldn’t feel bad. “You know, you didn’t have to develop schizophrenia just because we did a report on it,” she’d tease. “I know you’re super scholarly, but no one expects that.”
    I stretched out on my bed, feeling an ache for her and for my life back in California. Everything was light back there. England didn’t even offer windows.
    I kept mentally rehearsing what I’d say to Mom. I just don’t feel right, and I think I need help. I imagined the look on Mom’s face as she tried to process the idea that her daughter had mental issues. In my vision, her face instantly relaxed as Tabby came up and hugged her legs. She bent, picked her up, and asked her if she was hungry. No! I shouted in my imagination. Listen to me! Listen to me for once! I need help!
    I’d tell her in the morning.
    Why wait? I imagined Bethany saying. She was right. Based on the silence from the room next door, Tabby was back asleep and Mom had left. I got off the bed and left my room, walking past Tabby’s room where she slept, kneeling with her butt in the air, the puffiness of her diaper making her body look like a loaf of bread. I smiled in at her. She was a good kid. It wasn’t her fault she got all the attention.
    I continued down the hallway and turned the corner.
    Panic stabbed my brain. I tried to scream but all I managed was a raw sob.
    Madame Arnaud blocked my way. This time she was pretty, with porcelain skin and dark black hair. But somehow her beauty was worse than seeing her real self, more deceptive and conniving. I could dimly hear the television from the living room. Mom and Steven were close by but completely unaware.
    Madame Arnaud’s carmine skirts were as wide as the hall, and the embroidery on her bodice was dazzlingly elaborate. She exuded wealth. She was a bold, pestilent velvet blotch, her pallor kin to the porcelain-colored walls. I tried to back away, but couldn’t.
    As she walked toward me, her hair moved slightly; a nest of spiders seethed in her coiffure. One of the larger spiders crawled out of her hair and down her forehead, its legs slow and solid as it crossed the plane of her pale brow. It resembled a beauty spot, like the ones French nobles pasted onto their cheeks, but this one was alive. She didn’t notice.
    I tried to scream, tried to move, but I was frozen. The hall