Closer Home (28 page)

“I do,” Dale says, without any hesitation. His brain lays the world out like one of his construction diagrams. He starts walking again, not waiting for me. Ariel moves beside him.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a dream, all my losses overlapping like a double-exposure photograph. Dad’s funeral superimposed on Callie’s, white on green, grief on grief, layer on layer. Ahead of me, Dale and Ariel walk in sunlight. Dale’s broad shoulders and Ariel’s blonde hair framed by blue sky, their feet moving easily through spring-green grass. My sky is heavy and gray, my feet planted in snow, my arm around my mother’s fragile shoulders. Callie is there beside me, just out of reach. I can see her shadow out of the corner of my eye, black on white.

I am the only negative space.

And then, in my heart or my head or somewhere in between, the music starts. Just like the old days, when songs were always writing themselves throughout the day. A single tone plays in my head, and then another, chaining into a thread of melody. Words follow.

If I color you gone . . .

What will my world be then?

The music opens a sensory floodgate that holds me spellbound. Sunlight warms my hair, my slightly upturned face. My feet are cradled in grass, each blade a new life, pushing up out of the earth as if there has never been snow. My chest expands in a breath that reaches to my toes and fills me with the fragrance of earth, of grass, of trees, of sun, and with the distant undertone of lilacs.

I feel at once surreal and more alive than I have ever been. More aware. Even the air through which I move is a presence. The song grows in my empty spaces, fills me, makes me real. All of the memories of music, every pressure of fingers against the piano keys, every touch of guitar strings, every note that ever emerged from my throat into the waiting stillness, these surround me, as real and true as the memories of my dead.

Dale and Ariel and Melody, oblivious to my epiphany, stop at what must be my father’s grave, waiting. Melody holds the camera half-raised, looking directly at me, and not yet through the lens. Dale half turns, seeking me out. Ariel’s head is bent, gazing down. And then Melody lifts the camera.

With the first click, the reality of the moment sucks me in. My skin feels a little tight, as if I’ve grown. Words are far away, but I don’t need them right now. I take my place beside Ariel, using her as insulation against the problem of Dale. Melody and her camera approve.

The headstone is no more than a flat brass plaque with Dad’s name and the date of his birth and death. Both Dale’s and Ariel’s faces are closed down, their eyes shuttered. None of us look like the expected picture of grief. Melody, if she notices, doesn’t seem to care. She continues to direct the action, as though this is a movie and she’s the director.

“Lovely. Now, Ariel, lay the flowers on the grave. Perfect. All of you, look up here. There you go.”

Ariel doesn’t look up on command. Her eyes are turned down, fixed on the bare-bones brass plaque. “I wish Mom was buried here.” Her voice quavers.

“I dreamed about her last night,” Dale says. “And when I woke up, I could smell that perfume she used to wear.”

A shiver runs up my spine. Ariel and I exchange a glance, and I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. Callie’s been trying to deliver messages to all of us, it seems. I wonder if she stopped by to visit Mom, and if it was possible to get through there.

“Damn,” Dale says.

I think he’s still on the subject of Callie, but then I see where he’s staring and turn my own head. A white compact car turns off Seventh and into the narrow lane leading toward our part of the cemetery. A ragtag procession of other vehicles trails behind it. We are exposed here, with no way to hide.

Nobody needs to say anything; we all head for the cars. Ariel’s eyes are full of tears. She stumbles and Dale catches her, keeping an arm around her shoulder.

“Can’t you make them go away?” she asks. “I’m so sick of eyes watching all the time. I just want to be left alone.”

I don’t know what to tell her. Maybe in a few days they’ll get bored with us and move on, if we hide out in the house and don’t go anywhere. And if nobody else spills any gossip about us or Callie.

“How about I take you to my parents’ place for a couple of days?” Dale says. He’s talking to her, but his eyes are on me. “Dad will fend off any cameras. My folks get lonely. They’d love to have you.”

My heart gives a funny little twist at the thought of being in the old house without Ariel, but one glance at her miserable face settles it for me. “Sounds like a good idea.”

“What would I do? Do they even have TV?”

“They have Dish. Or you could help Dad with the car he’s rebuilding. Or bake things with Mom. Trust me, they’ll keep you busy.”

“I like cars,” she says. “I don’t know how to bake.”

“One word: ‘cookies.’” He looks at me over the top of her head, his eyes asking something. “You could go too, Lise, if you want to get away.”

“I’ve got work to do.” Truth and evasion, all in one. The documents should be rolling in. The will, financial stuff. Time to face the music.

“What about George?” Ariel asks.

“Let’s leave George to take care of Lise.” Dale’s gaze settles on me again. He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. The lines in his face seem deeper. “I really don’t like you being there by yourself with all those vultures circling. Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine.”

I give Ariel a swift hug. “Call anytime you want to come back, okay? When your books come, I’ll get them to you. And I’ll bring you your clothes and stuff.”

Her arms tighten around my shoulders. She sniffles, nods.

“I still don’t like you being alone,” Dale says. I wouldn’t be alone if he was with me. The words hang on my tongue, but I bite them back. He’s cut that avenue off sharply. The least I can do is have some pride.

George is in the front passenger seat of my car, face against the window, whining like his heart is going to break. I open the door for him and he gambols over to Dale, sniffing at his pant legs, then throws himself at Ariel. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses her face against the top of his head. Cameras click and whirr, but she’s screened by a whole lot of dog and they all keep a reasonable distance. Maybe they’ve heard some tales. I doubt any of them have developed a sudden sense of compassion.

Ariel gets into Dale’s pickup, George jumping in beside her.

“George, get down here.” Dale snaps his fingers and points at the ground. The dog whines but stays right where he is.

I shrug. “I’ll be okay. Let him stay with Ariel.”

“You sure?” Dale asks. “You could stay at my folks’, too.”

“I’m sure.” I turn and walk back to my car. Dale follows.

“Be careful,” he says. “Be smart.” He waits until Melody and I are safely in—doors locked, engine running—before he walks away.

“You’re a lucky woman, to have a man like that,” Melody says.

I hit the gas harder than I need to. Gravel spins under my tires before they find traction and I fishtail a little. Lucky indeed.

Melody’s not done. She makes a sizzling noise. “He’s hot. Looks great on camera. He’s a fabulous addition to the story, trust me.”

In my rearview, I watch the pickup turn onto the road behind us. George sits in the middle, Ariel’s arm around his neck. Behind them, the other cars string out. We look like a funeral procession, until I turn left and Dale keeps going straight. The cars behind him slow in a moment of indecision. Ariel is the hotter topic at the moment, and they follow Dale, except for my old friend the white compact, which follows me.

“I would have thought he’d have spread the word to his buddies,” I say.

Melody cranes her neck to look through the back window. “Are you kidding? It’s a cutthroat business. Do you know how much ribbing he’d get if he said he was run off by a dog and a shotgun? Uh-uh. He’s not going to tell.”

She watches me watching the rearview and says, “You’re not worried, are you? About letting her go?”

“Nope. She’ll be safe up there. Nobody’s getting past Mr. Elliot.”

We’re quiet the rest of the way back to my parents’ house. When we pull into the driveway, she says, “Thank you for your trust in me. The story will be good. I promise.” She hugs me, like I’m a long-lost friend. No air kisses, no pretending. I’m surprised to feel a warm little burst of affection. Stockholm syndrome, I tell myself. She is anything but my friend and now knows way too much about me. With photographic evidence to prove it. She’ll sell everything to the highest bidder at her first opportunity. This whole thing could go right, or it could go horribly wrong.

I spend the evening working on the new song. My fingers forget to be awkward after a while. My voice wakes up. The music takes over, and I forget about everything until I’ve got both words and music down.

After, I sit at the keys, hollowed out and cleansed. Even as the world comes back to me—one responsibility, one problem, one grief at a time—I feel content. I have made peace with the music.

When I stand up, my whole body feels more like I’m ninety than thirty-five. The kitchen clock says it’s 1:00 a.m. Outside the living room window, the street is empty.

A whisper of Callie’s voice brushes across my mind.
Music is not to be hoarded.

“All right,” I tell her out loud. “This one’s for you.”

I get in my car and drive the dark, silent streets back to the house I’m renting. I have a small recording system set up for some of my students. It helps if they can hear themselves, particularly my voice students. Ariel thinks I’m a Luddite; I’m not. I just don’t care to be connected to the world all the time with social media. But I have a new Mac, and I’m proficient with music software and graphics. Some of the kids have walked out of my little studio with a professional-quality demo ready to go.

Piano is tricky to record properly, so I use the keyboard. When I think I’m ready, I click to start recording and immediately freeze. My voice sticks in my throat. My hands lock up on the keys. Even in the old days before the music left me, I never recorded myself and got horribly nervous about performing in public. Callie would get up and sing in church given any opportunity. The one time I tried it, I forgot the words to a song I knew upside down and backwards, and my knees shook like a small earthquake.

I stop the recording and wait for the panic wave to ebb. Then I run my fingers over the keys and try the song again. My voice sounds shaky, my pitch is flat. I see my face reflected in the window, pale and strained.

So I turn out the lights and let the darkness fill up the studio. Callie feels closer to me in the dark. I try to imagine what it would feel like to be in her skin, to love singing in front of a crowd. I can’t get there, but little by little my self-consciousness eases away. The music is still there, waiting. It’s different for me than it was for Callie, but I can see now that this makes sense. There’s enough music for both of us. There always was.

In the darkened room, working by the glow of the computer screen, I manage to record one complete take. It’s all right, when I listen through. It’s a good song, and my performance is clean and competent. I could stop now, take my weary body to bed. That would be the rational thing to do.

But the music, the song, deserves more from me, and I try again and again, until on the final cut I forget about my exhaustion and the little red flashing light that means the mic is on. I even forget the why of this. No Dale. No Callie. It’s just me and the music.

And when I listen to this final take, I know it’s done.

But there is one more thing on my mind. A wild and crazy compulsion I know I will never do by light of day, after a good sleep and time to think.

Music should be shared,
Callie whispers in my ear.

It doesn’t take long searching Internet images before I find the ones I want. Callie onstage at the end of her last concert, arms in the air in a gesture of absolute triumph, a smile on her face. Callie singing her heart out, oblivious to the crowds and cameras. And a photo of the shrine in the parking lot outside the motel in Pasco. I put the pictures with the song to make a video, adding a slide at the end that says, simply, “In Memory of My Sister Callie—Thanks for the Music.”

The sky outside my window is gray with predawn light by the time I pull up my YouTube account. I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen until my eyes blur. And then I click “Upload” and select the file I’ve labeled “Color You Gone.” For a minute, I watch the progress bar as the video uploads. It’s not too late. I could still hit “Cancel.”

Instead, I turn off the monitor so I won’t know when the deed is done. If the upload fails, then it wasn’t meant to be. I know I won’t try again. I haven’t tagged the video, or done anything to promote it. Maybe nobody will ever find it, and my song will be a secret between me and Callie. Which would be fine with me.

I’ve done my part. Discovery lies with fate.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I wake in a sweat, tangled up in my blanket. I don’t know where I am.

An obnoxious chiming echoes in my ears.

I bury my head under my pillow, away from the light, but I can’t shut out the noise.

Little by little, I wake up enough to realize I’m back on the couch in the old house. It’s broad daylight. Somebody is ringing the doorbell. It seems to take forever to free myself from the confining blanket, get my bearings, and careen through the hallways like a drunken bat, lurching hard against the wall and bruising my shoulder.

It’s Ash. I stand there, door wide open, blinking at her.

“For God’s sake, let me in,” she says. “Trust me, you don’t want them to see you like this.”

Over her shoulder, I catch a glimpse of a collection of cars parked in the street and people snapping pictures. One of them is my friend in the white compact. Some of them are teenage kids, using the cameras on their phones.

Ash shoves past me into the house, dragging me in behind her and slamming the door.

She looks at me and shakes her head. “There’s drool on your chin. And did you sleep in those clothes?”

I scrub at my face with my hands and try to run my fingers through my hair. Too many tangles.

“Well, you’ve just given CPS a field day, letting them get those pics,” Ash says. “Here. I brought your homework.”

She hands me a brown manila envelope, a stack of file folders, and a small FedEx box.

“I obtained a certified copy of the will directly from Callie’s attorney. Per your instructions, I avoided Genesis when I contacted the accounting firm. One of the junior accountants was more than happy to oblige. I think he’s probably trustworthy, or at least smart enough to know he wants to be on your good side. He did a great job putting together the financial files. He would appreciate you thinking of him when you form your new team. I also talked to Glynnis. She says to tell you Ricken is no longer in the house and the locks have been changed. She’ll have somebody send your suitcase. Your cell phone is in the box. Oh, and the contract for Callie’s memoir is ready to sign, and she’d like your e-mail address.”

I stand there, too overwhelmed to move, my arms full of envelopes and folders. Ash has always been high energy and is super fueled at the moment. Fortunately, she has places to go and things to do. She leaves me with an admonishment to behave myself and never, ever let anybody see me looking like I’ve been out all night on a bender.

Once I’ve locked the door behind her, I take refuge in a hot shower, which serves the dual purposes of washing away the grime and loosening knotted muscles. A search through my dresser yields an old pair of faded jeans with holes in the knees, and a clean T-shirt. There are message lights flashing on the phone; I ignore them. Armed with a pot of coffee and a notebook, I start familiarizing myself with my new responsibilities.

The accountant has sent a clear summary, and I stare at my list of bank accounts, business investments, and property holdings in dismay. Why Callie didn’t give it all to Ariel is a question that sits on my shoulder day in and day out. I’m now blessed, or cursed, with a fortune in ready cash. There’s also the house in Vegas and three other properties, one of them some sort of old castle in France. A handwritten note tells me to expect debit cards from the bank to give me access to the funds in Callie’s trusts, which I can use for living expenses for Ariel and me while waiting for the will to clear probate.

I don’t need this much money; I don’t want it. When I dream about having money, it’s about buying my own house, getting a new car, indulging in a grand piano. I’m dazed by this sudden wealth, and I haven’t even scratched the surface of what the business interests entail. Capital, royalties, advances, bonuses. Clearly, I’m going to need help to understand any of it.

For today, I jot down my own list of how many accounts there are, what they are for, and available balances. Ten different accounts in Callie’s name. The trusts. Ariel has an account for her allowance and expenses, financed by an automatic deduction from Callie’s primary checking account. Also in Ariel’s name is a savings account that was opened a month after she was born. In the third week of every month since then, without fail, somebody has made a $200 deposit. With interest, it amounts to over $40,000.

As far as I can see, none of this comes from any of Callie’s accounts.

My cell phone rings. It came out of the parcel fully charged and ready to use, for which I suspect I need to thank Glynnis. I don’t recognize the number. Don’t want to answer. But I’m trying to be a responsible adult, so I pick it up. It’s Glynnis herself, her voice clear and precise.

“I’ve been leaving messages on the landline number you gave me.”

“I was busy.”

“Hmm. Yes. Well, we have business to discuss. First, I need your approval to accept some engagements.”

“What sort of engagements?”

“Ellen DeGeneres has asked for both you and Ariel. You should accept that one. Also,
The View
and
Live! with Kelly and Michael
. There are a couple of reality shows I think you should turn down . . .” Her voice goes on, but I’m stalled on the opening sally.

“Ellen?” That’s about all I’m able to hold on to from the string she’s recited. I clamp my free hand around the solid wood of my chair, squeezing until it hurts, making sure I’m awake.

Glynnis laughs. “Her people said this is a fabulous human-interest story they are sure their viewers will love. Did you hear anything else I said?”

“Not really.”

The old familiar kitchen looks unreal, a random collection of meaningless shapes and textures. I feel dizzy and realize I’m holding my breath.

“I suppose you’re not accustomed to these sorts of calls,” Glynnis says, kindly. “Do you have a pen? I want you to write down names and dates. You can think about them, but get back to me by tomorrow, okay?”

I turn to a new page in my notebook and jot down what she tells me.

“This type of exposure would be very helpful to you, given the Ricken situation. Now, let’s talk about your song.”

“My song?” The way I keep repeating words back to her, I’m sure she thinks I’m a nitwit.

“While I understand the impulse that made you post the song, I do request that you consult with me in the future. We could have put it out as a single and advertised it as a commemorative song for Callie. It would have made you a small fortune.”

“‘Color You Gone’ isn’t about money.”

“Everything is about money, dear. And it’s a very good song.”

Panic flutters around the edges of the room. “How did you know about the song? I didn’t tell anybody.” How long since I put it up, six hours?

She makes a little clucking noise. “It’s all over the Internet. One million hits on your YouTube site just last night, and of course everybody is sharing it. Album sales are already up and it’s giving you lots of positive buzz, but I still think it could have been handled better. In the future—”

“You’re not my agent.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re Callie’s agent. I don’t have an agent yet. I haven’t signed anything. So what I do with my music is entirely up to me. Right?”

Silence. “The agency contract is just waiting for your signature. You can scan it and send it back, and we’ll get to work immediately.”

Music is for everybody.

A vivid sense of freedom rushes through me. The panic recedes, replaced by the glimmer of an idea. “Let’s hold off on that a little, okay? I need some time.”

“Lise, you need somebody to represent you. Since I’m still representing Callie’s interests, it makes sense for us to work together. Unless you want to fire me like the rest of the team?”

“No, no. I want to keep you. I’m just—let’s hold off on what we’re going to do with my music. Okay?”

She’s not happy but is too smart to push. “All right. Let’s take it slowly. But I’d like you to get back to me by tomorrow about those engagements. Best not to keep them waiting.”

“All right.” I want to say no right now, but this is Ariel’s life as well as mine. She deserves a say.

“One more thing, Annelise, that I think you should know. That story about Callie being the sole survivor of a car wreck that killed her whole family when she was a baby? That was all Ricken. He fed one tabloid an exclusive scoop, and the story took off like a bat out of hell. By the time any reputable reporters got around to doing a fact check, it was too late to set the record straight, not that anybody tried very hard. Callie’s reaction was something like, ‘Lise is never going to forgive me anyway, so I guess it’s sort of true.’”

Her call leaves me feeling shell-shocked and buzzing with adrenaline and guilt. I’d like to take a walk, but there are too many people outside wanting to ask questions and take pictures. So I pace around the house a few times and then sit myself down. My plan is to start a list of Callie’s business interests and charities, but I can’t stop thinking about my song. Glynnis must be mistaken—there’s no way it’s had that many hits. I figure I’ll take a quick peek at the YouTube site on my phone and then get back to work.

But there are already a thousand comments, well over a million views. I google Callie, scrolling through the resulting hits in wonder. Only then am I brave enough to google myself. Melody, true to her word, has already been feeding bits of our story to different magazines, online and off. There’s a picture of Mom gazing up into my face as though I am the best and most beloved daughter in the world. Readers will never guess that she thought I was Callie. There’s a picture of Dale and Ariel and me at the cemetery. There are also other shots, all taken from a distance, contributed by the vultures, none of them with the same clarity as Melody’s. I have to admit the girl has talent.

When the doorbell rings, I jerk like I’ve been buzzed by a cattle prod. My heart races, my hands go cold. I can’t think of anybody good who could be at the door. Maybe it’s just another package. Maybe it’s Erik, back for another CPS inspection tour. Or maybe one of the paparazzi people has gotten bold.

When I peek out through the small narrow window beside the front door, there’s a man standing on the porch. Tall and well built, with close-cropped blond hair and the sort of tan that comes from a lot of time outdoors.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I crack the door and wave him in. The camera-wielding crowd surges forward. It has grown by about ten people since I last looked.

“Gene! Quick, before the vultures get here.”

He takes my advice, slipping through the door and brushing at his arms and shoulders as if he’s covered in debris. “Quite the party you’ve got going on.”

“Barrel of laughs. All I need is a keg and a truckload of potato chips. What are you doing here?”

Eugene Garrett is from my class at Colville High. Like me and Dale, he’s chosen to stay in town. He does pretty well for himself with a carpet and flooring business. Not much by way of a storefront, but that allows him to keep his costs down, and he gets good word of mouth. He’s not a close friend, but he is a familiar face, and I’m surprised by how happy I am to see him.

“Come on in and have a seat. Can I get you coffee?”

His eyes don’t quite meet mine, and he stays right where he’s planted. “I don’t suppose you have a beer?” His laugh is nervous and unease winds up my spine.

“Sorry, I didn’t stock up on the alcohol. What brings you to the neighborhood?” My gaze falls to the manila envelope he’s clutching in his left hand, and the happiness I felt about his visit shifts to dread.

“This isn’t really a social call,” he says. “I wanted to give you this in person, instead of you getting it from some stranger.”

“What is it?” I reach for the envelope.

He holds on to it with both hands. Shifts his weight from his right foot to his left. Sweat shines on his forehead. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

Pictures, I’m thinking. Somebody with a telephoto lens skulking around the yard and taking pictures through the window. The only thing I can think of that would make him look so nervous would be either Ariel or me in a state of undress. It’s not like anybody’s been having any sex. Unless these are pictures of Callie. But how would photos like that fall into his hands?

“How about you show me?” I tug the envelope away from him. What slides out when I open it is not a glossy eight-by-ten. It’s a legal document. I can read the words just fine, but they don’t make any sense.

I glance up at Gene. He’s sweating in earnest now. “It’s not like that,” he says, in answer to my look.

“Suppose you tell me how it is then, Gene?” The words “paternity suit” dance in the air between us. I blink to make them go away.

Gene takes a deep breath and swipes a sleeve across his forehead. “Well, if it turns out that I am . . .” He swallows hard, shuffles his feet again.

“Her father,” I supply.

“Right. If it turns out that I’m . . . if paternity is established . . .”

“Then what? You’ll sue for custody?”

He shakes his head and tries a smile. “No, nothing like that. I’m not trying to take her away from you, Lise. I only want to know if she’s mine.”

“Great. Then we don’t need this. She can swab you with her Identi-Match kit and we’ll wait for the results.” I hold the papers in both hands and start to tear them, my eyes intent on his face.

His hand shoots out and grabs mine. “Now, Lise. It’s not so simple as all that.”

“You’re going to have to explain it better, then. Pretend I’m six. Give me the kindergarten version.” My body feels like a block of ice.

“Now don’t be that way, Annelise. It’s more of a . . . business consideration.”

“You want some of Ariel’s money.”

His face flushes. “It’s not like I’m robbing her blind and leaving her in a ditch somewhere. She’s got plenty. I figure I deserve a cut.”

“Deserve? What have you done to deserve anything?”

“Well, if I’m her father . . .”

“You’re not asking to be a father. You want to be the sperm donor of record. Since when does a high school boy get paid for having sex with a pretty girl? Seems like you got damn lucky.”