Love is Hell

It’s not like I haven’t been in here before. It’s just that ever since I learned about what happened in this house, I’ve been avoiding it like the proverbial plague, opting instead for the bathroom downstairs.

I glance around, wondering what it looked like twenty years ago. Were the walls butter-colored like now? Are these the same ceramic floor tiles? The same chrome-plated sink faucet?

And what about the tub?

I look down at it, my heart pounding so loud I can almost hear it in my ears. Images of that day from twenty years ago flash across my mind—even though I wasn’t here; I hadn’t even been born yet. I can picture Travis’s face and the look of surprise when the crowbar came at him. And I can see him falling back, headfirst, against the bottom of the cast-iron tub.

I turn away, resisting the urge to be sick and noticing how cold I feel. The temperature in the room must have dropped at least ten degrees.

“Brenda?” my mother calls out, knocking on the door. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I say, zooming in on the radiator beneath the window, wondering if it’s working right.

“Do you want more pancakes?” she asks.

I tell her I don’t, baffled that she would even ask. I mean, did she not notice my unfinished plate?

I move across the room to check the heat, holding my palms out by the radiator. But all I feel is coldness—a sharp penetrating chill that crawls over my bones and makes my skin itch.

At the same moment, something touches my back and snakes up my spine. Startled, I turn to look. But no one’s there—no one’s by the sink or in the tub, even though it feels like someone’s watching me.

“Mom?” I call, wondering if she’s still outside the door.

She doesn’t answer.

I turn back around, telling myself that it’s just my imagination and that I need to get a grip.

The rungs of the radiator are as frigid as the room. I squat down and place my ear up against them. I want to see if I can hear the rush of heat rising up through the pipes, but it’s eerily quiet.

A moment later, I spot something shiny between the rungs. It looks like a chain of some sort, maybe a necklace. I try sticking my fingers in to retrieve it, but the chain is several inches away.

“Brenda,” my mother calls, from behind the door again.

I take a deep breath. The smell of mulled apples is thick in the air. “Travis?” I whisper.

“Brenda,” my mother repeats. “Get up NOW!” She smacks something hard near my head. The impact of the noise wakes me up.

I’m no longer in the bathroom. I’m in the kitchen, at the table, and my head rests on a pillow of napkins. There’s a plateful of pancakes in front of me. “I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up straight. My mother is standing over me, a fry pan clutched in her hand—obviously what she used to wake me up. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“Your father and I are really worried about you,” she reminds me.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“Are you using drugs?” Her mouth is a thin, angry line.

I shake my head, too tired to even entertain her stupid theory. Instead, I grab my butter knife, excuse myself from the table—for real this time—and head straight for the upstairs bathroom.

The cast-iron radiator is in full view. Just like in my dream, it’s been painted a metallic silver, but you can still see the hunter green shade underneath where the paint has chipped in spots. I approach it slowly, noting the chill in the room, feeling the gooseflesh sprout up on my arms. I squat down and peek between the rungs.

And that’s when I see it—the necklace from my dreams.

“Brenda?” my mother asks, pushing the door wide. “What’s the matter?”

My mouth trembles open, but no words come out.

Her eyes narrow, spotting the knife in my hand. “What are you doing?”

“I dropped my necklace,” I say, finally.

She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t quite believe me. Still, she leaves me alone, commenting on the chill in the room and on how she needs to check the thermostat downstairs.

It takes some maneuvering, but I’m able to work the necklace out from the rungs using the butter knife.

It’s a sterling-silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant. I glide my fingers down the length, noticing how the clasp is still fastened but the links have been broken. The initials JAS are engraved across the pendant’s surface in pretty cursive writing.

My heart speeds up, conjuring up all those online articles. Mrs. Slather’s first name is Jocelyn.

This must belong to her.

Eight (#ulink_30a5eb83-95bf-5795-8406-7d8867f60ec2)

SATURDAY NIGHT, CRAIG AND Raina take me on a tour of the town, which consists of driving by the ice cream/pizza place on Main Street, the barbershop where Craig gets his hair cut, and a corner grocery that sells everything from garden rakes to garden vegetables. Our last stop is a coffee shop, which, according to Raina, is the least lamest place in town.

Ever-exhausted, I order a double espresso with an extra shot.

“Are you kidding?” Raina squawks. “The sign on the door says Stanley’s, not Starbucks. It’s one coffee bean fits all here.”

We each end up with a cup of regular, and then Raina leads us to a booth in the corner.

“So, what’s up with the need for speed?” she asks.

“Excuse me?”

“A double espresso with an extra shot?” She raises her stud-pierced eyebrow in curiosity. “I thought the problem was that you couldn’t sleep. With rocket fuel like that, I’d be doing jumping jacks around my bedroom all night.”

“Now there’s a sobering sight,” Craig says.

I take a sip of my less-than-palatable cup of java, knowing full well that I do want to sleep, but a part of me is still afraid of what I’ll see, of what it’ll mean. And, yet, ever since my dream on the bus the other day, since I’ve been doing all this research and learning about Travis, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see him again.

If he’ll clasp my hand.

And make my heart race.

“Is it getting easier, at least?” Craig asks. “To sleep in the new place, I mean.”

I shrug, thinking about the necklace I found. I’ve hidden it inside an old tennis sneaker at the back of my closet, right beside my roller skates—the ones I didn’t let Emma borrow.

Even though they’re at least three sizes too small now, I’ve been keeping the skates ever since that day, unable to let go of what happened.