Heartstopper (9 page)

Delilah thought she’d never seen a sweater so beautiful. “It’s gorgeous.” She reached for it eagerly, examined the designer label.

“I don’t suppose you remembered my heart pills,” Rose said.

“Of course I remembered your pills.” Kerri ferreted around in her red leather purse for the pills, tossed the small, plastic container at her mother.

“Good thing I didn’t need these right away.”

“You’re welcome,” Kerri said.

Delilah checked the size of the jersey, felt a sharp stab of disappointment pierce her heart. “I think this might be too small,” she whispered, hating the whine in her voice.

“It’s a medium.”

“I’m a large.”

Her mother smiled. “Well, then, this will give you some incentive to lose a few pounds.” She reached for the sweater. “I guess I could wear it in the meantime. So, what’s been happening? I miss anything?”

“Liana Martin’s disappeared,” Delilah told her, watching her mother return the sweater to the shopping bag.

“What do you mean, she disappeared?”

“According to Sheriff Weber, nobody’s seen her since yesterday afternoon.”

“When were you talking to Sheriff Weber?”

“Tonight. Grandma Rose was worried, so she sent me out to look for you.”

“Honestly, Mother,” Kerri said. “I told you I might be a while.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to Fort Lauderdale.”

“It was spur-of-the-moment. Besides, I’m a big girl. I don’t have to tell you every little thing.”

“I don’t like those pants on you,” Rose said in response.

“I should call Sheriff Weber,” Delilah interjected. “Tell him you’re home.”

“Why don’t you like these pants?”

“They make you look hippy,” Rose said.

“They do?”

“I think they look nice,” Delilah said, coming to her mother’s defense.

“Look who’s talking,” said Rose.

“So, how is Sheriff Weber these days?” Kerri asked. “Was he worried about me?”

“Worried enough to tell me to call him if you weren’t home by midnight. I think he was worried because of Liana.”

“Liana?”

“Liana Martin,” Delilah reminded her.

“Judy Martin’s daughter,” Rose added. “Now
that’s
a beautiful woman.”

“You think so?” Kerri asked. “I always thought she was kind of ordinary. What do you think, sweetie?”

“I think you’re prettier,” Delilah said.

“Thank you, angel. See, Mom? Delilah thinks I’m prettier than Judy Martin.”

“Is that a blemish on your chin?” Rose asked.

“What? Where?” Kerri raced toward the small mirror in the hall. “What are you talking about? I don’t see anything.”

Delilah shook her head and walked into the kitchen. They’d be at it all night, she was thinking as she picked up the phone and called Sheriff Weber, told him her mother was back, and that she was sorry for any unnecessary worry she might have caused him. “Any news about Liana?” Delilah asked.

“Nothing,” he told her.

“Nothing,” she repeated, hearing her mother and grandmother bickering in the next room. She listened for several seconds, then she grabbed a spoon from a nearby drawer, pulled a white wicker chair up to the freezer, and ate directly from the container what was left of the ice cream.

M
emory’s an amazing thing. Our memories shape us, providing a backdrop for our daily lives, a context for our actions, a rationale for our sometimes dubious decisions. Who we are today is inextricably woven through with memories of who we were yesterday, and the days before that—threads in the same complicated tapestry—highlighting episodes from our pasts, spotlighting our latest disappointments and first loves. Or hates. Pull one thread, and watch the whole thing unravel. Who did what to whom, what foods we’ve developed a taste for, the multiple skills we’ve mastered or failed at, the movies we’ve enjoyed, the music we’ve danced to, what movie stars we admire, what politicians we don’t—if we can’t remember such seemingly ordinary details, well, then, who are we?

It’s our memories that define us. Without them, we have no identity. We have nothing.

Those pathetic old creatures who’ve outlived their memories and now sit screaming in lonely hospital corridors, scream not with the pain of their deteriorating organs, but rather with the agony of no longer knowing who they are, their ears searching their cries for the sound of a familiar voice. They live in the eternal present, and it’s hell on earth.

I never want to get like that. If I ever develop Alzheimer’s or some such awful thing, I hope someone will just take a gun to my head and shoot me. I’m sure Liana Martin would be only too happy to oblige. Although sadly, she won’t be around to get the chance.

You know how people are always telling you to live for today. I think that’s good advice. Remember yesterday, but live for today. Yes, sir, that’s my new motto. I should have told that to Liana Martin. Live for today, Liana. Because what’s done is done, and you never know what’s going to happen next.

Well, no. That’s not exactly true. Because I know. I know what’s going to happen next.

They also say you should live every day as if it might be your last. More good advice, although I don’t think Liana Martin would have appreciated hearing it.

I wonder what memories she conjured up last night. If they were happy or sad. If they were of any comfort to her.

Personally, I have a lot of memories that aren’t so pleasant. Like the time I was five years old and almost drowned in a neighbor’s pool. It was Robby Warren’s birthday and my mother was busy and couldn’t go, so my aunt, who was always hanging around, took me over there. I can still see her flirting with Robby Warren’s father as she stuffed her face with party sandwiches at the side of the pool. Don’t you love party sandwiches? I do. They’re solid butter, for God’s sake. That’s what makes them so tasty.

But anyway, it was real hot and there were tons of kids there, splashing around in the pool, making lots of noise. And the adults were gossiping and drinking, and I don’t think it was just lemonade they were drinking either, although my aunt always disputed this. Just as she always disputed my memory of what happened next. She insisted there was no way I could remember the events of that afternoon because I was so young. She said kids that age
can’t remember things, especially in the kind of detail I can. I stopped trying to convince her. She had her truth. I have mine. And she had to live with herself after all.

But she was such a liar. She insisted she was watching me the whole time I was in the water. She claimed she only turned her head for half a second, and when she looked back, I was gone, so she assumed I’d gotten out of the pool and gone inside the house to use the facilities. That’s what she always called the bathroom—the facilities. She thought it sounded more genteel. I used to drive her crazy when I’d say, “I’m going to the toilet.” I can still see her cringe. Which, of course, is why I said it.

Anyway, she said she went inside the house looking for me. I think she went inside to find Robby Warren’s father. But, of course, she said she just ran into him when she was looking for me, like it was my fault she was talking to him, and, yes, maybe she got distracted for a couple of seconds, but no more than that, although others said I was under the water for at least a minute. I don’t know. The truth is I don’t remember exactly how long I was under that water. I just remember one of the other kids jostling me, and me losing my footing, and then slipping below the surface. I remember the taste of the chlorine in my mouth, the slimy feel of the tepid water as it slid inside my nostrils. I remember my hair lifting away from my scalp and floating around my head, like seaweed. Then nothing.

And suddenly there were voices, and crying, and lots of shouting. And then fists pounding on my chest, and my head being tilted back, my lips being pried open, and someone squeezing my nose and blowing air into my mouth. I remember gagging and spitting water into somebody’s lap. And I remember my aunt crying hysterically, carrying on so much, in fact, that there was actually talk of sending
her
to the hospital, then allowing Robby
Warren’s father to calm her down—he had to take her into the house for a good ten minutes—before she was composed enough to take me home. Then she told my mother how it was all
my
fault I almost drowned, and my mother took
her
side and scolded
me
, shaking me until I was dizzy, screaming that I had to be more careful, not because I’d almost died, but because I’d ruined Robby Warren’s birthday party, and we’d probably never be invited back there again. And now what were we going to do in the summer when it got really hot, and there was nowhere to go to cool off?

Actually, the Warren family moved away that summer, and another family moved in, and they were old, and they didn’t swim, so they had the pool taken out. Then they paved the whole backyard over, took out all the grass and everything, because old Mr. Jackes said he didn’t have the strength to keep picking the weeds out all the time. I volunteered to do it—actually my mother volunteered me to do it—but Mr. Jackes said his wife was allergic to grass anyway, so it was better to just put in pavement. I liked Mr. Jackes. He was big and gruff and usually upset about something. But at least you always knew where you stood with him. There was no pretense. No bullshit. How often can you say that about anybody?

After he died, we went over to pay our respects to Mrs. Jackes. My mother brought a peanut-butter cake she’d bought in the grocery store and was trying to pass off as her own. Didn’t matter. As it turned out, Mrs. Jackes was allergic to peanuts as well as grass, and she couldn’t eat it, couldn’t even have the damn thing in the house. So we took it back home and ate the whole thing all by ourselves. My mother claimed there was no way Mrs. Jackes was allergic to all those things, and that she was just being snooty, thinking she was better than us. We never talked to her again. A few months later, her kids moved her into an
old-age home in Hallandale, and eventually a new family bought the house, dug up the backyard, and put in another pool. But they never invited us over.

I never did learn how to swim. Not well anyway. Water always terrified me. Still does. The way it sneaks up on you.

I guess I’m a bit like water, in that respect.

Another unpleasant memory: yearly vacations in Pompano Beach with my mother, grandparents, and of course my aunt. These holidays were always torture for me, largely because of my aunt, who seemed to go out of her way to make my life a living hell. No wonder her husband died before his fortieth birthday. He was probably grateful for whatever it was that killed him. Only way he could get away from that witch was to die.

After that near-drowning incident in my childhood, my aunt had decided it was essential that I learn how to swim. She didn’t want to find me floating facedown in the motel pool, she told anyone who would listen—she loved an audience—and she didn’t want to have to worry about me being swept into the ocean by some deadly undertow. She just wanted to relax and enjoy her holiday, she repeated ad nauseam. So, almost as soon as we got to the motel, she arranged for this lifeguard I saw her cuddling up to, to coach me. He tried. I’ll give him credit for that. And ultimately, he did manage to keep me afloat for more than three seconds at a time, although I never progressed much beyond the dog-paddle stage. He explained that there was no way I could swim properly without putting my head underwater, but I wasn’t interested in swimming properly, I told him, and I refused.

This didn’t stop my aunt, who never learned when to leave well enough alone. She just couldn’t leave me to my own devices. She couldn’t understand that someone might actually enjoy reading a book, for example. Or drawing a picture. No, like someone who relentlessly picks at a scab
before the sore below has a chance to heal, she was constantly at me, arranging for long boat rides and deep-sea fishing expeditions that always made me sick to my stomach. For someone who claimed she was so terrified of seeing me drown, she made sure I spent an awful lot of time near the water.

One year, she insisted we all take up waterskiing, promising me it was easier than riding a bike, something else I had trouble with. I don’t know what lapse in judgment made me believe her, or if I went along with it just to shut her up. Maybe it was that the other kids made it look so easy, so effortless, the way they flew across the water, occasionally letting go of the rope with one hand to wave at those of us watching enviously from the shore, their heads thrown back in exhilaration, but I decided to give it a try. I climbed into the skis, my life jacket tied securely around my chest, and waited for the boat to take off. “Hang on,” I can still hear my aunt shouting as I struggled to stand up. Well, I barely managed to rise above a crouch before the speed of the motorboat tore the rope painfully from my hands, and I found myself in the salty water, my fingers scratching wildly at the air as the life jacket pressed painfully against my chin, and the skis shot from my feet to the water’s surface. “You big baby,” my aunt said, laughing, pulling me onto the deck. She laughed all the way back to the motel.

It was more or less the same thing every year. She never let up. “Where are you, scaredy-cat?” she’d call, searching for me under the wide red and blue umbrellas scattered along the beach. “Come on, chicken liver. It’s your turn. Show us what you’re made of.” It got to the point where I dreaded family vacations even more than a trip to the dentist.

The family outings stopped only when my aunt died.

Boohoo.

I can’t get into that now. I don’t have time. I’ve wasted too much time already reminiscing, and I have so much to
do. Everything got thrown off schedule, and I have to figure out what to do before it gets too light. Even now, I’ve only got a small window of opportunity. I can’t risk anyone discovering I’m gone. News of Liana Martin’s disappearance has swept through Torrance like a snake through grass. Everyone’s really spooked.

It’ll be even worse once they discover her body.

Did I mention Liana is dead?