Twisted (12 page)

CHAPTER 22

B
ingley seems unimpressed by my dramatic announcement and skulks off down the hall.

I slowly lower myself onto the desk chair and flick the corner of the package with my fingernail. Is the missing lock the one that's on my door? If it is, then he's had these all along. He lied. So what do I do now? I can't bring this up without revealing I was snooping around in his room.

Sighing, I put the package of locks back in the drawer. My eyes land on something in the other corner. Aidan's Nintendo DS
.
The locks momentarily forgotten, a smile spreads across my face.

When Aidan became part of my family, besides two pairs of ginormous, smelly sneakers, he brought with him his Nintendo DS. I begged him to play with it almost every day. He always let me. Even if he'd been using it, he never said no.

One by one, I pull out the games, read the labels, and dump them into my lap.
FIFA World Cup
,
Need for Speed
,
NHL
,
Star Wars
,
Mario Brothers
, they're all here — even
Hannah Montana
. Mom gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. I was pretty sure it had been Aidan's idea. I let him keep it with all the other games, teased him about playing it when I wasn't around.

A noise outside makes me jump out of my skin. It's the sound of a car door slamming.
Aidan's supposed to be gone till tomorrow.
I shoot up from the chair, sending all the game cartridges clattering to the floor. I gasp and drop to my knees, clump the games into a pile, and quickly throw them back in the drawer. I spread them out a bit, I'm pretty sure that's the way they were, and then place the Nintendo on top.

Giving the room a final glance, I take a deep breath and hurry out into the hall
.
My eyes are trained on the front door. A minute goes by, and nothing happens. It occurs to me that the noise I heard might have been from the neighbours.

I peek out the living room window. There's a cab parked right in front of the house. An old lady with steel-grey hair and a blue knit tam is sitting sideways in the back seat, her boots hanging out the open door, not quite reaching the curb. She's saying, or yelling, something at the cab driver, who's behind the car opening the trunk.

I think for a second. That must be Mrs. Collins, the lady who owns the house
.
I remember Aidan saying she was away visiting her daughter.

Grabbing my jacket and slipping on my boots, I go out to meet her. It wouldn't hurt to make a good first impression considering she probably doesn't know I'm living here yet.

“Hi,” I say, opening the back cab door as far as it can go. “Mrs. Collins, right?”

She's doesn't move. I think she's stuck. She mutters something under her breath and holds out her purse, shakes it at me. I take it and sling it over my shoulder. It weighs about fifty pounds. Next she waves her arm in the air, indicating she wants me to pull her out. I do.

Once upright, she turns and squints at me with her apple doll eyes. “You're not Marla.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I'm Lyssa, Aidan's sister.”

“Sister?” She sounds doubtful. “He never mentioned he had a sister.”

“Stepsister.”

She gives me a good look up and down.

“We, uh, kinda lost touch for a … couple of years,” I add.

“Hmmm.”

“Hope it's okay, but I'm staying here for, well, I'm not really sure for
how
long. I'm starting at King's University. Aidan was,
is
, going to tell you, clear it with you or whatever. You were away, though,” I finish lamely.

After a long, drawn-out moment of pinching and un-pinching her lips, she must decide I pass inspection. “I hope you're not noisy. I don't like a lot of banging and crashing around.”

“I was a mouse in a previous life,” I tell her.

She smiles. Her face scrunches into a network of a hundred wrinkles. “I'm Glady. Help me around back to the stairs, will you?”

“Sure.”

The cab driver slams the trunk closed and sets a suitcase down on the sidewalk. “Fifty-two even,” he says.

I pick up Glady's suitcase and wait while she pays the driver. She hands him three twenties. He whips out a wad of cash, peels off a five, gives it to her with some coins.

I try not to laugh as I watch her press a single loonie into his palm.

I hold her elbow as we head toward the driveway. I glance back over my shoulder. The cab driver is standing there, staring at his hand.

“Cheeky bastard,” Glady says. “Wouldn't help an eighty-five-yearold woman out of a cab.”

“I'm sure he would have, I just beat him to it.”

She grunts.

Once we make it around back and to the top of the stairs, she hands me a key. I unlock the door and hold it open for her.

“Just put the suitcase in the hall,” she says, unbuttoning her coat. “My God, it's good to be home. I couldn't take Ottawa one minute longer. You think it's cold here … chilled to the bone, I was. Spent two weeks chilled to the bone.” She goes over and jacks up the thermostat.

“But it must have been nice to see your family — your daughter, right?”

“Pfft. They had me drag my ass all the way there to have an early Christmas because
they're
going to Cuba for the holidays,” she says sarcastically. “One of those all-inclusives.”

I'm not sure what to say. “I hear you get sick if you drink the water.”

One corner of her mouth goes up and she gets a sort of twinkle in her eye. “Yes, I've heard that too.”

After Glady is all settled in, I tear down the back stairs. I've only got about fifteen minutes to get to work. I lock the front door and race up the street. I have to stop at the corner and wait to cross. That's just enough time to let everything start running through my head again — Aidan lying about Marla, Marla back in the hospital, and now the package of locks. The traffic light changes one, maybe two times before I notice the blinking “walk” sign.
Get it together!

Finally I make it to the coffee shop. I rush in the service door, grab my apron, and slip it over my head at the same time I'm taking off my coat.

The place is a zoo, standing room only, so no one notices that I barely made it. I grab a tray and start collecting dirty dishes. From snippets of customers' grumblings and full-on rants, I conclude that the power's still out in part of the south end. People are pretty much camping out, in for the long haul.

Liam goes behind the counter and switches an empty coffee pot for a full one. He smiles when he sees me. “No one from Nova Scotia Power better drop in for a coffee. It'll be the apocalypse.”

“No kidding.” I rinse out his empty pot, place it in the coffee maker, and press “start.”

I know Liam's shift is supposed to be ending. I hear him ask Erin if he should stay. “We'll be fine. Anna's coming in early. She has no power. She'd rather be here.”

Liam gives me a nod and a wave on his way out. I nod back. There's no time for anything else.

I like that it's busy. It keeps me distracted — my mind has no chance to wander.

The customers are cranky. It's a student crowd, and it's a Satur- day, so the majority of those students are nursing hangovers.

“I think I'm allergic to alcohol,” one girl says as I top up her coffee. She plunks a bottle of antacid onto the table.

“Possible,” I say.

“Bullshit,” the girl sitting with her says. “It's called a hangover.”

“Well, you're hungover too,” the first girl accuses.

“No, I'm not.” She puts her hand over her mug when I offer to refill it. “I'm just exhausted from being up all night.”

“Yeah, getting white-girl wasted,” the first girl snarls.

I roll my eyes, leave them to their bickering, and move on to the next table.

About an hour and a half later, someone gets a call on a cellphone and announces that the power's back on. The place becomes a ghost town in a matter of minutes.

Anna, Erin, and I all slump onto the nearest chairs. We take a good look around. It's like a bomb went off. Slowly we get up and start restoring order.

I'm wiping up the cream and sugar station when Liam reappears in the front door. What's he doing back? He's only been gone a couple of hours. He looks … serious. Our eyes meet. He doesn't have to say anything. I don't know how, but I know the frown on his face has something to do with me.

Erin's pulling on her coat.

“You mind if I take a quick break before you leave?” I ask her.

She sees Liam and smirks. “Sure. Anna's got it. Knock yourself out.”

He's at one of the tables by the fireplace. I wipe my hands on my apron and make my way over. What if he wants to talk about our almost kiss? He probably wants to set me straight, make it clear that nothing can ever happen. Was it so obvious that I wanted it to? Maybe it was only obvious to me. Or maybe he just wants to apologize for puking his guts out right in front of me.

He dumps his messenger bag on the chair and shrugs off his coat. He's just had a shower. I can tell by the way the hair on his neck is still damp and curling up. And he smells … clean … coconutty.

“Hey,” he says. “Can you spare a minute?”

“No problem. I'm pretty much done.” I sit down. Let's just get this over with.

He takes the seat across from me. “So Mia was there when I got home.”

Oh God. Who's Mia
?
“Mia?”

“Sorry. Mia's my roommate's girlfriend. She's the one taking pharmacy.”

The pill! I totally forgot about the pill! “Right,” I breathe. “You were going to get her to look at the pill.”

“Yeah.”

“And …?”

“Well, it's an antipsychotic.”

“An antipsychotic?”

He nods. “It's called Olanzapine.”

“Olanzapine.” I let the word roll around in my head. It sounds foreign. In a way it is. “So, like, what's it for?”

“Bipolar disorder, dementia, some kinds of severe depression.”

“Bipolar … dementia … depression …” I repeat it like I'm memorizing a grocery list. I don't hear mood swings in there. “Okay …”

“Um, yeah.” Liam pauses, clears his throat. “But it's most com- monly used for treating schizophrenia.”

“Schizophrenia?”

He holds up a hand. “But that doesn't mean that's the reason Aidan's taking it. It could be one of those other things.”

“Okay …” I repeat.

“And even if it
is
schizophrenia,” he continues. “Mia said this medication is a good one, that it works really well.”

“Okay …” It's like it's the only word I know.

CHAPTER 23

T
ires screech. I jump back onto the curb. It's my fault, I wasn't looking. I give the driver a limp wave, hoping he can tell that I'm sorry. At this rate I'll be dead in the gutter before I make it halfway home.

I can't stop replaying my conversation with Liam.

I finally switched from “Okay” to “No. No, that's not what he has.”

Liam raised his eyebrows. “I guess you forgot to mention you were an expert in schizophrenia.”

“I'm not,” I said, all defensive. “I just know he doesn't have it.”

“It wouldn't be the end of the world if he did. I mean, as long as he takes his medication …”

“Aidan's … well … there's nothing
that
wrong with him.”

“Okay, Dr. Lyssa.”

“Aidan's fine. He's just fine. But thanks. You know, for finding all that out. Oh, and say thanks to … Mia? Yeah, tell Mia thanks.”

I gathered my stuff and got out of there as fast as I could.

Thinking about it now, I realize maybe I should have reacted a bit differently — a little more toned down. Also, me saying “there's nothing
that
wrong with him” totally implies there's
something
wrong with him. And like Liam said, it could be just one of those other things. Maybe I should have asked him a bit about symptoms, or better yet, asked to borrow his laptop to do some research myself.
Shit
.

I must have been on autopilot because somehow I safely arrive home on the front porch.

It's after seven, dark. I should have left some lights on. The house is so quiet.

With Aidan gone for the night, I thought I might be creeped out at the idea of being alone, but I'm not. I'm relieved — relieved not to have to see or talk to him. At least not right now, not after the day I've had.

My stomach growls as I head for the kitchen, flicking on all the lights as I go. I should have grabbed something for dinner. I don't even remember if I ate today.

On the counter I find a box of Kraft Dinner. A piece of paper next to it says, “no groceries. found this in back of cupboard. expiry date good. don't get STUFFED.” Under all the writing is a drawing of a happy face and Aidan's scribbled signature. He must have done it this morning, after I left.

I shake my head. A few years ago, Caroline and I were co-presidents of student council. We organized a year end fundraiser for the food bank — Stuff a Bus. It was really just an old donated minivan that didn't run anymore, but the goal was to stuff it to bursting with Kraft Dinner, which we did. The local news promised to come do a story about it, but it meant we had to wait a day before delivering the goods to the food bank. There was a rumour going around that the rival junior high was going to trash the van, steal the food. Since we couldn't move it, Aidan camped out all night with me and Caroline in the schoolyard and helped us stand guard. We played truth or dare, cards, twenty questions; he pretended to be enthralled by our gossip; we ate junk food till we were sick. We had the best night ever. No harm came to the van, and we all made the paper the next day.

I smile at the memory, but I'm still relieved Aidan's not here.

I cook up the KD, eat it right out of the pot. No point in dirtying a dish. I shoo Bingley off the couch and curl up to watch
TV
. I just want to tune everything out for a while.
Dateline
is on, but after jerking myself awake more than once, I give up and turn it off. My bed calls to me.

There's the sound of trickling water as I stand at the bathroom sink. It's coming from above me. Mrs. Collins. I'm not alone after all. Not really.

My bedroom feels cold. I pull an extra blanket out of my closet — the one Liam used the other night. I hold it to my nose, positive I can still smell him.

I close my door, throwing my hip into it. It squeaks loudly — seems extra loud in the empty house. I should try to fix that. Tomorrow.

Flopping into bed, I prepare myself for a long night of tossing and turning. I shut my eyes. The hamster wheel in my head is going around and around. After a day like today, how could I expect anything else? But about five minutes later, the hamster conks out and I sleep the sleep of the dead.

When I wake up, I notice that my door is still closed. I must have finally done it right.

I pull on my housecoat and thump down the hall.

Bingley is on the couch, pretty much in the same spot I left him last night. “Well, hello there. Did it cramp your style, being denied access to my room? Or did you even bother to try?”

His reaction is to hop off the sofa and dart toward the kitchen.

I follow him, refill his water dish, and top up his bowl of Meow Mix. Then I turn on the radio, pull out the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and start eating it out of the box.

Ryan Seacrest's Top 40 Countdown is blaring, so I don't hear Aidan arrive home. He sneaks up behind me and jabs me in my sides with his fingers.

“What the!?” I spin around, swinging my arm. I get him in the neck.

He stumbles backwards. “Jesus, Lyssa! Settle down!” He rubs where I chopped him.

“Don't do that,
ever
!” I push my hair off my face and try to catch my breath. “You deserved that, you know.”

“Just trying to have some fun. Call the cops, why dontcha?” He's still rubbing his neck.

I so want to bombard him with questions and accusations, but I don't. “How was your party?”

“Oh, the usual. Though let me state for the record, no good can come from attempting to invent new shooters.”

“I'll bet.”

“Hey. Could you do me a solid and put on a pot of coffee? I feel like hell.”

“You
look
like hell.” He really does.

“Great. I'm just gonna dump this stuff in my room.”

He returns just as the coffee's sputtering its last sputter. “Oh, hey, I meant to tell you. I just said, screw it, and went back and got the big pack of deadbolts.”

My back stiffens. I'm glad I'm standing at the counter so he can't see my face. I swallow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Collins asked me to put one on the gate in the backyard. When it's windy it bangs, makes a lot of racket. Figured I'd better get it done. She's due back soon.”

“She's already back.” I turn and see him toss the package of locks on the table. I go over and pick it up. It's the same one from his drawer. “It's open,” I say.

“I was going to do it but —”

“There's one missing.” I cut him off.

“Let me
finish
.” His eyes bug out. “I went to put it on the gate the other morning, but with all the snow, the gate wouldn't close tight. I couldn't level it up and —”

“I've been asking you for ages to get me a lock.” I cut him off again.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You kept saying you didn't have any.”

He gives me a confused look. “And I didn't. Until I bought some the other day.”

“But there's one missing,” I repeat.

“
Again
, if you'd let me finish, when I was trying to get the gate levelled up, I dropped the lock in the snow. Couldn't find it.” He shrugs. “Guess it's a good thing it's a multi-pack.”

“Yeah. Good thing,” I say.

His eyes narrow. I'm pretty sure he's picked up on my tone. “Wait a minute …” He pauses for a second. “What? You think I already had them?”

I don't say anything.

“I'm right, aren't I? You think I've had them all along, and let me see … that the missing one is the one on your door?”

I still don't say anything.

“Well, then, you're on to me,” he says sarcastically. “You've figured out my diabolical plan — to force you to let Bingley sleep in your room. Because you know I'm such a
cat lover
and I need you to
bond
with him.” He shakes his head and pours himself a coffee. “Christ, Lyssa. What the hell do I care if you want to lock your door and keep the cat out of your room at night?” He adds some milk. “Oh, and feel free to go stand at the bottom of the driveway and wait for the spring thaw. Trust me. There'll be a lock lying on the ground by that gate when the snow melts.”

He's almost out of the kitchen when he spins around. “What the hell's up your ass, anyway? Coffee shop boy ask someone else to the prom?”

That does it. “Why didn't you tell me about Marla?” I blurt. “That you broke up with her?”

“And
there
we have it!” he shouts, slamming his mug down on the counter. The coffee sloshes over the sides, over his hand. “And how did you find out about that?”

“I went to Marla's apartment. I met Jodi.”

“
Why
would you go there?”

“I wanted to find out when she was getting back,” I explain. “You didn't seem to know. I wanted to do something nice for you guys, make you dinner.”

“Jodi,” he scoffs. “That bitch hates me. I suppose she made out like I was the biggest prick on the planet.”

No point denying it. “How could you do that to Marla?” I say. “What were you thinking?”

“See? This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd react like this!”

“Like
what
?”

“Like all ‘Oh, how could you hurt poor Marla? How could you be such an asshole?'”

“I never called you an asshole.”

He crosses his arms, like he's challenging me. “I didn't love her. Am I supposed to chain myself to her for the rest of my life because she's … not quite all right upstairs?”

I press my lips together in a straight line. I don't like the way he's describing her. “You were with her an awful long time considering you weren't in love with her.”

“We met in the loony bin!” he shouts. “Honestly, neither one of us had a lot to choose from.”

“Oh, that's nice,” I spit. “Real heartwarming.”

“Don't get me wrong. I cared,
still
care, about Marla. She helped me out a lot, and I helped her. But shouldn't a relationship be built on more than that? It's not my fault she thought we were going to walk down the aisle.”

I refuse to agree with him. “Do you know that she's back in the hospital?”

He doesn't answer right away. “Yeah. Yeah I do. And I'm sorry about that. But there's no way I could have predicted that was going to happen. I mean, she's been really good, steady, for a long time.”

I turn my head. I can't look at him.

“Lyssa,” he sighs. “Marla's great, she really is. It's just … well, she's a constant reminder of one of the worst times in my life. I had to end it. She deserves someone who can give her more.”

I think about what he said, then I say, “Poor Marla.”

He sighs loudly. “I have to say … it's really, um, touching how torn up you are for Marla, considering you hardly
know
her. You've spent like, what? Three hours with her?”

I hate that he has a point. “I guess I just … feel for her, because she didn't have a clue, never saw it coming. Not to mention, she was totally in
love
with you.”

“And is that how it happened with Kyle? You never saw it coming?”

I suck in my breath.

“It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that it all went in the crapper,” he continues. “That whatever you'd planned, didn't go as … planned. And you know what?”

I glare at him. I can't decide if I want to slap him in the face or kick him in the balls. I sniff and stick my chin out. “What?”

“I never asked you to explain
anything
. Didn't ask why you were showing up on my doorstep in the middle of the night — nothing. Do you want to know why?”

I shrug.

“Because you're eighteen. What you decide to do, the choices you make, they're up to you. And more importantly, they're none of my business!”

We have a staring contest, and all the bravado leaks out of me. What am I supposed to say to that?

He breaks the stare first. On his way out, he stops and punches the wall.

From where I'm standing I can see a mark. He broke the plaster.

Maybe now's not the time to ask him about the pills.