Twisted (9 page)

CHAPTER 16

I
'm off to the registrar's office again. After checking on the library computer, I discovered that I can't get into the program I want until the fall, so I figure I'll just take some electives in the new year. That will give me more time to work and make money, plus decrease my study load in September.

The same lady is working in the office as last time. She recognizes me, which is a relief, because I don't want to have to go over my whole sob story again. I explain to her what I want to do. She offers to regis- ter me online right now if I have my course numbers. Her fingers fly over the keyboard. She has everything finished in a matter of minutes.

I walk over to the King's bookstore. The guy working there looks up my courses and tells me what books I need. They're expensive, so I only spring for two. I tuck them safely into my bag.
Now I'm getting somewhere.

Without even thinking about it, I head for the coffee shop. The outing to the registrar's office was a distraction, but now my mind is on one thing and one thing only — not Rosalyn and that whole mess, but the pills. I guess it's the
TV
detective in me. I mean, one pill on the floor, okay. But three? The only scenario I can come up with that would have that result is if someone were dumping, or
flushing
, a substantial amount of them.

And that can't be good.

I see Liam as soon as I walk in. I knew he'd be here. He has the afternoon shift. I only know that because his name is next to mine on the schedule. It's not like I have his shifts memorized or anything.

He's plowing through a before-shift sub from Subway, and I plunk myself down in the chair across from him. “You're in pre-med, right?”

He looks up and raises his eyebrows. “And hello to you too.”

“Sorry. Hello. So you know about medication and pills and stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, all suspicious, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I can't write prescriptions, though, if that's what you're looking for.”

It takes me a moment to clue in. “What? No, that's not what — wait. Here.” I root around in my bag, pull out the tissue-wrapped pill, and place it on the table.

“Oh,” he smirks. “Now it all makes sense.”

“Just give me a sec …” I peel back the tissue, exposing the pill. “I wanted you to tell me what
this
is, what it's for.”

He gives the pill a quick inspection. “Sure. I'll bag it and send it to the lab.”

“Really?”

“Noooo.” He laughs. “This isn't
CSI
, you know.”

I want to punch him for making fun of me, but instead I grab back the tissue, scowl, and slouch down further in my chair.

“Oh, come on now.” Under the table he nudges my leg with his foot. “Don't be like that. Let me have another look at it, then.”

I slide it toward him.

“Where'd you find it?” he asks, examining it closely.

“At … home.” I decide to leave out the proximity to the toilet.

“So it's your brother's?”

“Maybe …?” It comes out more like a question.

“And that's all the background information you're gonna give me?”

I nod.

Flicking his hair off his face, he says, “Ian, one of my roommates, his girlfriend's in pharmacy. I'll take it with me, see what I can find out.”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me.” He rewraps the pill, tucks it into his shirt pocket, and returns his attention to the last few bites of his sub.

I sit back and drum my fingernails on the table, wiggle my toes inside my boots. I'm full of nervous energy.

“Uh …” Liam is staring at my noisy fingers.

“Sorry.” I immediately ball my hand into a fist.

He crumples up his sub wrapper, scrunching it into a tight wad. “Anger issues?”

“What?” I ask, confused. Then I realize he sees my partially curled and shredded course calendar. I hauled it out when I was getting the pill. “Oh, that. No. Cat issues.”

“A cat did that?” He picks up the calendar, gives the cover a good look. “How friggin' big is your cat?”

“
Normal
size.” I snatch it from his hand.
Am I really defending Bingley?

As I'm fitting the calendar back into my bag, my eye lands on Liam's laptop partially sticking out from under a stack of textbooks. I am so getting one as soon as I get my hands on that loan money. And a phone. God, I need a phone.

Again I feel a twinge of guilt about Caroline. I've made almost no effort to keep in touch even though she made me promise I would. I suck as a friend.

“Can I borrow your computer again to check my email?”

“No prob,” he says, wiping mayo off his chin. “Remember the password?”

He doesn't see the face I make. “Oh yeah, no worries there.”

“Lynnie,” he tells me anyway.

I clench my jaw. “I know.”

The laptop boots up in a few seconds, and I pound in the pass- word using a bit more force than needed. I see Liam frown and glance at me out of the corner of his eye.

There's a bunch of junk mail and four messages from Caroline, all with her usual “????!!!!!!” in the subject lines. Two are dated yesterday, the other two, the day before. I click on the most recent one.

Yo Lyssa! What the hell? For the bazillionth time! Please email me or phone me or something. Saw Vince at the Co-op.

My stomach drops. I check my watch — two-thirty. Caroline is working for the Andersons, taking care of their kids, just for a year to raise money to go to Europe. She's probably chasing them around right now, but I know she has her phone on her.

I type in,
I'm here. What happened with Vince
? Then I wait. Caroline has it set up so her emails go right to her phone. About a minute later a message pops up on the screen:
What happened with Kyle? I know you're not with him. Details. Now.

How does she know that?

Me:
On someone else's computer. No time. Short version, Kyle's a fucking asshole. More important, what happened with Vince?

Caroline:
He cornered me, asked me if I'd heard from you. Said, no, BECAUSE I HAVEN'T! He said he saw Kyle down at the wharf — he's home for his mom's bday. Kyle told him you weren't staying with him and he didn't know where you were.

Of course. Kyle. He never was very good at knowing when to keep his mouth shut. Before I have a chance to reply another email comes in:
Vince might be coming to Halifax to track you down. Think he's worried you are in homeless shelter or something.

My jaw falls open. Shit. Why would he even care? But I feel Liam watching me, so I snap my mouth shut and concentrate on keeping my face expressionless as I type,
If you see him again say you heard from me and that I'm in student housing.

Caroline:
K.
But are you? Did you find Aidan?

I think for a moment before I answer.
No. I am actually in student housing. Sharing with a Caper. Never drank so much tea in my life.
This time I choose to lie, knowing Caroline would only have a ton of questions about Aidan that I don't feel like answering. I press “send.”

Caroline:
Phew. Sure I'll run into Vince again soon :( PS, Tell me what happened with Kyle. I'm dying.

Me:
Thanks. Be in touch. Xo L.
She's probably having a meltdown at this very moment.

Liam is still watching me. “Bad news from the home front?”

“No, no.” I fake a smile, and try to ignore the anxious tingle working its way up my spine. “Everything's fine, just fine.”

CHAPTER 17

I
t's getting really crowded in my head — Rosalyn and the stuff she said the other night, Liam not having a clue, Aidan and the pills. Adding to the mess is Caroline and her run-in with Vince. Though it was an email, I hear the high pitch of Caroline's voice, the way she says things, as if we had the conversation face to face … But I have to cram everything to the back corner of my brain and ignore it.

Today I'm making it all about Aidan.

I dig a handful of Cheerios out of the box and watch him. He's across the kitchen by the back door, arranging empty beer bottles in their cardboard cases. There are a lot.

“Wow, did we have a party I wasn't invited to?” I ask, making it sound like a joke.

“These have been here for a long time,” he says without turning around. “I've just been too lazy to do anything about them.”

“Oh.” I suck on a single Cheerio until it turns to mush on my tongue.

The tick of the kitty-cat clock emphasizes the quiet.

“So, uh, Aidan,” I start. “How are you feeling?”

Still crouching on the floor, he turns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, like, you
were
in the hospital, right?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

He presses his lips together so hard they turn white. “What is it that you want to know, Lyss?”

“I dunno,” I say. “I guess I just want to know how you're doing. I care. Sue me.”

“Look. I told you. It was all made up by Vince. There's nothing wrong with me. Never was.”

“But Marla said you were on medication — that you
both
were. They don't just give you medication for no reason.”

He sighs a long, deep sigh. I can tell he's fighting to keep control of his temper.

“It's for my supposed mood swings. Which, just so you know, is what they diagnose everybody with when they can't find anything wrong with them. So nothing for you to worry about.” And he goes back to packing his beer bottles.

His tone plainly says,
it's none of your business
, but the more he withholds the information, the more determined I am to drag it out of him.

I picture those pills scattered on the bathroom tile, the way one was leaning against the base of the toilet. “And you're still taking stuff now?”

“Yup.”

I almost tell him that I found a bunch on the floor, but for reasons I'm not even sure of, I chicken out. Instead I say, “Does it help?”

There's the harsh scraping sound of glass against glass as Aidan squeezes another beer bottle into the box. “There's nothing to
help
,” he says.

“Then why —”

He slams two full cases of bottles onto the kitchen table. “I thought I made it clear the other night at dinner. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I know, but —”

“So I'm not mistaken. I
did
make it clear.”

I can see the vein throbbing in his forehead, see the rise and fall of his chest. It used to take a lot to get him angry. “Like I said, Aidan, I care.”

He goes to the sink and runs his hands under the water. “So how are you liking your new job? They certainly give you enough shifts.”

I stare at his back. There he goes again, acting as if the last few minutes never happened. This time it must be his idea of a white flag, because I know he doesn't give a rat's ass about my job at the coffee shop.

When I don't answer, he turns, sees my expression, and comes toward me. His face softens. “I'm sorry, Lyss. I don't mean to bite your head off. I know Marla thinks it's all wonderful to be open and talk about everything …” He pauses. “Only, that's not … my way. Talking about it
doesn't
make me feel better. There's not really any- thing to talk about, anyway.”

“If you say so …”

“Look. The doctor says I suffer from mood swings. Does she know what she's talking about? No. But if it means keeping me out of that hospital … some pills and a few therapy sessions are a small price to pay.”

“You're in therapy?”

He shrugs. “It's a sham. You don't have to be a psych major to figure out how to work the system. I go in, tell her what she wants to hear, and she leaves me alone.”

I think about that for a minute. I might do the same thing in the same situation.

He reaches for both my hands, gives them a squeeze. “You gotta trust me, Lyss. There's nothing wrong with me.”

Looking in his eyes, I see a flicker of the old Aidan. “Okay,” I say quietly.

“So we're good?”

“Yeah. We're fine, just fine.”

I SIT ALONE AT
the kitchen table, my hands warm around a mug of hot tea. Aidan has gone off to the bottle recycling place, then to work. Blowing on my tea, I let the hamster in my head do its thing. Around and around on the wheel it goes.

Marla. I should talk to Marla. She'll have the answers. She'll be able to tell me if Aidan's really okay. I need someone besides him to tell me that — a secondary source. There'll be time to feel guilty about it later.

Unfortunately, there's been no sign of Marla. Which is sort of strange, because the first time I met her, I got the impression she was in and out of here all the time.

My eyes are drawn to the cupboard above the phone.

Back home, we kept our list of phone numbers written in perma- nent marker on the inside of the cupboard. I get up, go over, and swing open the door. The list is short; only about six names and numbers are scribbled down. And there it is, second from the top, right under “Bar”: “Marla.”

I dial her number.

“Hello?” a voice says.

“Hi. Marla?”

“No, this is Jodi.”

“Oh, sorry. Is Marla there?”

There are a few seconds of silence. “Uh … no. Is there a message?”

“No. I'll try her later. Thanks.”

As I hang up, I hear a noise in the hall. I'm about to go investigate when Aidan sticks his head in the kitchen door. “Just me,” he says.

“That was quick.”

“I forgot the keys to the cash box.”

I follow him out. “Aidan?”

“Yeah?”

“Where's Marla? I haven't seen her since we had dinner. She's not staying away because I'm here, is she?”

“No.” He laughs and shakes his head. “You being here wouldn't keep her away — more like the opposite.”

“Oh, good,” I say, relieved. “So everything's all right with you guys.”

“Yeah.” He narrows his eyes. “Why would you ask that?”

Did I hit a nerve? “No, I, uh, nothing. I wasn't implying anything, if that's what you thought.”

His face clears. “She's just gone home to visit her folks. She's from Boston. You probably didn't know that.”

“No, I didn't. When's she coming back?”

“Her grandfather's sick. So I'm not sure.”

“Oh. That's too bad.”

“Yeah. I hope she comes home soon.” He picks up a set of keys off the front hall table and shoots me a lopsided grin. “I really miss her.”

It's then that I get it. That's why he seems a bit off, a bit cranky — he misses Marla.

That explains everything.

Almost everything.