Frost - Marianna Baer

A possibility, of course. One almost more disturbing than the

alternatives. But Whip wasn’t there when she broke her leg, and

who else—

Don’t you know?

An idea was scrabbling to get in my brain. I didn’t want it.

Someone who needs her to feel vulnerable. So he can take

care of her.

312

Nausea gripped my body. I threw Cubby away from me and

pressed into the corner, away from my thoughts and her voice.

How could I have even let myself think that? Where had that

come from? Still, as I pressed back and tried to shut out more

words, they came again.

You won’t let yourself think it; it feels too true.

My gut surged upward. I was actually going to be sick. One

hand covered my mouth, the other fumbled for the slide lock.

I made it to the toilet just in time. The tile floor pressed

rocklike and cold under my knees. A convulsive wave ripped

through me. I grasped at the edges of the seat and heaved. Acid

burned a path through my throat. This happened over and over,

until the chilly floor held my empty, outer shell as I shook and

cried.

313

Chapter 34

I ALTERNATED BETWEEN HUNCHING over the toilet,

sleeping on the inhospitable but convenient tiles, and curling up

in the closet, shivering, sweating, drifting off into half sleeps,

feeling so weak I couldn’t even reach up to lock the door. My

limbs were glued to the ground until a subtle movement in my

gut gave me the adrenaline to somehow make it to the bathroom

for the next round. My head pounded and I imagined a

construction worker slamming his hammer into it, over and over.

I think David cal ed. I think I told him not to come by. Celeste

offered to help when she heard me puking, but I told her to leave

me alone. What could they have done, anyway?

After a spell in the bathroom sometime on Saturday, I

dragged myself on hands and sore knees into the hall and back

into my room. I couldn’t even walk.

“Leen? Are you okay?”

My neck ached as I moved my heavy head to look at the

shadowy figure sitting on my bed. Viv.

“Mm.” A bleat was all I could manage. My throat screamed.

My mouth was dry as salt. Even my lips hurt.

She materialized next to me, kneeling, touching my hair. “I

heard you when I was coming in. How long have you been sick?”

314

“Mm.”

The cool, soft skin of the back of her hand rested on my

forehead.

“You’re burning. We’ve got to go to the infirmary. Can you

make it?”

“Mm.”

“Can you stand up?”

An arm wrapped around me. I pressed into the floor.

Light slipped away.

In the dark, my mother came. Ice slid down my neck. I

shivered. “Here,” my mother said. The blanket was too heavy, too

hot. Where was Cubby? A rumble beneath me jostled my bones.

Like driving on a cobblestone street. White light split open my

head. My mother stood in the beam, holding Cubby.

“Don’t take her,” I said.

“I’m here,” my mother said. “You don’t need it.” She moved

Cubby behind her back.

“You’re always taking things from me.”

She brought her hands in front again. Cubby was gone.

Disappeared. “Don’t you see?” she said.

I tried to reach. To find, to touch her. The light flickered off.

315

I spent days in the infirmary, recovering from the virus and

severe dehydration. It took a while before I was able to eat even a

cracker without bringing it back up. My head ached all the time.

I’d imagined my mother’s presence, of course. But even though

the dream hadn’t been a good one, I wanted her so badly that I

called her several times. I couldn’t ever talk long, and later I

couldn’t even remember the conversations, but in my weakened

state even hearing her say my name helped. I knew I was acting

like a baby. That’s what I felt like.

Complicated, confusing thoughts unraveled as I grew

stronger, became more coherent. It comforted me to know that I

had been sick physically, when I’d come up with the suspicion

that David was hurting Celeste. When my mind felt clearer—

cleaner —I knew that wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. Usually, the

thoughts I had in Frost House, in the closet, felt like moments of

insight. But this time . . . it must have been my sickness talking.

As for Celeste’s bruises, though, I didn’t feel any clearer

about whether or not to believe it was a medical condition. And I

worried all the time that she had decided to make good on her

threat to tell David about me. But whenever David visited or

wrote or called, everything seemed fine. In fact, he made a point

of visiting twice a day, and bringing me little things he thought

would cheer me up—the apartments-for-rent section of the New

York Times , Life Savers, the miniature metal wrench from an

abandoned Clue game. “It made me think of you,” he said. “Miss

Fix-it.”

316

And, best of all, one of his spoons. He said it was a special,

chicken-soup spoon. I slept with it under my pillow.

The day they finally deemed me strong enough to go home, I

walked back to Frost House slowly and carefully, still getting my

sea legs. It was the middle of a class period; campus was eerily

still. And even though I’d only been in the infirmary for a few

days, the season seemed to have jumped forward. So many more

trees were bare than I remembered. Silver trunks stretched up to

skinny, naked branches.

Then I saw Frost House. Waiting for me. The evergreen

bushes surrounding her made sure she wasn’t too exposed. She

looked just as cozy as she had the day I’d moved in. Just as

welcoming as the first day I’d seen her, when I knew I had to live

there. And, like that day, I could almost hear her calling out to

me.

The door to my room was unlocked, not surprisingly. I’d

hardly been in a state to lock it when I left. I opened it and for a

moment felt as if I was coming upon the room as a stranger. Look

at how beautiful it was! Full of light and color and warmth. Not

very neat, but still . . . God, I’d missed it.

My plants didn’t seem to be thirsty. Pressing a finger into the

soil confirmed they’d been watered recently. And—wait. They’d

gotten sun, too. The window shades were all rolled up. My pulse

quickened. I’d kept the shades down when I was sick, to block the

317

painful light. Someone had been in here. Someone had been in

my room.

What else? What else had been touched?

Cubby. She wasn’t on the windowsill. Where was she? I went

into the closet. Shelf—no. Floor—no. Wait. Yes. In the corner. I

grabbed her and brought her to me, noticing her lightness, and

how nothing inside her shifted with the movement.

Then I remembered.

My hand searched in the crack between mattress and wall.

Only when I felt the plastic bag did I release my breath. I brought

the pills out into the light of the bedroom to make sure they were

all there. As far as I could tell they were. But the paper . . . my

sheet of paper was gone.

I knelt down again, feeling all the way around the mattress.

Nothing.

I’d look insane if anyone saw that page of notes. Celeste

knew about it—she’d seen it that time she’d discovered I kept my

meds there. Maybe she took it to show David? He’d seemed fine

when he visited. Maybe she was holding on to it. For now. Biding

her time.

I sat on the bed and tried to remember the afternoon when

I’d gotten sick, but it was all scrambled. My mind had been so

messed up. I glanced around the room for clues. A pile of clothes

318

sat on my dresser. Red sweater. Right—the clothes I’d thrown up

on that first day. But they were all folded and clean, now.

I was still staring at them when my phone rang. David,

wanting to know if I was up to dinner in Commons. His voice

sounded normal, happy I was home.

“Not really,” I said. “Could you bring something by when

you’re done?”

“I wish I could,” he said. “But I have to rush to a movie

screening for English. Do you want me to come visit later? Like

nine or so?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ll be too tired, though.”

“Do you think you’ll be well enough to come on Sunday?”

“Sunday?”

“My mom’s party. Did you forget?”

“Oh, right,” I said, and then after a pause, “Will Celeste be

there?”

“Of course. She and I are going home on Saturday. My mom

really wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet her, too,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to go.”

A knock on the door startled me awake. How long had I been

asleep? I put on my glasses and saw it was a couple of hours later.

My stomach grumbled. The knock came again.

319

“Come in.”

The open door revealed Viv, standing with a red-and-white-

checked cardboard take-out box from Commons in her hands.

“I ran into David at dinner,” she said. “He thought you might

appreciate this.” She extended her arms.

“Oh, thanks, Viv.” I sat up straighter in bed.

She crossed the room and handed it to me, along with a fork

and napkins. “I wasn’t sure what would agree with your

stomach.”

I rested the heavy box on my lap; warmth spread through my

thighs. Inside was probably everything Commons had offered

tonight: spaghetti, chicken, potatoes, sautéed veggies, bread,

cake.

“This is great,” I said. “I’m starving. I just wasn’t up to

trekking over there.”

Viv sat down next to me. “I don’t blame you. I can’t believe

how sick you were. I was really scared when I found you.”

“Thanks again for helping me.” I tasted a bite of buttery

mashed potatoes. So much better than the infirmary food. Actual

flavor.

“Viv?” I said. “Not to sound all second grade, or anything, but

does this mean we’re okay? Because you know, I’m really, really

sorry about Cameron. About the whole thing. More sorry than I

320

could ever say. I feel as awful about it as I have about anything,

ever.”

Viv stared at her lap. “I love you, Leen,” she finally said. “And

it’s so not Buddhist of me to stay angry. But . . . the thing is, I can’t

help getting mad, still, whenever I miss Cam. Not to mention

getting mad about what this has done to him. But at the same

time, I also miss you .”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “So much. And Abby.”

“Abby’s a different story,” she said. “That’s another reason

it’ll be hard for us to really be friends, like before. At least for

now.”

“Oh.” I took another bite; the chicken tasted like dust.

“But we can try, a bit,” she said. “You know, start slow?”

I nodded.

“So . . .” Viv smoothed out the wrinkles on the quilt next to

her. “I watered your plants. And opened the blinds, to give them

sun. And washed the puke out of your clothes.”

“It was you? Thanks, Viv. That was so sweet.”

She kept her eyes on the bed, pressed her lips together, and

smoothed the quilt over and over as if she’d developed OCD while