“Keep going.”
“You can be bound and gagged, kept prisoner by knots.”
“Yes. Keep going.”
“Knots can be hard to untangle, so they could be a symbol of confusion. Sometimes a person will say her stomach is in knots—like before an exam.”
“And what does that mean?”
“That she’s anxious, scared, worried.”
“Keep going.”
“That’s all I can think of.”
Dr. Parker sat silently, chewing his sprout sandwich, sipping his tea.
“So,” he said at last, “knots can be positive and negative symbols. They can represent a whole spectrum of feelings, and even those that seem opposite aren’t really. For example, sometimes our ties with people support us and allow us to grow. But those same ties can restrict us, strangle us.”
It was like that with my mother, I thought, but I would never tell him that. “So you’re saying that Nora can be feeling any of these things and this is how she expresses it?”
“If she’s the one tying the knots,” he replied.
“But the strange thing is—I probably didn’t make this clear-she’s not always—that is, I haven’t seen her—I mean sometimes things seem to move when—” I broke off.
“She’s not touching them?” The psychologist picked up a honey scoop and slowly twirled the golden liquid off the stick and into his tea. “Lauren, do you know what RSPK is—recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis?”
I tried to string together the meanings of the words. “No.”
“Do you know anything about poltergeists?”
“Poltergeists? I’ve seen the movie.”
He poked the honey stick back in the jar. “Spielberg’s, I assume. Well, that gives you a sense of what some poltergeist activity is like, objects moving around without being touched—sliding across the floor, flying through the air. It can also be noises, knocking, or voices calling out—some activity for which there doesn’t appear to be a physical cause.”
Things that move with no hands touching them, I thought. It was what my mother had described, what I had seen.
“In the movie,” Dr. Parker went on, “a group of dead people were causing the commotion. In cases investigated by parapsychologists, this kind of activity has been attributed to recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis, RSPK. That is, we think it is caused by the recurring and spontaneous mental activity of a person who is alive.
“Many of the documented cases are traceable to an individual who is profoundly disturbed or under great stress. Some are children, a majority of them are adolescents. It’s rare to find such ability in adults. The subject may have a history of mental problems, but not always. In any case, during a crisis of some sort, the phenomenon suddenly appears—it can be quite spooky. It disappears after the stress subsides, when the mental conflict is resolved.”
“Can Nora control this thing?” I asked.
“I’m going to rephrase your question. Can the individual who is responsible control it? Some who have been studied in the laboratory can, but to a limited extent. Many are totally unaware of what they are doing. It is often an unconscious response to trauma in their lives. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, that in a sense, Nora is telling the truth when she says someone else broke the lamp and tied the knot. She really doesn’t know she’s done it.”
“Not exactly. What I’m saying is that if Nora is doing it, she may not know; if Holly or you are doing it, you may not know.”
“But I—”
He held up a finger, interrupting me. “I haven’t written down the poltergeist events you have related, but you should do that, noting who was in the area during the time each one took place. I’m suggesting you three girls because seven years ago and now, you have spanned early to late adolescence and, as far as I can tell, you have all been in the area of the activity.”
“Is there a limit to the distance in which it can work? The night I saw the plants move in the greenhouse, Holly was at the prom.”
“That would be stretching it,” he said, “but it’s possible.”
“But it’s got be Nora,” I insisted, picking up my bottle of water, swirling it.
“She is an obvious candidate,” he conceded. “But sometimes the individuals who appear the calmest on the surface don’t know how to deal with their emotions and therefore express them unconsciously this way.”
“So it could be Holly,” I said.
“And it could be you. From what little you have told me, I gather you felt loved by your mother, but also bound by her, your freedom choked when she accompanied you to Wisteria. Those conflicting feelings could have, in a sense, tied you in knots. And returning to the scene of her death for the first time, especially after putting it off for seven years, has got to be stressful for you.”
I rested my elbows on the table, my head in my hands, my fingers shielding my eyes from him. I didn’t want it to be me. I didn’t want Nick to be right when he said “get over it.”
“I still believe it’s Nora.”
Dr. Parker finished the food on his plate and drained his teacup. “It could well be,” he said, wiping the side of his mouth, missing the crumbs. “I have just one piece of advice. Keep an open mind, Lauren. A quick theory is a dangerous way to answer important questions.”
Dr. Parker offered me a ride home, but even at midnight, Wisteria was a safe town to walk through. When I arrived at Aunt Jule’s, the music was off, the torches out, and the cars gone, all but Nick’s. Only Aunt Jule’s sitting room light shone from the street side of the house. Since Holly was always turning off unused lights, I figured she and Nick were cleaning up on the river side.
Halfway along the path that ran between the two gardens I discovered I was wrong. Nick and Holly stood just beyond the roses, kissing. I stopped, transfixed, watching where Nick put his hands on Holly’s back, studying how she put her arms around his neck. I tried to read the expression on his half-hidden face to see if this was the most spectacular kiss he’d ever had—the way his kiss had felt to me. I noticed he didn’t suddenly pull back and look at Holly surprised. She was good at it, and he kept kissing her.
Her long dark hair looked gorgeous next to his blond. I saw him softly touch her hair. I felt as if I had swallowed glass, my heart cut into a million sharp pieces. Thankfully, they were too immersed in each other to notice me. Then Rocky barked.
Holly and Nick turned quickly and caught me staring. Rocky bounded toward me, his tail wagging, pleased he had spotted me. Holly smiled. Nick seemed stunned to see me and pressed his lips together. I could feel his displeasure from fifteen feet away, and I focused on Holly.
“Lauren,” she said, “I was worried about you. We both were.”
Both? I winced at the white lie.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Nowhere special. I just went out for a while.”
She studied my face. “Is everything okay?”
“sure.”
Holly’s arm was around Nick’s waist, her thumb hooked in his belt loop. “After you went in,” she said, “I was afraid I had been insensitive, that I should have realized the boys were going too far. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
“To see a friend. Listen, I’m going to bed. We can clean up tomorrow.”
I turned my back before she could detain me with further questions. Once inside the house I rushed through the hall and up the steps, slowing again when I reached the top to walk quietly past Aunt Jule’s room. When I reached my own, I eagerly reached for the doorknob and turned it, but the door wouldn’t open. Remembering that I had let out Rocky, then locked both the porch door and this one, I pulled the old-fashioned key from my pocket and inserted it.
The door swung inward, swung into darkness. I was sure I had left on the bedside lamp. Bulbs burn out, I told myself, and flicked on the overhead light. My chest tightened. Everything was in knots—e
verything that I had untied before seeing Dr. Parker.
I strode across the room and checked the double doors. They were still locked from the inside. My skin prickled. No one, nothing could have gotten in, except a power that wasn’t stopped by walls. I nervoulsy plucked at my bedsheets. I could untie the knots a second time, but then what? Even locked doors wouldn’t keep me safe. I felt powerless to stop Nora from whatever she wanted to do to me.
I walked across the hall to the room that had been my mother’s, wondering if I’d find knots there. The photos and other things pertaining to my mother had been removed by someone, but nothing else had changed. I saw Holly’s door was open and checked her room from the hallway.
“Looking for something?”
I jumped at Holly’s voice.
“You’re awfully edgy,” she observed. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Something is wrong,” I admitted. “Go look in my room.”
She did and I took another quick look at hers. Nothing had been disturbed.
“I don’t believe this!” I heard Holly exclaim. She returned to the hall. “What is going on, Lauren? When did this happen?”
I told her about the knots that I’d found and untied earlier.
“So it’s happened twice tonight?” She rubbed her arms. “That’s creepy.”
“Do you remember the summer my mother came, how she kept finding her scarves and jewelry knotted?”
Holly nodded. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“That makes two of us,” I replied.
She turned suddenly and pounded on her sister’s door. “Nora!” she shouted. “Nora! I’m coming in.”
Aunt Jule came hurrying from her room. “What’s going on?”
“Look for yourself, Mom. Look at Lauren’s room. I told you before, but you wouldn’t listen to me. Nora is out of control.”
Aunt Jule entered my room, and Holly opened her sister’s door. Nora stood before us in a frayed nightgown. Her dark eyes darted between Holly’s face and mine.
“I’m losing my patience with you,” Holly said. “You’re way out of bounds, Nora. Get in there and straighten up Lauren’s room. And don’t try something stupid like this again.”
“Just a minute,” Aunt Jule said, coming back into the hall. “How do you know Nora is responsible? There were lots of kids going in and out of the house tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Mom,” Holly replied, but then she turned to me for backup.
“I found the knots earlier,” I explained, “untied them all, then locked both doors to my room. When I came back, the knots were tied again in the exact same way.”
As I spoke, Nora slipped past us and entered my room. I followed her and watched from the doorway as she touched the knots in the sheets, then the knots in the curtains, fascinated by them, admiring them.
“Did you keep the key with you?” Aunt Jule asked.
I turned back to her. “Yes.”
Her eyes flashed. “So why do you think Nora had a better chance of unlocking the door than anyone else?”
I glanced away. If I talked about poltergeists, I would probably lose Holly’s support.
“It seems to me, Lauren, that if we want to start accusing people, you’re the most likely candidate for this prank,” Aunt Jule went on. “You’re the one who has the key.”
“But that doesn’t make sense!” I protested. “Why would I mess up my own room?”
“For attention. You’re a girl who is used to a lot of attention.”
I saw Holly glance sideways at me; she was considering her mother’s suggestion.
“I didn’t do it!” I insisted.
“Someone else did it,” Nora whispered, emerging from my bedroom. Her face was as white as a wax candle, her pupils dilated.
“Nora, you look ill,” Aunt Jule said.
“She is ill!” I screamed. “And you’re cruel not to get her the psychiatric help she needs!”
Aunt Jule gave me a stony look, then said in a gentle voice, “Nora, love, I want you to sleep in my room tonight.”
Nora slowly followed her down the hall.
I shook my head, amazed at how my godmother could twist things to accommodate whatever she wanted to believe.
Holly sighed. “Come on, Lauren, let’s take a walk. Then I’ll help you undo this mess.”
“Thanks, but you’ve got to be tired. It won’t take long to untie things.”
“Still, let’s walk,” Holly persisted. “You’re not going to fall asleep in the state you’re in now.”
“I’ll be okay. I’ll walk and talk to myself until I bore myself to sleep.”
Holly laughed lightly. “Well, you know where I am if you need me.”
When I reached the hall stairs, Aunt Jule stood at her bedroom door. “It’s late, Lauren. Don’t go far.”
I answered her with a slight nod.
Downstairs, I headed out the river side of the house, then turned toward Frank’s. I walked his land along the river and sat for a while in one of his lawn chairs, thinking things over. I recalled what Dr. Parker had said at the prom and knew he was right: I could do nothing about Nora’s illness; the one person in my power to heal was myself. I needed to go to the place where my mother had died, this time on my own.
fifteen
The moon was high, making the unlit dock stand out clearly in the water. I imagined it as my mother would have seen it that night, a vague shape in the river mist The bank wasn’t as eroded then, so she could have climbed up easily. Had she walked the dock the way she used to walk the porch? Had someone cornered her there?
I climbed up and walked to the end where she had fallen. I forced myself to touch the piling, laying both hands on it, then stared down into the river.
Had my mother known she was going to die that night? Had she blacked out the moment she hit the piling or did she sink slowly into watery unconsciousness? Did she cry out for me?
“Get over it, Lauren,” I told myself aloud. “You have to let go.”
But I couldn’t, not until I knew what had happened then and what was happening now.
I mulled over the poltergeist theory. Perhaps Nora was so traumatized by finding my mother drowned that she believed and feared she was still in the river. But Nora’s irrational fear would make more sense if she had actually murdered her. My mother’s presence had brought plenty of anger and dissension to Aunt Jule’s usually quiet house. Perhaps Nora, already unbalanced—more so than any of us had realized—had been pushed over the edge and, in a sense, pushed back.
If Nora were guilty of murder and trying to repress it, my return to Wisteria would be intensely disturbing to her and could evoke a response as extreme as poltergeist activity. The puzzle pieces fit.
Then Dr. Parker’s words floated back to me: A quick theory is a dangerous way to answer important questions. But my experiences in the last three days, some of them spookily similar to my mother’s, had convinced me that her death wasn’t an accident And if Nora didn’t murder her, who else could have? Who else had a reason—or the momentary passion and anger—to push my mother against the piling and off the dock? I didn’t want to suspect anyone I knew; the excuse of insanity was the only way I could deal with it being Nora.
I retraced my steps, then climbed the hill and circled the house. It was completely dark now. Passing by the greenhouse, I was surprised to find that a light had been left on. I didn’t remember seeing it when I arrived home and it seemed odd that Holly, given her compulsion to turn off lights, hadn’t extinguished it. I entered the greenhouse, a little timidly after last night’s experience.
The place felt overly warm and stuffy. I wondered if Nora had forgotten to open the vents, allowing the day’s heat to build up. The bare bulb hanging over the center aisle was out; the beacon I’d seen was a large plastic flashlight. Perhaps Nora had come with it tonight, planning to cool down the place, and been frightened away by party guests.
I knew that when the sun flooded the
greenhouse tomorrow the plants would die in the accumulated heat. The wheel that opened the roof vents was at the end of the main aisle, where the small trellises were. As I headed toward it, I played the flashlight’s beam over the plants, listening intently, watching, afraid to blink my eyes. But every leaf was still. At the end of the aisle I shone the light on the pots with the young vines. All of them were limp, hanging from the trellises by their knots.
Above them was the six-inch metal wheel that cranked open the house’s high vents—that is, the axle from it—the wheel was gone. I was sure I had seen the vents open the other day. I reached for the switch that ran the big exhaust fan, flicking it one way, then the other. It wouldn’t turn on. Stranger yet, despite the breeze that night, the blades were absolutely still. When I shone the flashlight on the fan, I saw that the flap behind it had been closed, which was done only in winter to seal out the cold air. I tried the smaller fans distributed along the plant benches. They didn’t work, nor did the center light.
It must be the power supply, I thought, and searched for a metal cabinet containing a circuit breaker. I found an ancient box with two screw-in fuses. Both had been removed.
Still something was running—I could hear the quiet motors. Space heaters, that’s what was making it hot The heaters burned kerosene and were used in the winter to keep the plants warm. I found four of them in the side aisles of the greenhouse and turned them off, puzzled as to why Nora or anyone else would have them running.
There was little I could do to save the plants except open the door and hope some cool air would waft in. I decided to transport at least one of each kind outside and carried a heavy pot to the entrance.
When I tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. I set down the plant and shone the flashlight on the lock. The door had a deadbolt, the kind that required a key and could be locked from inside or out. But I hadn’t locked it and the key kept on the hook next to the door was gone. Someone had taken it and turned the bolt from the outside. I couldn’t believe it—I had walked straight into a trap!