“Twenty-eight dollars,” the cabbie says when he finally stops. I peel off a couple of twenties and hand it over. I don’t bother asking for change. I’m too interested in being on solid ground again.
The house is nothing like I expected. It is a sleek, ultramodern tower, full of floor-to-ceiling windows and metal beams. It’s a smaller version of the kind of house you’d imagine a rock star living in.
I blink up at the windows. I can’t see anyone looking, but I still feel the chill of invisible eyes. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I turn away all the same, looking at Maggie instead.
“You okay?” I ask her. She’s ghostly pale and breathing deep, thanks to the cab ride I’m sure.
“It’s a miracle you’re not wearing m-my lunch.” She’s not exaggerating. Maggie’s dealt with carsickness since I’ve known her. Trips to camp were always a special kind of hell.
We head slowly for the door, and even Maggie checks the address again. It doesn’t seem possible, the Millers in this cold, steel-coated contraption. If the Millers I knew moved, they’d move to a cottage in the woods, where birds sing and pies are perpetually being cooled on windowsills.
The door swings open and a person who must be Mrs. Miller appears.
“May I help you?” she asks, looking at Maggie instead of me. She sounds like Mrs. Miller. She’s wearing her standard summer uniform—a white polo and a khaki skirt—but Mrs. Miller does not sport nine-piece luggage sets under her eyes.
She also doesn’t frown. Not ever. I saw Mrs. Miller at her father’s funeral, and she smiled so much, I felt like crying for her.
Mags and I stand there, both of us trying to speak and not finding a single word we practiced the night before.
Mrs. Miller looks at me then, and the recognition is immediate.
“Oh!” she says, and her hand goes up to her mouth. Her eyes go wide, and every single bit of color drains out of her. For a minute, I’m sure she’s going to scream. Or maybe even pass out. But instead, she just shakes her head, looking completely shocked.
“My Lord, Chloe Spinnaker. How did you find—” She stops herself, cementing that toothpaste commercial smile I know so well into place. “What on earth are you doing all the way out here?”
I finally find my voice. “Hello, Mrs. Miller. I’m so sorry we didn’t call, but I didn’t have a number.”
“We brought you this,” Maggie says, pulling out a gift bag of maple nut clusters, a handmade candy from a shop downtown that somehow finds its way into every Ridgeview home on Thanksgiving.
It’s a weird tradition. Small town or whatever. But Mrs. Miller takes the gift like we’re offering her a newborn baby to hold. Like she’s never seen anything so perfect or precious in all her life.
“That’s the sweetest thing,” she says, still cradling her sacred plastic bag of candy. Then her smile falters, as if she’s not sure what to do. She looks around once, and then her grin is back. “Won’t you both come in?”
We follow her inside with little shuffling steps. I can feel Maggie’s tension right along with my own. It’s not like we hung out with these people. Or at least we didn’t until I got sucked into the Secret Study Sisterhood or whatever.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Miller says. “What’s your name again?”
“Maggie. Maggie Campbell.”
“Oh, of course! Noreen’s daughter.”
“One and the s-same.”
She leads us into the kitchen, and I go cold all over. It’s like being in The Twilight Zone. The room isn’t just similar to the one in their old house in Ridgeview. It’s as close to a carbon copy as it can be.
The same rooster clock sits above the kitchen sink. The same country dish towels hang on the knobs of the cabinets. All of the baskets and antique crocks I remember from her old house are lined up on the concrete countertops, doing their best to battle the sterile feel of this place.
Mrs. Miller serves us hot chocolate, though it’s got to be eighty-five degrees outside. Still, we sip it politely while she prattles on about the proper way to stuff a turkey. Maggie, a devout vegetarian, pales noticeably as Mrs. Miller instructs us on how to remove the bag of giblets after yanking out the turkey’s severed neck.
And then, when she’s finished rewiping the counter and discussing poultry technique, her smile shuts off. It’s so abrupt, it’s like someone flipped a switch. I half expect her head to spin around or something, but she just picks up her own mug and then sets it down again without taking a drink.
“I suppose you’re here for Julien,” she says.
Maggie and I exchange a quick look. I smile tightly.
“We are.”
“I’ll call her down if you like. She’s just up in her room,” she says, her smile so brief it’s like a twitch. “But I should warn you…”
“Warn us?” I ask.
Mrs. Miller folds her hands, one on top of the other. “Girls, I don’t know how to say this. We’d tried very hard to keep this all quiet…”
Her voice has trailed off, but I know she’s not done. So we wait. And after a bit, she blinks a few times and seems to come back to life. “Julien has been…ill. We didn’t want people’s pity, so we decided it would be best not to reveal her diagnosis.”
“Diagnosis?” Maggie asks.
“She has…schizophrenia.” It’s like the word is being choked out of her. She pauses to take a drink of her cocoa, and I can’t help thinking she’s trying to wash that word right out of her mouth. “Apparently, it’s a disease that runs in my husband’s family. Julien was beginning to show symptoms in the last month we were in Ridgeview.”
“Is that why you left?” I ask, and immediately decide I shouldn’t have. It’s like laying all my cards on the table.
To my shock, Mrs. Miller nods. “We wanted a fresh start for Julien. Her disease has taken a very aggressive course. We wanted her to get the best treatment, and there are doctors here that were recommended to my husband. To both of us.”
No, this isn’t that simple.
“I was s-so surprised Mr. Miller could leave his b-business,” Maggie says.
Mrs. Miller cringes like she’s been dunked in ice. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes cut away.
“Can we see her?” I ask again, trying to bring back the open lady who seemed so ready to talk before. “I’ve really missed Julien.”
“She misses you too,” she says, smiling sadly. “She should be out of the shower, so I’ll go get her. Now, again, she has been medicated, but even then her handle on lucidity isn’t consistent.”
“So it c-comes and goes?” Maggie asks, frowning.
Mrs. Miller’s face is crunching with sadness, so I try to explain, drawing from the little I’ve read. “Schizophrenia can force people to sort of detach from reality. She might be fine one minute—”
“And then she might start talking about The Wizard of Oz as if it’s happened just next door,” Mrs. Miller says. Her expression is pleasant again, but her eyes hold so much pain, my own chest aches.
“Are you sure you’re prepared for this?” she asks.
No. No, I’m definitely not. But I nod anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mrs. Miller leaves us to wait in a small living room with crushed velvet couches and antique tables. It’s all very Jane Austen. All that’s missing is a guy in a starched shirt. And maybe tea service.
We sit on the edge of the couch with our hands in our laps, too freaked out to say a thing. I hear voices at the top of the stairs and then footsteps descending. I don’t even know how it’s possible, but I tense up more.
Julien enters, dressed in khaki shorts and a couple of blue tank tops layered over one another. Her hair is still long and pale, curling at the edges just like a shampoo commercial. And her smile is the carbon copy of her mother’s. White and wide. And one hundred percent normal.
“Omigosh, Chloe!” Julien squeals as she crosses the room, tugging me into a hug. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
I cat
ch Maggie’s gob-smacked expression over Julien’s shoulder, knowing mine has to match.
Julien pulls back from me, eager and happy. “Can you believe this house? What do you think of San Diego? Was your flight good?”
“Great!” I say, not sure which question I’m answering, but figuring it’s the best word to suit them all.
Behind Julien, Maggie is still staring. I can’t blame her. I mean, where’s the freaking crazy girl? I was expecting some hollow-eyed horror-movie extra, the kind of girl who rocks in the corner and avoids daylight. But this is just Julien.
“Oh,” Julien says, frowning and turning to Mags. “I’m so sorry, Maggie, I didn’t even say hello. It’s great to see you too.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Julien slides a slim arm around my shoulders, and I tense like she’s about to snap me in half. “I’m so glad you two made up,” she says. “You’d been friends for so long, and I hated seeing you fight.”
Maggie and I both offer parrotlike head bobs in response. The weird factor in this room is at an all-time high. I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole schizophrenia conversation in the kitchen, and then, right in front of my nose, Julien kind of fades out.
I think of a television losing signal or maybe ink dissolving in water. Her face goes dull and flat, as if everything’s kind of floating around her. And then she nods, as if someone asked her a question.
“You’ll have to fill me in,” she says, and it’s normal enough, but she’s not. Something’s just…off. Her voice is higher. Almost childlike.
“Of course,” I say anyway, moving to sit down on the couch.
Julien plays with the hem of her tank top, twisting it over and over, her fingers flicking in tiny, rapid movements that seem at complete odds with her vacant expression.
“Where should I start?” I ask, noticing Mrs. Miller for the first time. She’s still hovering by the door. Watching.
Julien looks up with that brilliant grin. “Start with the Wicked Witch because I haven’t heard a thing since I’ve been here. I need to hear every single thing. I keep track, of course. In my diary.”
I look to Maggie for help, but her expression makes it pretty clear she’s checking the hell out of this adventure.
“Uh, well, I don’t know much about that,” I say, “but everyone’s applying for colleges back home. And the winter dance is coming up after Christmas, so—”
Julien sits down beside me, slipping her arm through mine. “Oh, don’t be like that. I don’t want boring stuff about boys. Tell me what you’ve learned about the Wicked Witch.”
“Julien,” her mother says. It’s soft, but it’s a warning.
Julien doesn’t even look at her. But her eyes go round and big, and she squeezes my arm until I want to pull it loose. Now her voice is pip-squeak high, like she’s morphed into an overgrown toddler. “Oh no. Did she have a flying monkey go after you?”
“A what?”
“I knew she’d use them. I knew it. She did, and oh, that’s terrible. I don’t know what to do now. I just don’t know.”
Mrs. Miller moves closer, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. “Julien, sweetheart, let’s not talk about that right now. Would you like to talk about the beach? You know how much you like the beach.”
Julien flips her hair and sucks her teeth in a way that brings me back to middle school in the worst possible way. “I can’t talk about the beach right now. Anyone could be listening, Mother. Anyone!”
I pull my arm free then because I have to. I just have to.
She really is crazy. Certifiable. I flew across the entire freaking country because I was positive this girl was kidnapped or hypnotized or some dire thing, but she’s not. She’s deeply mentally disturbed, and I’m here, obviously upsetting her, so I can dig into my own issues.
“Please tell me what you know about the witch,” Julien says, looking at both Maggie and me, and resisting her mother’s touch on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Julien,” Maggie says, and her expression and voice are both tender. “I d-don’t think we know much about her.”
“I know you don’t,” Julien says to her, and in that moment, she looks perfectly clear. Sharp and focused. The Julien I remember. She takes my hand and looks at me steadily. “But you remember, don’t you, Chloe? You know.”
I open my mouth, and she squeezes my hand and then I see it, clear as day.
Dr. Kirkpatrick at the front of a classroom, that ultracalm smile on her face as she drones on about…I can’t quite make it out. Relaxing.
She wants me to relax. Close my eyes and breathe deep. Let my mind open like a box.
I don’t close my eyes. I narrow them and watch her through the slits. She’s playing with her charm bracelet. It’s pretty. I see a picnic basket and a little dog…and ruby red slippers.
I feel a hand touch my arm, and I open my eyes. I don’t even remember closing them.
Maggie’s standing by the couch now, watching me with worry in her face. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.” I turn to Julien, who’s humming quietly beside me. She’s still holding my hand, but she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at anything. “Hey, Julien?”
It takes her a long while to turn to me, like the words took a winding road to get into her brain. When she does, her neatly shaped brows are knitted together above her pert nose. “Oh, Chloe! I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Perhaps she needs to rest,” her mother says. “Come on, Julien. Let’s go back to your room.”
“No, not yet,” she says, looking at me though her words are for her mom. “Will you get me something to drink Mom?”
“Sure, sweetie,” Mrs. Miller says, but I don’t miss her hesitation to leave us alone. Maggie and I both try to give her a reassuring smile.
Once she’s gone, I look at Julien. “You were talking about the Wicked Witch. You mean the one at our school, don’t you?”
Her mouth thins into an angry line. “She tells me how to sit and how to breathe. In and out and one, two, three.”
“Right,” I say. I pause to give Maggie a meaningful look, but she doesn’t seem convinced of anything other than Julien’s heaping pile of absolutely crazy.
“I don’t like her,” Julien says. She’s petulant, bottom lip jutting out. “Sometimes I think she’s real, but maybe she’s just in the movie.”
“The Wizard of Oz?” Maggie asks.
“No. This movie. The same one I’m in,” Julien says. Now she doesn’t look crazy at all. She looks like a girl trapped in a glass jar. She sees exactly where she is and what’s happening, and there’s not a damn thing she can do to change it.
Then Julien presses her hands to her face and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter because I can’t remember. I can’t remember at all.”
My whole body goes tense. I lean away from Julien, heart pounding. Is this what’s coming for me next? Is this what I’m going to turn into?
Julien uncovers her face, and it’s like nothing happened. She’s smiling and perky and groomed within an inch of her life. She’s the Julien without any dark secrets or mind-altering medications. “So how about you and Blake? You still a thing?”
“Uh…sure,” I say, because I can’t even get into a breakup. Not here. Not with her.
“I dated him once, you know. Back in freshman year. But I’ve got to say, he was never as attentive with me. You must have the magic touch.”
“Must have.”
“I think I’m going to wear red to prom.” Julien looks at us, biting her lip. “Do you think only sluts wear red?”
Mrs. Miller appears with a mug of tea, and I don’t know about Maggie, but I’m about to fling myself into her arms I’m so grateful to see her. “How are we doing, girls? Julien, here’s your tea. Just like you like it.”
She offers it to her in front of me, and I catch a whiff. Lemon and herbs and something familiar in the worst kind of way. I lurch back and hold my breath, not wa
nting to smell it again and having no idea why I’m being so weird.
“I hate t-to cut this short, b-but we really have to get going,” Maggie says, and her eyes are on me. She’s worried.
I press my hands to my cheeks and try to calm down. “Right. I totally forgot. Your mom is meeting us at the station.”
Julien is back to that blank stare. Her mom notices and comes closer, stroking her hair gently. “Julien? Your friends are leaving, honey.”
Her face contorts, and for one second, I see the terrified confusion she’s living in. Her eyes are wild, searching the room. “Wait, I didn’t—there’s something—”
She trails off and all but jumps off the couch. She starts pacing then, pulling away from her mother’s efforts to soothe her. “Don’t! I have to say this—I have to remember—”
“She’s just a little upset. I’m sure she’s glad you came by,” Mrs. Miller says, that plastic smile melting around her obvious discomfort.
“No! I have to tell them!”
Mrs. Miller glances at us a little desperately. “Please know it’s nothing you said. It’s just the sickness.”
“I’m not sick!” For one second, Mrs. Miller goes pale and tight. “I’m not sick, and you know it! I…I…” Julien trails off, pressing her temples with both fingers and looking dazed. Then she meets my eyes. “Help me, Chloe. Please.”
My heart skips three beats. Maybe four. Whatever icy thing is moving through me now, it’s bigger than fear. Way bigger.
“Girls, thank you so much for coming. Do you think you can find your way to the door?”
I try to nod or speak, but I can’t do anything. I can’t tear my eyes away from Julien. She’s watching me with a look that will haunt me forever if I don’t do something. But I have no idea what. Or how.
“Thank you for having us,” Maggie says softly.
I can’t say anything at all. I can’t even wave. Instead, I let Maggie pull me through this strange mismatched house. I hold on tight to her arm, grateful that she knows the way.