Nevermore

“Brad?” she roared toward the oak in Mrs. Finley’s yard. “Mark? I know you’re there!” This she turned on a row of shrubs lining Mr. Anchor’s white fence.

“Brad, if that’s you, this isn’t funny, I swear to God it’s not! Wherever you are— whoever you are—!” As she shouted, Isobel bent down despite her wooziness and hauled up from the leaf-strewn grass a thick and gnarled branch. She swung it, teetering. “Come out already!” She waved the limb through the air again, swiping. “Come out so I can take this stick and shove it straight up your—”

“Isobel!”

Whirling, Isobel dropped the stick. It cracked against the asphalt.

Her mother leaned out the front door, her form cast in the buttery glow of the porch light. Arms crossed, tucked in against the cold, she squinted at Isobel, her expression undergoing a strange battle between concern and outrage.

12

The Invisible Visible

In that moment, all Isobel wanted to do was run to her mom, cry on her, and tell her everything. She wanted her dad to search the yard, call the cops, and have them shut down the park.

And right then, with her mom watching her like that, and the energy draining from her limbs, making her feel so tired, Isobel found she didn’t care anymore about getting in trouble.

Maybe she wanted to stay inside for the rest of her life.

Just as she was about to collapse onto the grass, release the waterworks, and let the confessions fly, Danny’s voice broke out from the side of the house. “You tell ’em, Iz!” he shouted.

Her head jerked up, and she saw him trudging toward her, huffing, his belly wobbling beneath his white T-shirt. Behind him, like a disobedient dog, he pulled along one of the large plastic trash cans they kept on the back porch. Isobel watched, only vaguely aware that her mouth had dropped open.

Danny sent a cheerful wave toward their mom, who had stepped out onto the porch. Snorting, he said, “That raccoon again.”

“What are you two doing?” her mom said. Her arms remained folded. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eyeing them both. “Somebody better tell me what’s going on out here.”

Isobel’s numb gawk shifted away from her brother, to her mother, and back to her brother.

“It’s all good, Mom,” Danny assured her as he drew the huge trash can to sit right next to the mailbox, grunting and puffing. He patted the lid. “Just taking out the trash. Thought we’d do it before dinner so we wouldn’t have to in the morning.” He beamed.

“Isobel?” Her mom’s voice sounded as though it were coming from inside a bottle.

Isobel tried to work her mouth, feeling like a fish that had flopped out of its tank.

“She’s helping me,” Danny answered for her.

Isobel found it easier to nod than to talk.

“And,” Danny continued, “that stupid raccoon came back again. Damn raccoon! ” he shouted, his voice echoing through the neighborhood.

“Danny!”

“Sorry, Mom. Darn raccoon!” he yelled.

“Both of you,” her mom snapped, “get in here. Right now. You can finish taking out the trash after dinner, Danny. Not you, Isobel. You look like death warmed over. Get inside before you get sick.”

When their mother turned away to open the screen door for them, Isobel felt Danny’s elbow shoot into her side, causing her to jump with a residual jolt of adrenaline. Where the hell were you? he mouthed. But he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he scowled and, shaking his head, hustled into the house and past their mom. Isobel drifted toward the open door and her worried mother. She wiped her nose on her sleeve again, sniffing.

“I hope you two weren’t out here fighting,” her mom said, leaning down to brush the chalky dirt from the knees of Isobel’s jeans. “You’re both getting too old for that. You especially, Isobel.”

Stepping in, Isobel glanced over her shoulder and into the darkness one last time.

Perched in the branches of Mrs. Finley’s oak, she noticed a single black bird, swiveling its head around. Its gaze seemed to stop on her.

They had turkey and mashed potatoes for dinner, but Isobel hadn’t been able to force down more than a few bites. Between her dad repeatedly asking her if she felt all right and her mom reaching over every three seconds to feel her forehead, Isobel couldn’t concentrate on her food anyway. Eventually she excused herself and went to take a shower.

There was something about warm water and being alone that made it easier to think.

Isobel could feel the tension slide off her shoulders and swirl down the drain with the grime and the sweat. Her muscles relaxed, and closed up in the small warm space, she felt safe.