Frost

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.

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.”

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 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 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?”