Wonder Smile
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A few weeks after we moved in, the phone rang. I was still unpacking some of my stuff and I picked up a lamp. I looked around to find where I had left it because there were so many boxes all over the place. The phone rang again, which made me feel even worse about being distracted.
This time I decided not to answer but instead just go get it myself. As soon as I saw who called, I knew something bad must have happened at home. It wasn’t like Dad or Mom to call when they were supposed to be on vacation unless things were really screwed up and I hadn’t seen them since school let out for Christmas break.
When I finally answered I heard nothing. No crying, no yelling, just a heavy silence. That’s what I was afraid of—that they’d been killed somewhere on their trip and nobody ever found them. But I couldn’t believe that, so I asked if they wanted me to come over.
“I’m sorry,” the voice said with a thick accent I didn’t recognize, “but this is the wrong number.”
The phone clicked off before anyone could say anything else. I hung up the phone and sat staring at the receiver for a while. Then I went back and started looking through some more boxes, trying to forget about my parent’s death and the possibility of someone trying to trick me by using a false name.
After that incident, whenever the phone rang during the day, I always assumed it might be one of Dad’s friends wanting us to meet him for lunch. And then when he was actually dead, it took a long time to make any new friends.
Even now, sometimes I wonder why we never had the chance to get to know each other better, to become good friends the way some people are able to do once their family is gone.
As far as I’ve ever known, my father died when he was only forty-four years old. He had an accident while he was working on a bridge near our house and fell into a river. My mother followed him down there, but she was rescued by a helicopter shortly afterward.
She suffered terrible headaches afterward though and was eventually diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy. Her condition became severe enough that she could hardly move without getting confused, disoriented, or having hallucinations. For a while, she would start screaming in her sleep because her body seemed to be possessed by evil spirits.
Once, I woke up in the middle of the night and found her standing beside my bed, naked, looking terrified. In the morning, we both thought she must have been dreaming that I had somehow turned into a demon and tried to hurt her.
We told ourselves that maybe she’d been attacked by a nightmare and imagined everything that happened next, but it scared us so badly that neither of us slept very well for months after that.
That was two winters ago. Since then, I’ve been living alone and doing a lot of traveling because of what happened to my mom, and I haven’t really been able to keep up with too many personal relationships.
I don’t mind because it makes me feel stronger, and less dependent on anyone else for comfort. And besides, you can’t be lonely when you have books to read and television shows to watch, right? Well, at least most of the time.
Now here I am on the road again.
***
When I finally came home from my trip, I was surprised to find that we’d been robbed. Someone had broken into our apartment and stolen pretty much every valuable thing inside, including Mom’s engagement ring.
They hadn’t even bothered with taking the TV or stereo, which meant they were probably looking for something specific. There was also a big hole in the wall, which suggested that they must have thrown a firebomb through a window or door and then used some kind of explosive to make sure it got smashed.
It was so stupid, I couldn’t understand what they hoped to accomplish with such a destructive act. All they did was waste a bunch of stuff that I really needed, plus the insurance money would barely cover half the cost of replacing what they’d taken away.
Now that they knew I was still alive, they wouldn’t be bothering to try any more tricks like that, which made me wonder what they were planning to do with whatever they stole. At first, I thought they must have been looking for a safe place to stash a fortune so that they could rob someone else later, but they probably already had plenty of cash and jewels stashed somewhere out of sight.
Besides, if they really wanted to hide a lot of money, they would’ve been smart enough not to leave any clues behind that could help police solve the crime.
After they ran off, I called the cops and they sent a detective named Denny over to talk with me, but it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t much interested in solving the case. Instead, his real purpose seemed to be finding ways to avoid doing anything productive or useful.
As soon as I opened up the refrigerator and showed him the beer cans and bottles of wine and whiskey lying around inside, he just looked at me and shrugged. “Someone had a party,” he said.
“We’d been gone for almost three weeks and didn’t realize how much liquor and stuff we had left, until this morning,” I explained.
Denny’s eyebrows rose as he looked into the kitchen. His gaze lingered on a stack of books, including several books on the chemistry that I was currently reading in order to learn more about the subject. Then he shook his head and said, “It doesn’t matter why people get drunk. Just figure out who it was.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. The detective was making things way too complicated. All I wanted was for him to stop wasting my time and go catch these jerks. “What if they’re not even from this city?” I asked him. “What would happen if I called them back and told them to drop by tomorrow and pick up the rest of their property?”
“You should call and let them know what happened,” he answered, sounding a little irritated now.
“Well, I’m not going to do that,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me what you think would be best instead? You might have different ideas.”
He scowled at me again. “I’ll take care of this myself,” he muttered.
A few minutes later, he drove away in his car and never returned. I decided to wait for him to show up before I took any more action, although it was clear by now that he wouldn’t be coming back for a while.
My sister called and asked me how I liked it when we’d talked earlier that afternoon. She sounded cheerful and excited to hear from me, which gave me an uneasy feeling. What had she done lately to make her life so good, since we only had three months’ worth of memories between us?
She said that she had a lot of work ahead of her and she would start getting busy soon, but she was having fun exploring all sorts of new activities.
She mentioned that she’d recently started playing softball in a league and that she was working out with a personal trainer twice each week. I wondered if she really believed what she said or if maybe she was just saying it because I wanted to hear something nice and hopeful.
But at least now that we were talking every couple of days, it was easier for us to keep in touch. If things kept improving the way they were going, perhaps one day we’d be able to talk on the phone regularly.
At night, I tried to sleep, but I ended up waking up most nights. My nightmares had gotten worse. Every single dream consisted of me trying to run across a long stretch of open water, but the waves would keep knocking me backward and I would struggle to stay afloat.
Sometimes, other people joined me and helped me swim, but then they suddenly changed sides and started sinking right beside me. We were both drowning, but we had no choice but to keep struggling against the current.
Other times, there were giant sharks swimming nearby and the waves pushed us toward them with terrifying speed. When I finally woke up after yet another horrible nightmare, I felt drained, exhausted, and afraid.
One night, in particular, stands out from the others. The next morning, I woke up early and found myself staring at the ceiling again, wondering whether there was any point in trying to go back to sleep.
There was definitely a part of me that wanted to go back to sleep and forget everything else, but I also couldn’t ignore those dreams forever. So I forced myself to get up and prepare for the day. By the time I got up, my stomach was already churning.
I made a cup of coffee and tried drinking some of it, but I ended up throwing it out half-finished. My headache had grown to unbelievable levels. I sat down and turned on the laptop, hoping that a bit of caffeine might help.
It did seem to help for a moment, but then my thoughts returned to the events of last night. That was when I saw the news reports on television. They said that police had arrested four men over the weekend and charged them with a rash of burglaries and arsons throughout the county.
One of the crimes involved a house fire that killed two young girls, but luckily nobody else died during this spree. Apparently, the cops were still searching for three more suspects. As far as I could see, my friends were among the ones caught.
There was a brief article about me being missing at the bottom of the screen, along with a picture of me and my friends on the front page of a newspaper. The caption read: MISSING MEGAN FAYE WARDEN ARRESTED FOR BURNING DOWN A HOUSE, ASSAULTING THREE POLICE OFFICERS AND ATTEMPTING TO COMMIT MURDER IN ANOTHER INCIDENT.
They were calling me a criminal mastermind now. And all because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
***
When I went downstairs, I discovered that Mr. Jones was awake and watching the news on TV. I walked into the living room and stood next to the couch, holding on to the armrest tightly with my hands until I calmed down enough to speak. “How much do you know about what’s been happening around here lately?” I asked.
The old man looked confused for a second. Then his gaze shifted to me and he nodded. “We’ve heard all kinds of rumors.”
“Rumors and gossip. Not a lot of details. Have you seen the newspaper articles that came out this morning?”
“Oh, yes,” he nodded. He seemed to be remembering something. His eyes narrowed slightly in concentration and it was obvious that the words were coming back to him after all these years. “They said that the little girl was kidnapped and murdered by a gang of teenagers. Her parents were murdered in some sort of revenge killing too.”
I stared at the old man in shock. This was so different from what I remembered.
“You didn’t tell anyone that we knew anything about Megan, did you?” I demanded.
Mr. Jones looked at me sharply, startled. He must have forgotten that we even had a deal. “No!” he snapped loudly. “Don’t be mad. I wouldn’t do that. You’re safe here.”
He turned away from me and walked to the kitchen. After he’d poured himself a glass of juice, he came back and sank down onto the couch, resting his chin on one hand. The expression on his face told me that he wasn’t happy with me anymore.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. Sorry. Forgot.”
I didn’t think the old guy understood that I hadn’t done it intentionally. But at least he seemed convinced that I had no intention of breaking our arrangement.
After I finished reading the article, I called Mr. Smith to find out if anything new had happened. I learned that the police had taken everyone into custody, although they refused to say exactly what they were accused of. The only thing I could be sure of was that they would all spend the rest of their lives behind bars—and I was sure none of them would ever get out.
My phone rang right afterward, and Mr. Smith sounded relieved to hear from me. I explained that I’d just come out of a long interview with the cops and that there had been no major developments.
When he asked for more information, I gave him as much detail as I dared without revealing anything that I shouldn’t. We both agreed to keep this between us, since I needed to focus on my own situation.
It felt good to be working again, despite the unnecessary drama.
The rest of the day passed fairly quickly. At noon I ate lunch by myself, while Mr. Smith was off doing whatever he did outside the office. Then I returned to work, where I spent most of my time on the computer.
There were so many things I should be doing, but it was hard to get my mind back into gear. Even when Mr. Smith arrived home, it was clear from how pale he looked that I’d scared him badly, as well as caused him some inconvenience.
He wanted me to go over the books and explain every single number and figure in front of him so that he could feel more confident that everything would work out. It was tedious work—a huge pain in the ass—but I couldn’t deny him the answers to all those questions.
While Mr. Smith worked away on his laptop, I continued to sit and stare at the walls or the ceiling. My body was still tired, although the caffeine withdrawal had mostly disappeared. But I had trouble concentrating; my mind kept wandering back to Megan and my parents.
I thought about going outside to walk, but it was dark already and I didn’t want to leave the house unattended, not until I found out who killed Megan and why they’d tried to kill her friend, Amy.
At five o’clock I got ready to make dinner for myself. I heated up two cans of soup and a can of tuna fish. They weren’t my favorite meals, but I wasn’t in any mood to cook. As soon as I finished eating, I washed the dishes, then retreated to the bedroom and fell asleep before the first episode of CSI started.
When I woke up later in the night, I decided to stay put in bed rather than go downstairs. I was still groggy and tired, but my body was used to going to sleep early and waking up at dawn now. The coffee was wearing off fast, so I took another sip of the last of the brew and drank a couple more glasses of water.
I read for a bit, but my eyes kept drifting close in spite of the book’s unbelievable. I finally surrendered and laid my head on the pillow. Sleep was slow coming, and once again, my dreams were haunted.
There was a knock at the door, but I didn’t know if it had actually come from the front of the house. It might have been an echo of someone knocking on the back door, which we rarely used except during inclement weather. A light flashed from outside, and Mr. Smith stuck his head inside the room. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”
I sat up in bed. The covers were pulled up tightly around my chest. My eyes were open wide, but I was barely conscious enough to see that it was late and very dark. “Fine,” I muttered through a yawn. “Why are you awake? Don’t tell me it’s eleven.”
“Yes, it’s late. But there’s something you should probably know.”
I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stretched. My muscles felt like lead. “Tell me what it is.”
“The cops told me this morning that all of us will be released tomorrow evening unless one of us gets picked up on some other crime. They don’t believe anyone has any real reason to fear us, and they’re satisfied we’ll all cooperate if they need us again.”
My legs shook as I stood up and walked across the cold tile floor. I went into the kitchen and poured another glass of water to wash down the last bit of coffee. Then I followed Mr. Smith into his office and shut the door behind me. “Did you really think they were going to hold you overnight? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He nodded, and I saw his hands trembling. “But what if someone decides to hurt me because of you? If you hadn’t shown up here…”
His voice broke and he swallowed hard. I moved closer and wrapped my arms around him. His face was buried in the crook of my neck, and his tears dripped onto the bare skin of my shoulder.
We stayed like that for a long moment, until he regained control over himself and wiped his nose.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him.
“Like I’ve aged fifty years since yesterday. All my strength is gone. My joints ache.”
I reached for my coat and slipped into it. “What are you planning to do with your life now?”
Mr. Smith stared at me blankly for several seconds and I could see he was thinking the same thing I was: What am I going to do? I’m too old to be starting over. But Mr. Smith never gave up easily, and he had the experience and intelligence to get ahead when others couldn’t. He would find a way to make things work again.
As much as I admired him, though, my own future wasn’t something I wanted to discuss, especially with such a serious topic lingering between us. “I’m going to shower.”
I pushed his hand aside and opened the door. “And I hope you can manage to sleep a little tonight. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.”
He turned toward the office door and smiled ruefully at me. “Yeah, maybe.”
The End