Where the Darkness Goes

Chapter 39

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

TESSA — PRESENT DAY

I go to see Mom alone next. With my car back, I just want a chance to see her on my own. Even if she can’t comfort me like she used to, there’s still something comforting about being in her presence. I just want to sit with her.

Not to mention the fact that I need an excuse to be away from Garrett. I’m not mad at him necessarily. Disappointed, obviously, but what do I have to be mad at him about anyway? It’s Will who did something wrong. Will who broke the law and lied to me, even if Garrett aided and abetted.

But he lied to me, too. Garrett, whom I’ve trusted all my life with my life, has been lying. About this and who knows what else.

Somehow, that feels like the biggest betrayal.

The nursing home is busy today with everyone getting ready for Christmas. The lobby has a big Christmas tree in the center of the room, and there’s just something warmer about the place.

When I reach Mom’s room, a nurse is just leaving. “Well, hey there.” She gives me a wide grin.

“Hi. I’m Francis’s daughter, Tessa.”

“Oh!” Her eyes light up. “You are in luck! Come here.” She waves me over to Mom’s bed, and I’m surprised to find her watching us. Her eyes move from the nurse to me and back. “We’re having an excellent day. She even seems to be regaining some of her finger strength.” She taps Mom’s fingers, then puts her hand under Mom’s, and slowly I watch Mom tap the same pattern.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

“She just finished with physical therapy, so I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be awake, but what a treat.” She looks at Mom then. “Ms. Frannie, did you see Tessa? She’s here!”

Mom’s eyes flash to me again.

“Hey, Momma.” I sink down beside her on the bed, taking her hand. “Look at you. You look so pretty today.” I brush her hair aside. Behind me, the nurse sneaks out the door after whispering a heads-up that she’ll be right down the hall if we need anything.

“Will’s coming home today, so hopefully he’ll get to see you tomorrow. He didn’t make it back for Britney’s funeral, but?—”

Tap.

Tap.

Tap .

Mom taps my hand furiously.

“What is it, Momma?” I watch her carefully, trying to understand. “You want to see Will?” She’s still, her eyes holding mine, wide and almost fearful. “Are you hurting?” I look at the machines next to her bed, but aside from the oxygen tank, I have no idea what I’m looking at to know if something is wrong. “Should I get the nurse? Blink for me, remember? Blink twice for yes, once for no.”

Her watery eyes squeeze shut with force. A very clear blink. No.

“No, you don’t need the nurse?”

Blink. No.

“Then what is it?” I move closer. “Is it about Will?”

Blink. No.

“Um…” I think back, trying to remember what I said before she started tapping my hand. A terrible thought thunders into my mind. “Is it about Britney?”

Blink. Blink. Yes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My blood runs ice cold. “What is it, Mom? Do you know something about Britney? Do you know what happened to her?”

Blink. No.

I sigh. “I don’t understand. Are you just…sad?”

She doesn’t blink, doesn’t say anything.

“It’s very sad. We’re going to miss her.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Oh! Wait!” I remember the laminated sheet of letters Nurse Emma showed me and jump up from my chair, rushing across the room to get it from the drawer in the kitchen. When I return, I show it to Mom.

Blink. Blink. Yes.

“Yes. You remember this? We’re going to use it to tell me what you’re trying to say, okay?” An idea occurs to me. “Do you think you could point to the letters?” I lay the paper on her lap and place her hand on it gently, waiting.

She glares at me, and I swear she almost looks annoyed.

“Okay, okay.” I take the paper back and slowly move my finger across each letter. “Tap when I get to something. Oh, actually, wait!” I stand and cross the room again, searching for the notebook I just saw in the drawer with the laminated page. I tear out a piece of paper and pull the pencil from its rings before returning to the bed.

Slowly, I run my fingers across the letters, waiting and watching Mom closely. Just when I’m beginning to worry she’s losing the movement, she taps her finger.

T

I write it down on the paper. “Good job, Momma. T. Okay. T what?” I start back at the beginning of the alphabet. This time, when I land on E, she taps her finger. “Okay, T-E.” Again and again we go as I spell out the words she’s trying so desperately to tell me.

T

E

L

L

W

I

L

L

S

H

E

K

N

E

W

When I have that part figured out, I read it again. “She knew? Knew what?” I run my fingers across the letters, but she doesn’t tap her finger a single time. Slowly, I do it again. “Come on, Momma. What did Britney know?”

If she’s tired, she shows no signs of it. Her eyes are still open and watching me, but she’s refusing to tap. That’s the whole message. I spin the paper back around, rereading the note.

“But this makes no sense. What did she know?”

She stares at me.

“Did someone hurt Britney?”

Still, nothing.

“Fine. Something else, then. Um, oh! Do you know who wrote the note I showed you the other day? The one that said, ‘Murderer?’ Do you remember what I’m talking about?”

Blink. Blink. Yes.

“You do? Do you know who wrote it?”

Blink. Blink. Yes.

I look down at the paper, planning to start a new note, when suddenly it clicks. This is the same paper. Did the person use this particular notebook paper to write the note because it was here? Or were they, too, trying to get Mom to give them a message? Maybe they were even the one who brought the notebook in the first place.

Carefully, I scratch the pencil across the page, shading it lightly in hope there will be a message there, indented in the paper. I hold my breath, looking for a single letter to appear, but there’s nothing.

I rush back over to the notebook in the drawer, skimming through the blank pages in search of a sign or a clue about who it might’ve belonged to, but there’s nothing. Refusing to give up, I sit by Mom again with the sheet of letters.

“Who wrote the note, Mom?” I scan the letters again, and when I reach the T, she taps her finger.

T.

Already, I’m thinking of every person I know whose name starts with T.

E.

Terrence Fisher, the owner of the local hardware store? Teresa Hazelwood, my third grade teacher?

L.

T-E-L

L.

W.

I groan, patting the paper. “Yes, I get it. Tell Will. I will tell Will, I promise. But give me something else, please. Who wrote the note?” I scan the page again.

T.

E.

L.

Forget it. “Okay.” I sigh. “Okay, Momma. I will. I’ll tell him.” I squeeze her hand, pressing a kiss to her skin before I stand up and put the paper back, frustration rattling me. When I return, Mom’s eyes are closed, and whether or not she’s asleep, she’s apparently done with today’s visit.