In the hallway, I found the pay phone and called Tom. Afterward, I struggled to recall what it was that I had told him, my voice low and urgent, words tumbling from my mouth before I could consider them. But I remembered, always, what he had said in return—that he would come, that it didn’t matter about the blizzard. That he would come and get me, that he wouldn’t leave me alone, he promised.
I headed outside, into the freezing cold, the snow falling to the ground at a faster rate than I had seen in all my years in the Green Mountains, and Lucy followed, at first placating, then arguing and then begging—for me to stay, for me to forget the photograph. I did not relent, only stood, waiting until Tom eventually arrived, his face distorted from the melting ice on the car. I had turned to go then, when a hand, hard and unyielding, forced me to pause.
“Don’t get in the car, Alice.”
“Let me go, Lucy,” I commanded, wrenching free of her grasp.
“Alice,” she said, her voice desperate now, I thought. “You can’t just go.”
I spun around. “Why not?” I didn’t need a response, I could have simply gotten in the car and left, but I wanted to know, in that instance, what she would say, what words she would find to extract herself from this as well. She was silent, and I shook my head. “I want you to leave me alone,” I shouted then, the wind burning my cheeks, stealing my words. “I want you to disappear and never come back.”
Then I turned and got into the car.
TOM WAS QUIET AS WE DROVE AWAY, perhaps sensing that I did not want to speak, that I did not want to discuss what had happened. I thought instead about where we would go—town, perhaps, to our favorite little diner, on US Route 7. We would sit and drink good, strong coffee and it would steady my hands, which now trembled in my lap. I shook my head, trying to dislodge whatever was left of Lucy there. No more, I promised myself. Instead I would concentrate on the future, on Tom. And once we reached that diner, perhaps I would finally tell him what I had once told Lucy, about the months after my parents’ death, the shadows, the asylum—and then, even those things I had not.
I would tell him, I had decided, about the real reason for the bouts of anxiety—about the accident that had killed my parents and how I worried, still, even then, that I was the one to blame. After all, I had been the last one to use that wretched paraffin heater. I could still picture it in my mind: the little black contraption my father had brought home one day. He had been so proud, showing me how to carefully lift the lid in order to fill it with the paraffin, and from there, how to press the wick into the liquid on one end and light it on the other. It would keep us warm during the winter, he had promised. And what was better, it would save money, since the heater was portable and could be picked up and carried from room to room. But you must always be careful, he had warned me, the paraffin is highly inflammable. I still remembered my childish response: Inflammable? Does that mean it won’t catch fire? He had laughed at that, at his silly little Alice in Wonderland. He had pulled me into a tight embrace—the last I could ever remember receiving from him.
That was what I had been thinking about—the ghosts of my past that I could never quite manage to dispel, along with the simple nagging question: had it been my fault, had I been the last one to use the heater that claimed my parents’ lives?—when it happened.
We had reached the top of the hill and begun the descent down the drive, on the long twisting road that would lead us out of the college’s property and into the town, when Tom turned to me, panic flooding his eyes, and said, “They aren’t working.”
“What aren’t working?” I asked, my voice lazy as I peered out of the car and into the darkness. It wasn’t yet six o’clock, but already the winter darkness had fallen, making it nearly impossible to see anything within a few feet without a light. I lifted my hand in front of me, wondering whether I would be able to make out all of its features. I exhaled, watching my breath emerge in a tiny cloud before dissipating into the air.
“The brakes.”
I dropped my hand. I took in Tom’s stricken face, which I could still make out, even in the darkness. That was what struck me first, in that strange little moment. But then I heard his foot, pumping away at the useless pedal and something inside me stilled. “What do you mean?” I whispered.
“I mean they won’t work,” he said, his voice rising in panic.
The car had nearly reached the end of the drive by then, that point at which the private pathway of Bennington’s road connected with the public one. In front of us, I watched as one car passed by, and then another, each one half-hidden, it seemed, by the darkness. I closed my eyes, held my breath. But I knew that even if we somehow managed not to crash into another car, there was still the problem of the road—which stretched immediately to the left and right, but not directly ahead. Instead, there was a flimsy barricade and beyond that—I swallowed nervously—our self-christened End of the Universe. My gaze quickly took in the sugar maples beyond the railing, standing in sinister formation.
I turned then. Twisting around, peering back at the darkness behind us, knowing that I would not be able to see anything—that I would not be able to see her, even though I could feel her still, watching. I thought of her words, of her insistence that I not get into the automobile, and I felt my stomach lurch—though whether from the movement of the car or the realization of something greater, something darker, I was never entirely certain.
And then Tom shouted, telling me to jump, so that my shaking hands reached for the cold handle. There was nothing then. Only the strange sensation of my body being lifted into the air, weightless and suspended. Afterward, there was blood and fire, broken bones and bruises, but I did not feel any of it. Only the snow underneath my face, the cold, biting pain of it against my cheek.
And Lucy.
Somewhere in the distance, looking at me—her eyes wide, watching—alive.
It was the last thing that I remembered from that night.
AUNT MAUDE ARRIVED in the days afterward. I was never sure how many had passed before she swept in, her stern, frowning face serving as a source of comfort, a return to normalcy in the swirling chaos that had surrounded me ever since I had woken. I had scarcely been left alone during that time, so it seemed there was always someone beside me, in the room, outside the room, peering in. And yet, not one of them ever spoke to me, with me—only around me, at me, instructions and directions, orders, but no information, nothing that told me what had happened, how it had happened, and perhaps most important, why.
“Maude,” I whispered, my lips parched and cracked.
She moved quickly beside me, though she did not take my hand. “Quiet, dear,” she said.
I closed my eyes at the sound of her voice, at her familiar accent, so similar to my own. Her face, though decidedly feminine, still held something of my father, her brother, in it as well, such that I felt her reassurance wash over me, blanket me. My body sagged, and for the first time in days, I felt the adrenaline begin to seep from my pores, so that all at once I felt comforted, and I felt pain, the bruises and cuts I had ignored, that I had refused to feel, creeping upon me so that they could no longer be denied. I felt wetness against my cheeks and realized that I had begun to cry.
“Lucy,” I whispered. “Where is Lucy?” But I was uncertain whether she could understand my words, distorted as they were by my increasing sobs. “You have to speak with her, to ask her about what happened.”
“There, there,” Maude whispered, lowering herself into the seat beside me. She still did not move to touch me, though in that moment I wished that she would. “You’re overwrought, Alice, confused. But everything will be all right, my dear. I will take care of it, you have my word.”
A week later, I was out of the hospital and on my way back to England. No one spoke of Tom, of his funeral, of an invitation I knew would not come. Only once was Lucy mentioned, when the police, bullied and cowed by Maude, were permitted to ask a few questions, under her direct supervision. My answers were short, clipped. They raised their eyebrows when I asked about Lucy Mason, about whether they had spoken to her—but then a sharp look from Maude silenced any further questions. “She’s confused, Officers, you must excuse her.” She turned to me and smiled. “You’re confused, Alice, dear.”
At first, I had frowned at her words, but soon I had begun to wonder whether perhaps she was right. That night already seemed distant, the details lost to me, so the only thing remaining was the conviction that Lucy was somehow the key to it all, the answer to the question that I could not quite figure out. I searched my memory but could find nothing more definitive than the injured feelings of a girl that had been abandoned by her best friend, or the look she had given me that night as I had walked away, had crawled into the car, choosing another over her, severing whatever bond it was that had connected us. I pushed the image from my mind.