Page 25 of Play Nice

Dad and Amy went all out for their Memorial Day barbecue. If I were to be cynical, I’d suspect it’s because they can sense there’s something rotten in Denmark and are trying to settle the kingdom and lift spirits with racks of ribs and expensive steaks and a variety of mayonnaise-based salads.

I’ve been avoiding my family for the past two weeks. It’s not like me to be unresponsive, and it’s got them in a tizzy.

I have to admit, I kind of like watching them squirm. Because the thing I want to talk about—the specter waiting patiently in the dark to emerge, hiding behind every word, every thought—is the very thing they don’t want to talk about. Will never want to talk about.

So what is there to say?

I’ve been back to the house twice since the sketchpad incident, both times with Austin. We painted the office, Daphne and Leda’s old room, and the upstairs hall.

There have been no strange happenings, no attempts at communication, which is almost disappointing. I’m being deprived of a witness.

Or maybe the lack of action has nothing to do with Austin’s presence. Maybe whatever is in the house is just waiting until I convince myself that it actually doesn’t exist. When my doubt conquers my fear, then it’ll reemerge. Pass me another note.

I haven’t spent the night in the house. I sleep at Austin’s.

I have successfully purchased another copy of Mom’s book off eBay.

I caved in the immediate aftermath of the note ordeal, whatever reluctance I’d had about finishing crushed by a newfound sense of urgent curiosity.

My initial order was canceled, the seller skeptical of the shipping address.

But it’s on its way now. I told Austin, for some reason, and he offered to sit with me while I read.

Which is pretty sweet, but I sincerely can’t think of anything worse than reading about my fucked-up childhood in the presence of someone I’m fucking.

“I hear you have a boyfriend,” Amy says, fixing us vodka lemonades.

“Clio! That’s great!” Tommy says. He’s got white splotches of sunblock all over his face. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Your sources are mistaken,” I say, pulling down the brim of my hat.

“You’re not dating someone?” Amy asks, handing me a blue Solo cup with a bendy straw. A lemon wedge floats inside. I stab it with the straw.

“I don’t even know what ‘dating’ means,” I say. I take a sip. It’s strong. “And I don’t really care to.”

“As long as you’re happy,” Tommy says, getting up and heading inside, probably to see if Dad needs help. He tries to be the son that Dad never had, but Dad doesn’t know what to do with him.

“Thank you, Tommy,” I call out after him. He gives me a double thumbs-up before closing the back door.

Amy sits next to me on the sofa. The patio furniture smells musty from being locked in the shed all winter, and Amy smells like candy, her cheap gourmand perfume. Then there’s the distant scent of charcoal. Chlorine from the neighbor’s pool. The citrus from the lemonade. Summer.

Leda is taking a walk around the block, and Dad is in the kitchen marinating meat or something. Daphne’s not coming because she had to work.

There will be neighbors over at some point, friends of my dad and Amy, but for now it’s just us under a blue, blue sky and tyrannical sun.

Amy stands up and adjusts the umbrella.

It could be my intrinsic proclivity for deviousness or just that the opportunity has so seamlessly presented itself. Or both. “Not everyone has a great love story like you and Dad.”

“Aw,” Amy says, blushing. She gives up on the umbrella and sits back down beside me, taking a sip of her vodka lemonade.

“Maybe part of me is holding out for what you two have. For romance,” I say, resting my head on her shoulder. I drop my voice to a whisper. “He told me. He loved you from the moment he saw you. I know.”

She puts her arm around me and draws me in close, starts to play with my hair. Says nothing.

“He wants me to find someone. You know he does,” I say, vodka burning my throat. “He doesn’t want me to be jaded because of Alexandra. And don’t worry. I understand. Their marriage was over long before he met you.”

She withdraws her arm, holds her drink with both hands. I wait for her to speak. She takes a series of small nervous sips. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a child cries.

“Amy. Relax. I couldn’t care less. It all worked out, for everyone,” I say, knocking her knee with mine. “Love is only a losing game for the losers, you know what I mean?”

“Clio, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says. The problem is she’s got no poker face. I’ve caught her off guard. The sun beats down; that kid is still crying.

“Please. If anything, I’m jealous,” I say, shifting to fabricated exasperation. “I want to find someone. I just get bored so easily. No one can hold my interest. I envy you. Not everyone meets their soul mate at nineteen.”

“I was twenty-two!” she shrieks, spilling her drink onto her lap. “Shit.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, playing dumb. “Need a napkin?”

“I…I got it,” she says, flustered. “Sorry.”

She gets up to go inside, and I do some quick math.

Dad is sixteen years older than Amy. He was forty-one when they got married, meaning she was twenty-five. I can’t remember how long she was around before the wedding, or when Dad sat us down and told us about them being together. Was she already living in the house when we moved in full-time?

Would she have gotten upset just now if she wasn’t guilty?

“Where is everyone?”

It’s Leda, the sun behind her like a fiery halo.

“Inside,” I say, adjusting my hat again.

She sits down on the sofa and immediately gets up. “Ew! Why is it sticky?”

“There’s no good answer to that question, is there?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Vodka lemonade,” I say. “Want a sip?”

“No,” she says. “What’s going on? Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong,” I say, tipping my hat back so she can see me smile. “Everything is perfect. Life is a dream.”

She scoffs.

Then Tommy comes out with chips and salsa, followed by Dad and Amy with a veggie tray, and then Bob and Lara Costigan from down the street, and it seems like there’s real potential here for a pleasant afternoon.

But as I sit with this smile plastered on my face, accepting compliments from Lara Costigan on my dress, chatting with Bob about what the rental market is like in New York, I keep Dad and Amy at the corner of my eye.

I don’t smell summer anymore. Not the chlorine or the charcoal or the sweet, citrusy lemonade. I smell burning. Fire—the hot annihilation of what was, of a belief I once held about something in my family history being good and pure.

Is there anything good for me to believe in? Or are the demons all that’s left?

I inhale.

Only smoke.

—

The afternoon smolders on. The sun burns itself out eventually. More neighbors arrive for red meat and beers and small talk. No amount of vodka lemonade makes it more tolerable.

I miss Daphne. I go upstairs and call her from my bedroom, but she doesn’t pick up.

Listening to the soundtrack of chitchat and Bruce Springsteen through my window, I decide that I prefer it up here. That I’m done for the day.

My body is tired, but my mind is awake and needs occupying.

I undress and take a picture of myself. I send it to Austin.

He responds within five minutes, which is both too slow and too fast. “You’re trying to kill me.”

I leave him on read and scroll through socials for forty-five minutes, until Leda knocks on my door and lets herself in.

“Put some clothes on,” she says. “Come back down. You’re being rude.”

“I’m not. You just miss me,” I say, getting out of bed and stepping back into my sundress. “Zip me up.”

“Amy’s drunk,” she says, being too rough with my zipper. “She keeps asking me if I still love her.”

“Good thing the answer is yes,” I say, spinning around so my dress floats up. “So you don’t have to lie.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m getting bullied by my big sister.”

“I’m not bullying you.”

“Then leave,” I say.

She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re so mean. Being a brat will only get you so far in life, Clio.”

I sit back on my bed, cross my legs. “It’s gotten me pretty far so far.”

She frowns, and I can tell that she is, unfortunately, legitimately upset.

“I don’t want to go back down there,” I say. “The small talk gets so exhausting. And you know Dad will get mad if I try to mix things up, make it interesting. Bring up Area 51 and see what happens. It’s no fun. I’m not having fun.”

“I’m not either,” she says, turning to the door. “I’m not having any fun at all.”

She slams it behind her in a very Mom move.

Our mother’s presence is everywhere, her influence. Her ghost is us.

After a lazy moment, I get up to go chase after Leda.

I make my way downstairs with every intention of rejoining the party.

But the light is on in Dad’s study. The door is open. It’s always open, but I’m not typically compelled to go in. The compulsion feels absolute, and I’m suddenly briefly above myself, watching as I slip inside.

It’s rare that I’m alone in here.

There are bookshelves all around, a heavy oak desk, leather chairs, a filing cabinet. A giant Mac. I hover behind his desk and start to open drawers.

I don’t even have time to wonder what it is I’m looking for before I find it. Half of a beat-up old paperback. An annotated copy of Demon of Edgewood Drive . The other half of my copy.

Did some part of me know that it was here?

That he had found it when he went to the house without me, stumbled across it in my room sometime after I’d run out post–initial mouse sighting but before I returned two weeks later to look for it?

Did some part of me know that he took it?

Was hiding it from me, or keeping it for himself?

Or did I piece it all together just now, before I came in?

I don’t know. It seems obvious in retrospect.

I reach for it. It’s in my hands, and I hear heavy footsteps.

They’re mine.

I’m storming out into the hall, through the kitchen, the sunroom. I’m standing at the back door. I’m yelling.

“Dad! Dad!”

Eventually, the chatter quiets until it’s just me. Me and Bruce. Born to run.

“Clio?” Dad says.

“What the fuck is this?” I shout, holding up the book.

He beelines across the yard toward me.

“Clio…” he says, jaw clenched. He grabs the book from my hand and ushers me inside.

“Give that back,” I say.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, leading me back to his study. He closes the door behind us.

“You know where. In your desk drawer,” I say. “That’s mine. She left it for me.”

He flips it open, looking for something specific. He finds it. “Look. You want this? You wanted this?”

I step forward so I can read the page.

I’m glad you called us. With all our experience, I feel confident in our assessment,” said Ruth. “We can help. But we shouldn’t delay the exorcism. I believe the demon has taken an interest in your daughter, Cici . CLIO

“Can’t you see? She was out of her mind,” Dad says, releasing the page. The book flutters shut. “Clio Louise. Come on.”

I’m shivering, cold to my bones. I might throw up.

“I know it’s upsetting. I know it’s hard. But I didn’t want you to see this. I found it when I went to meet with the exterminator. It was in the closet of your old room. She put it there on purpose so you would think…I don’t know.”

“It’s the same handwriting,” I say, reaching for the book. “Let me see.”

“Clio. Stop,” he says, pulling it away from me. He holds it behind his back.

“Dad. Please. ”

“This is exactly what she wanted,” he says. “Don’t you see that?”

He’s wrong, and it makes me so angry I could spit fire. “You cheated on her.”

“What?” he says. He sighs and shakes his head. “Great. Perfect.”

“You did. Just admit it.”

“I won’t. It’s not true,” he says. “She had no proof.”

“Just because she didn’t have proof doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

He’s looking at me like he’s never looked at me before. With contempt. It’s like he’s wearing a different face. “You sound just like her.”

He means it as an insult, so I’ll take it as a compliment. “Good.”

“Clio,” he says. “You don’t want this. I’m protecting you.”

“But I don’t want protection. I want honesty,” I say, stepping toward him.

“You won’t find it in here,” he says, his eyes dark. “She’s turning you against me.”

He’s out of the room.

“Dad? Where are you going? Dad…”

I step out into the hall and catch a glimpse of him turning the corner. I follow him.

He’s going outside.

“Dad!”

I’m at the back door. He’s stomping across the yard toward the firepit.

“Dad!” I scream, again interrupting the barbecue chatter. “Don’t!”

His back is to me, but then he turns. He turns so I can see him feed the book to the flames.