Occult Suspense for Mothers Boxset: The Nostalgia Effect by EJ Valson and Mother's by Michelle Read (2 ebooks for one price) (11 page)

Keep breathing, Erin . . .
I told myself.

T
wo deep, painful, labored breaths later, I felt nothing.  Nothing at all.  Leaving my eyes closed for fear of being consumed by dizziness again, I waited ten more breaths before I sat upright.  When I did, I noticed that the pressure had eased – not slightly, but
completely
.

As I patted the rest of my shirt dry from my water spill, every feeling of abnormality wholly subsided, though apparently the ringing in my ears had drown out something I should have heard clearly.  As I wiggled my fingers around gently on my temples, I noticed that Azura was turned away from me, and had a cell phone up to her right ear.  She was covering her left ear with her hand and whispering forcefully into the phone.  The only thing I could understand was her low “
Yes.  Yes.  Alright.
”

John and Violet were unaware of anything peculiar going on in the kitchen; I could see them both clearly on the couch as I pushed the chair back to stand up.  I gave a furtive glance toward Azura, who didn’t seem to have noticed me rise from my seat.  She had actually turned further away from me.  She was now curled into herself slightly, with her shoulders hunched over, trying to screen her phone call from me.

I decided to make every effort to tune her out and tried to concentrate on what had just happened.  The more I focused, though, the further the experience seemed to slip away from me.  With every passing nanosecond, the memory of my body tingling—
surging
from the inside out—slid further from my grasp.  Strangely, the only way I could think to describe it to myself was that it felt like I was “coming down with amnesia”.  No matter how hard I tried to remember precisely what had happened, I just couldn’t.  I scraped desperately through the last few minutes, searching for something . . .
something
. . . any tiny thought to grab hold of.

It seemed like I should ask Azura what had happened
; she was talking to me about something. 
Right? 
No.  Wait.  Yes, yes . . . we were talking, and then.  Well, I.

“Erin?”

I spun around.  Azura had scooted her chair away from the table the same moment that she said my name.  The combination of the two noises startled me.

“Yes?”  I asked, quite unsure of why I felt the uncontrollable urge to ask her a question.

“Please excuse me,” she said politely, bowing her head slightly.  Again, she reminded me of a chivalrous gentleman, excusing herself from the table.

“S-Sure,” I smiled.

Azura eyed me carefully for a second, tilted her head a bit to one side and said, “Are you
alright
, Erin?”  She took a step closer to me, slowly, and lifted her hand just barely from her side.  At the same time, I blinked as the last of the fog left my mind.  A handful of twitchy, spastic blinks later I felt renewed, and rested.

“Yeah.  I’m great,” I answered, in a
why-wouldn’t-I-be
sort of tone.  “Leaving so soon?”  I added.

“Yes.”  Her eyes dropped, and she slipped the phone she had been clutching into the pocket of her slacks.

“Oh.  Well, did you need something?”  It seemed bizarre that she should leave so soon.  Had she actually gotten to the point of her visit yet?

“Er, no.  I was just in the neighborhood . . . and thought I would drop by.  Thank you for being hospitable.”  Azura’s quirkiness grew ever more entertaining, and intriguing.  “I’m sorry, but something has come up – and I must be on my way.  Thank you, again.”

“Sure.”  I showed her to the door, and held it open for her.  “See you Monday.”

She started to walk past me through the door, but paused abruptly only inches from my face.  Suddenly nervous, with someone in my personal space, I forced a smirk.  Her eyes searched mine.  One, then the other.  Then, as if she thought better of what she was about to say, she smiled and walked to her car.  She pulled out of the driveway and was gone without looking back.

Azura’s oddities were becoming the norm, so I didn’t think much of her hasty exit.  I let the door click shut and spun the lock so that it engaged.

About five thirty, the three of us started to grumble to each other from hunger.  An occasional “What’s for dinner,” or “I’m so
huuuuungry
,” in during commercials or lulls in our conversation.  We’d had an early lunch and our tummies were already growling.

“How about Chinese?”  I suggested.  John and Violet both turned from the television simultaneously and smiled.

“Mmmmmm,” they said in unison, slowly and hungrily.  Then, without another word, they twisted back to their TV program.  They were so identical sometimes it was scary.

I jumped up, eager for something to do
besides
watch TV.  We had been couch potatoes practically all day.  There was barely any laundry done – piles and piles still calling my name, in fact.  And now I felt absolutely useless having spent the entire day in front of the tube.

If I went to get dinner now, we could eat early, get Vy to bed early, I could get some housework done (
ha ha ha
) and we would be plenty rested for church in the morning.  I grabbed my keys and my wallet out of my giant purse and headed out.

Ah, church,
I thought as I pulled out of the driveway.  We hadn’t been since we moved here, almost four months ago.  Our church back home – well, where we had called home for the last five years – was perfect.  And I mean that.  It was perfect in that “We’re all sinners just trying to get along” kind of way.  Everyone there was amazing, kind and so full of love.  The atmosphere there is what I imagined Sunday gatherings would be like back in the prairie days, only without the cool homemade dresses and bonnets.

We went every Sunday, and we just felt right.  Like we could handle anything, and everyone there was a part of our family.  How could we ever find anything like that again?  The mere thought was intimidating and saddening.  I missed that group of people so much.

Plus, it had become so very easy to sleep in now on Sunday mornings.  To simply enjoy the extension of our Saturday – we now got twice as much weekend!

Still, I had been setting my mind on trying to find a new church home every single weekend for a month now.  There was a clear, physical void in me that I couldn’t ignore much longer.  I felt lonely, and I knew exactly why.  The fellowship I once had with good friends every week was missing.  It made me sad that I had chosen to give it up for extra sleep. 
Ah, sleep
.

I picked up our favorite smorgasbord of Chinese goodies for dinner and headed back to the house – sorely tempted to eat the messy goodness while I drove.  My stomach agreed with the idea audibly.

TEN

October finally rolled around and although I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it, I was sure that the atmosphere at school had changed in the last few weeks.  There was a tension hanging in the air that was much like that first time I had crossed paths with Danna – as I watched her hoist the table over her head with the supernatural ease of Wonder Woman.

I had met nearly
half
of the teachers in the building – filling in for one here, running countless errands for another there.  Therefore, I at least knew many people’s names and was beginning to adapt to my surroundings (a.k.a.  being told what to do).

I felt, though, that they were avoiding me at all costs, only speaking to me when I did something for them.  A handful of people – Charlotte, Claire, and a few others, were downright pleasant to be around all the time.  But for the most part, I still felt like an outcast.  Like I had done something to upset everyone, though I couldn’t for the life of me think of what it might be.

My work, though pretty mindless most days (
how hard do you really have to think while making copies?
), was completely engulfing.  I thoroughly enjoyed being paid to do busy work.

One afternoon last week, I had been called in to work with Danna after lunch.  I knew I’d be spending the rest of the day with her, so I had already prepared myself for a long stretch of
any
thing (probably silence).  I had absolutely no expectations.  Needless to say, I was surprised to find her smiling at me as I walked through the door of her sweet-smelling classroom.  She always had the best candles, and this particular day it was pumpkin spice.

Since I hadn’t really interacted with her at all yet, I wasn’t sure what would be out of character for her.  This smile, however . . . this greeting . . . seemed a little forced. 

Through the afternoon, she was fairly pleasant to be around.  She had me helping with a reading comprehension exercise so that she could get a handle on each child’s starting point for the semester.  Most of the time, I was across the room from her, crouched in a bean bag chair, listening to one child at a time read a paragraph or two and recording the results.  I did notice, though, that each time I looked up to stretch my ever-stiffening neck, Danna was watching me.

It wasn’t the same kind of
watching
that Azura was so often prone to, but more like a paranoid teenager.  Like she thought I might catch her doing something.

What
she though I might have caught her doing, I have no idea, but she was most decidedly preoccupied with my being in the room.  Whatever secret thing she was trying to protect, trying to keep me from noticing, remained a secret.  I had no intentions of looking over her shoulder that afternoon, and tried to simply avoid looking her way as much as I could.

The last bell rang at 3:15, and the last of Danna’s students eventually trickled out of the classroom.  I tried to help by stacking chairs on the tabletops and tidying up the reading center, where I had been crouched for the last several hours with my knees buried in my chest.  As I stacked the last chair on the miniature table, Danna spoke from behind her desk.

“Thank you, Erin.”

Polite.  Very polite,
I thought, walking over to her. 
Maybe I should . . .

“Can I ask you a question?”  I had spoken, against my better judgment, and the sound of my own voice in the room startled me.  It had been so quiet for hours.

“You just did,” she answered, smiling widely.  It was a smile that told me she probably always responded to
Can I ask you a question
that way.

“I’ve been noticing, lately,” I stopped.  I wasn’t even really sure
what
I had been noticing.  I hadn’t really thought my question through before I opened my big mouth.  “
Mmmm
, I guess I’ve been noticing people acting a little strangely around here lately.”

I didn’t look at her while I trailed off the end of my thought, but I noticed that she seemed to choke on something as I spoke.

After clearing her throat deliberately, she began busying herself with papers on her desk.  When she looked up at me, I apparently had a look on my face that said
Please don’t pretend you haven’t noticed
, because she swallowed whatever she was
going
to say and offered:

“Oh, I think Azura’s in a tizzy about something.  I don’t really know what, though.”

“Hmph,” was all that seemed appropriate.  “Well, would you like me to do anything else for you before I head out?”

“Oh, no!” she replied enthusiastically, obviously thrilled with the subject change.  “You’ve been a wonderful help, that reading screening would have gone into next week if you hadn’t been here!”

I mulled over the encounter as I rounded the corner to school one evening in a last minute decision to become social.

Apparently everyone who’s anyone in the school attended the PTO meetings.  I had yet to take part in such a gathering, so Tuesday night I finally decided to make an appearance, since I was becoming more comfortable with my surroundings.

My idea, up to now, of what a typical PTO meeting would look like was something like a dental visit:  long, drawn out, painful.  Probably several parents like me – quiet and non-confrontational – sitting around listening to a bunch of over-zealous women make big plans for fundraising and the like.  I pictured it loud and proud, like an auction . . . “Who wants the bake sale?!? . . . Bake sale?  Anyone? . . . C’mon people, we need five hundred cupcakes by Friday!!!”

I’ve met a lot of uber-involved mothers in the past, at church, doctor visits, the park, who
love
to tell anyone who will listen how much time and energy they spend volunteering at their child’s school.

Many of them spend more than a forty hour workweek either
at
school functions or preparing for them.  I often wondered when they had time to spend with their families, it looked exhausting.  I definitely wouldn’t be considered hardcore when it came to volunteering, I like to put my time in and then head home for a quiet evening.

I dread the day Violet starts asking to be in soccer or dance or something that requires that level of involvement.  But with as much energy as that girl has in one toe, she won’t make it through childhood without finding
some
effective avenue to exert it.  And I know that whatever her niche eventually ends up being, whatever sport or activity she can’t live without, she’ll rock at it.  I am not, however, looking forward to giving up my evenings and Saturdays for things like out-of-town games and dress rehearsals.

I pulled into the school parking lot around fifteen to seven.  I thought that since I was probably already on the naughty list because I wasn’t planning on joining any committees this evening, I could at least make myself look good by showing up early.  I was wrong.  To my surprise, the lot was overflowing when I got there.  It was as full as if every grade were having a program on the same evening.

As I pulled into an empty spot in the grass near the front, I saw a handful of women bustling up the walkway like they were late.

Great,
I sighed.  One day I would figure out my place in this school world.  I’m neither the volunteer queen, nor the early bird.  I’m just the nobody who shows up and will have to shuffle into the back unnoticed.  This might just be my first and
last
PTO meeting.

I scurried into the back of the gym and found an empty chair next to two people I didn’t know.  The whole place was buzzing.  Not a dull roar like a room full of children who are trying to keep out of trouble while still talking to their neighbor.  It was
loud
.

The two ladies on either side of me looked a little out of place as well – uncomfortable at the very least.  One was holding her purse tightly and tapping her foot pretty impatiently.  The other had a convenient store coffee in her hand, which she raised to her mouth to chug about every five seconds.  I grinned and settled into my seat.

Rather than try to strike up a conversation with one of the other nobodies next to me, I set myself to people watching, counting on the main event to start quickly.

I stared amazed at the number of people packed into the gym.  Rows and rows of folding chairs were touching each other, which meant the people in them were most certainly touching each other.  It was obviously warmer than usual, due to all the tightly packed bodies, and the noise level was bordering on insanity.  I wondered if maybe we were auctioning off hunky janitors or something, there seemed to be an excitement in the air that was nearly tangible.

I noticed a small table at the front of the large room, in front of the stage and under the basketball goal.  Seated there were Charlotte, and two women I didn’t recognize.  Other than these few, all I could see were the backs of many heads, all bobbing (gossiping) furiously.

Just as I crossed my legs to ease my already uncomfortable back side, I noticed the woman to Charlotte’s left begin to stack her papers and nudge her chair backwards.  When she did, the tangible energy I had felt before seemed to dissipate slightly.  I watched her closely as she made her way up to the small, clear pulpit on the stage.  With every step she took, the room seemed to grow quieter, more focused.

She must be important.

When she reached the pulpit, she picked up a small gavel – so small it must have been the only thing sitting up there for me not to have noticed it, and tapped it lightly on the acrylic stand.  I could, strangely,
feel
it.

She tapped it only twice.

On the upswing from the first hit, the room fell silent.  So that there was no need for the crystal clear
thud
of the second tap, which I could also feel.

I looked around, only moving my eyes, and observed that everyone was perfectly still and attentive.  The woman stacked her papers; unnecessarily, because they were already perfect, and cleared her throat.

I realized I wasn’t breathing, and took in a breath.

She looked up sweetly, and began.  Her voice was soft and delicate, and she reminded me of a flower for some reason.

“As many of you know,” she sang in an almost shy pitch, “my name is Sherry Richardson, and I’m the PTO President.  I’d like to thank you all for coming this evening and volunteering your valuable time for our kids.”

Typical.  Yes.  No surprises.  This would probably be pretty boring.

Dang it.  Forgot to breathe again.

For the next half hour, we listened to Sherry give a recap of last year’s fundraising numbers, contributions to the computer lab, community service accomplishments, and the like.  Eventually, we shifted to projections for this year, which perked me up.  She made it all sound so interesting, maybe I could find an avenue for volunteering after all.

“We hope to double our earnings from the bake sale this year,” she was saying, “a goal I think will be quite attainable.”

This is the part where I started inserting my auctioneer’s voice, expecting a run for the sign-up table or something.  Instead, Sherry took a step back, making way as a tall, slender lady made her way up the stairs to the stand.

She flipped her perfect hair over her right shoulder and smiled.

Elizabeth
.

“Good evening, everyone, blah blah blah . . . . . .” was all I heard for the next five minutes or so.  I was too busy seething in my childish disdain for this woman, who disliked me for no reason, to listen to what she had to say.  By the time I finally started to pay attention again, she was concluding.

“I’m thrilled to head up the event again this year, and I know it will be a success.”  She looked over her shoulder.  “And don’t worry Sherry, the doubled order will be a cinch.”

She winked and glided off the stage to take her seat, pressing her skirt needlessly as she descended the stairs.

What.  In.  The.  World?!

From what I could understand, Elizabeth was not in charge of organizing the bake sale.  She
was
the bake sale.  The numbers overviewed earlier in the meeting would be impossible for one person to accomplish in a single weekend. 

Maybe I misunderstood.