Free The Murmurings by Carly Anne West Page A

Becca trails off as I shift my gaze between the two of them.
    Mom’s face stiffens. She hasn’t looked up since I invoked the unmentionable name of Nell.
    “Yep, I remember,” Mom finally says, reaching slowly for another hunk of cheese and spreading it on some bread with a zombielike movement.
    “Only she didn’t make up everything , did she?” I aim the question at my mother, but I’m hoping Aunt Becca catches some of my tone too. I’m suddenly overwhelmingly suspicious, like they’ve conspired to keep me in the dark all these years. I have absolutely no idea where it’s coming from—maybe it’s everything Evan told me yesterday, all the stuff his aunt and uncle kept from him about his cousin—but the feeling pours over me like oil on a blazing fire.
    “It’s not that simple,” Mom’s answer is infuriatingly quick, and she reaches for another chunk of cheese and slathers a second piece of bread before she’s touched the one that’s already on her plate.
    “Yeah, but it kind of is. I mean, either she made everything up, or she believed what was happening to her was real,” I push on.
    “Sophie,” Aunt Becca cautions. I’ve been warned away from this topic too many times. I’m through walking on eggshells. I’m through being responsible for the sake of everyone else while I suffocate under my own questions. Questions like why nobody at Oakside ever told Nell that she was crazy. And why Mom and Aunt Becca went along with whatever treatment Dr. Keller proposed, like the drugs she talked about in her journal. And what happened in the mirrored room.
    “No, seriously. Which was it? Because either way, I can’t see why Nell would have run away unless there was something else. Something, I don’t know, that they were doing to her at Oakside. Or making her do.”
    I can see my mom’s and Aunt Becca’s shoulders rise in unison, like a barricade against my questions. Still, not a word leaves either of their lips. We all chew on silence like it’s a sourdough baguette smeared with Camembert.
    “Is somebody going to answer me?” I demand, slapping my hands on my thighs like a two-year-old.
    “Goddamnit, Sophie, drop it!” Mom says, setting her water glass down hard and gripping the edge of the table. “You have no idea what you’re even asking about.”
    “You’re right. I don’t, which is exactly why I’m asking—”
    “I said drop it,” she repeats through gritted teeth, her jawbones jutting out below her earlobes.
    Mom’s eyes spark in my direction as if I’ve betrayed her, as if somehow she knew I would all along. I want to scream ather, to stand up from the table, to slam the door and never come back.
    “I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” Mom says, finally unlocking me from her gaze and starting to clear the table.
    “Miri, let’s go for a walk or something,” Aunt Becca tries, pretending I’m no longer at the table.
    “It’s too hot.”
    When Mom reaches for a glass in the cupboard near the stove, that seals the deal. She’s done with both of us for the night.
    Aunt Becca finally ventures a glance at me with anger or pity, I can’t tell. Anyway, I think she’s aiming it at the wrong person, and I shoot her a look that I hope tells her so.
    “Miri, we need to talk,” she tries again, attempting her firmest older-sister tone, which never worked on Mom, even when she wasn’t like this.
    “I’m done talking,” Mom mumbles.
    “Well, I’m not,” Aunt Becca persists.
    I have to say I’m impressed. Well, I think I’m impressed. Nobody’s listening to what I say anymore tonight.
    “I’ve got a number for you,” she continues, and I know she’s dangerously close to pushing Mom past her breaking point.
    “Of a guy? Not in the mood,” Mom makes a bad attemptat a joke. These days, her jokes are like mine: full of acid.
    Aunt Becca fixes a stern gaze at the bottle in Mom’s hand. “Of an AA chapter. It’s three blocks away on Pima. They meet Tuesdays and