The Cult of Rohesia: Dora (2/3)

That's not a dream. It's not just the house making noise, either, or something banging in the wind outside. Someone is pounding on our front door. I risk taking a peek around the window shade. There's a car parked in front of the house. One of the neighbor's cars, I think, or one of their friends. I see it often. One person standing on the sidewalk, too far away to be knocking on the door. There's at least two of them, then.

They can't be burglars. Too much noise—

Police. I risk another glimpse out the window, but the man on the sidewalk runs out of my line of sight. Into the house. They just broke the door down. They didn't even announce themselves or wait for someone to open the door voluntarily.

I grab my can of mace from my suitcase and head into the hallway, only to be greeted by the sight of my mom in her pajamas, hands up, talking to the police. Five of them.

"Julie Gallagher, we're arresting you for arson, terrorism, and disregard for human life." She lets them cuff her. They read her her legal rights. All I can do is watch. She won't look at me. Not until she steals a last look at me as they walk her out the door, toward the car that I'm only just now realizing isn't the neighbor's car. They've been watching us. For months, probably.

I should have said something. Why didn't I tell her I loved her? It's like I forgot I could move my mouth. Or maybe my teeth were just clenched too tight. My hand is stiff around the can of mace. Fuck, that was dumb of me. I'm lucky they didn't seem to notice it. They were wearing fucking tactical gear. It wouldn't have done any good.

I go to her room, check her suitcase until I find the first note. The newspaper clipping. A vandalized dealership. Destroyed SUVs. It was fucking twenty years ago, damnit. A year before I was even born. Why now?

Is this why we were always poor? Because she couldn't risk putting her name on a lease, or a job application? She's been working nights as a server in an all-night diner since we moved back here. I used to sleep in her car while she worked. Then she slept while I was in school. Has she been working under the table the whole time?

Did Nicolas alert the police? It doesn't make sense. I've done everything he said. Now he has no leverage over me—

He has no leverage over me. Fantastic timing, too. It's Thursday. Third one of the month. July. I haven't eaten since the granola bar I choked down during my shift, right before six. Guess now I can eat dinner, at least. Or is it breakfast? What time is it?

What do I do? Will Mom call me? How do I talk to her if she doesn't? I don't even know where they're taking her.

Fuck.

<<>>

It's Sunday. Spent the weekend calling around trying to figure out where Mom is. Which sucked, but at least now I have an appointment to visit her this afternoon. When I get a text, I assume it's one of my bandmates in response to me telling them what happened and that I might not come to rehearsal tonight depending on my mood.

But it's Michelle. Who I've been ignoring all weekend because she basically spent Friday night being Nicolas's errand girl and pestering me about the dinner I was missing. I might keep ignoring her. It's sad, but a connection to her is a connection to Nicolas, and I definitely don't want him in my life anymore.

"This is michael. Michelle died n wont wake up," it says.

Fuck.

It's one thing to cut off contact. It's another to leave her for dead, isn't it? And I should be able to assume that since she's already dead, it won't make a difference, but I've seen her dead before. And she came back. So I can't rule out the possibility of that happening again, can I? And this didn't happen before I skipped dinner, and no one else has skipped so far, and it's also the first time someone has died and not woken up. So I can't be sure it isn't my fault Michelle's still dead. Can I?

I'm calling Michael, then. Fuck. "What the hell do you mean, Michelle's dead?"

"I mean what I said. We have no idea what's going on, other than you were the one who deviated from the usual dinner ritual. So maybe you're the one who can fix it."

"And what are you going to do if I don't?" It's pointless to ask, isn't it? I've made up my mind without really thinking about it.

"Call the morgue, I guess? Or we could just cut to the chase and do that now, if you really want to give up without trying anything."

"Nice try. Are you guys going to try to use this to blackmail me, too? Or are you thinking you can just guilt-trip me into doing whatever you say?"

"No, they can't pin this on any of us. There'd have to be an apparent cause of death for that, and there isn't one. Seriously, can you just come over for a few minutes? If it doesn't work, then we tried everything. If you don't try, then you'll always wonder if you could have made a difference. Come on. I know you care."

He's probably right. Why pretend any more? "Fine. I'll be right over." Fuck him. Fuck Nicolas. Fuck Michelle. Fuck all of them. This is the last time I'm putting up with this. If I leave now, I might be able to get back in time to keep my appointment. I've got two hours.

Driving out to Rohesia today still feels wrong, though. Doing it in the morning feels weird, too. I can't stop thinking about Michelle laying there dead, on the couch. What am I going to do if she doesn't wake up when I get there?

No, I know what I'll do. I'll leave. I'll put all this shit behind me. I won't talk about it. I'll never speak to any of them again. I'll delete Michelle's number. Like it or not, this is a new chapter in my life.

It's so easy to imagine the after part. But when I try to think of looking down at Michelle's dead body and walking away, my mind goes blank and I start to feel queasy. And here I thought nothing could get worse.

There's the house, barely visible from the road. The long gravel driveway with the white mailbox. This won't take long. I'll get to see my mom again soon. Whatever happens here, I just need to put it behind me. (What if she really does wake up? What am I going to say to her then?)

I can hear someone running down the stairs as soon as I ring the doorbell. Michael. He looks at me, then looks away and stands aside, holding the door open. I don't bother taking off my shoes. I'm not coming back here, they're not wet, and I don't need any extra friction on my way out the door. This'll only take a couple minutes—

—

—

—

—

What the fuck is going on here? Michelle is fine. She made eye contact and smiled at me when she saw me coming up the stairs. She doesn't look like someone who just knowingly lied to me. In fact, she looks a little confused. Her smile is slipping, probably at the sight of whatever ridiculous face I'm making.

I just—I can't. This is too much. But I have to know. I have to know what really happened.

"M-Michelle?" I can't fucking stutter right now. Why can't I keep my voice from shaking? Fuck.

"Yes?" she asks. "Uh. Hi, Dora." That's better. Now she sounds a little guilty. Or maybe still just confused. Fuck if I can even tell right now.

"I thought you were dead."

She frowns. Confused. That, or acting. "What? Why?"

"Check. Your fucking. Phone."

She checks. Then scowls, not confused. "Michael!" Oh, sure, we're blaming it all on Michael. How did you not notice him using your phone? Did he even write that text, or did Michelle type worse than usual on purpose? "Why did you lie?"

"She obviously wasn't going to come out here for Nicolas," he tells her.

Nicolas. Of course. There he is, on the couch. Looks pretty dead, but that's not exactly a strong indicator of anything in this situation, is it? Michelle let Michael lie to get me to come out here. She's not dead. I was going to cut her off anyway. Time to go.

"You can't just lie to people about me behind my back!"

"I kind of just did." Michael's such a little shit.

"Yeah, and it was wrong! A little acknowledgement of that won't kill you."

What did I even see in her? I mean, sure, she's not bad looking, but there are loads of cute girls out there who aren't like this. "He used your phone, Michelle. You're not an idiot."

"I didn't tell him he could lie! It sounded like he was talking about Nicolas," she insists.

And then we're arguing. I can't let her have the last word. Neither of us can. Maybe I just don't want to let go of her, after all. This is all so fucking pointless—

And now Nicolas's moving. Just when I'd forgotten any of this could get worse. Michelle runs away downstairs. Is she running from him, or me? Both? Does she not want to look like an idiot in front of him? Or is there something else I'm missing?

"Dora. You came back," Nicolas mumbles.

Ugh. I should have gone after her. "Sounds like I fucking shouldn't have."

"That's right. You shouldn't have," he says.

Next thing I know, I'm getting into it with Nicolas, and we somehow end up on the subject of breaking my mom out of jail. It's a terrible idea. Cartoonish, even. Would be kind of funny to see how far they'd all actually go, though. (No, no it wouldn't. Because they'd pay it lip service at most and then not do anything. You were going to leave this place behind, Dora. What the hell are you doing?)

And then Michelle comes up with a friggin' cup of tea. For Nicolas. She's acting like his fucking handmaiden or something. Was this how it was all along? Or did it happen in the past two months? People change, I guess. If she was going to fall in love with someone here, why couldn't it have been me? What does Nicolas have that I don't? (Oh, please. Same thing as ever. It's because she's straight, and maybe has some daddy issues to boot or something.)

"Michelle? You up for breaking someone out of jail?" I ask, because I must be an even bigger masochist than I realized.

"Depends on what exactly I have to do," she says, like breaking someone out of jail is nothing. Maybe she thinks it's all a joke.

In fact, that would be the sane assumption to make. A joke would make for better last words than an argument, that's for sure. "So that's yes, as long as you're not likely to get caught—"

"I don't want to hurt anyone," she says. And it's not a joke. There's not even a hint of humor in her tone.

So she'd be willing to break the law for me, huh? Fuck. I don't want this to end. I just need to get out of here. Then I'll put it behind me. I'll text her. That'll be easier than saying it to her face. "Okay, Michelle."

<<>>

What the hell did I do to deserve this? Luckily, I can scream about it and no one'll notice. Or rather, they'll love it. It's what they came for. I'm on stage for a gig, this venue is tiny, and who do I spot amongst the twenty-odd people watching us, right in the middle of the floor? Fucking Michelle.

I'm staring her in the eye, and she's staring back. She looks annoyed, not intimidated. Why the fuck is she here? I haven't texted her at all since last month, and she hasn't texted me either. I technically haven't missed another dinner. It's been less than three weeks. How did she even know I'd be here?

It looks like she came with someone else—skinny girl with short, curly blonde hair, a big forehead, doe eyes, and a red shirt. Fits right in. Looks happy as a clam. Are they on a date? No way. Must be friends.

Our set is over before I know it. We only got time for five songs. Michelle's friend heads toward the bar when we're done. In the crawl space this place tries to pass off as a dressing room, I chug half my water bottle and find my glasses. Then I shove a black beanie over my hair so I stand out a little less, but I don't want to take the time to wash my face, so it's not like it'll make an actual difference. Michelle's on her own when I find her.

"What are you doing here?" I have to yell over the music they're piping in while the other band sets up.

She frowns at me and shrugs. Something clicks. She doesn't recognize me, does she?

"Michelle. It's me! Dora!" You'd think the glasses would help, but I guess my makeup is throwing her off.

Her eyes go wide when she makes the connection. "Holy shit! That was you?"

Is she going to be one of those girls who goes gaga for someone solely because they're some kind of stage performer? (I've seen it happen to actors, too. No, not even. Friends of mine who've acted.) I can only hope. (Actually, that'd be kind of terrible.) "Yeah, it was me. What're you doing here?"

Then her friend comes back with a beer. "Oh my god, hi! I loved your set!" And then she starts talking my ear off. Over the course of the conversation, I put together that she and Michelle are high school friends who were in choir together (didn't know Michelle could sing), and Michelle's probably driving them home. She's also super vague when Alyssa (the friend) asks how we know each other, so from that, I can assume she really doesn't talk about what goes on at the house to her other friends.

Then the next band is on, then Sarah comes and grabs me to man the merch table. I feel really conflicted about selling merch, even if it's only buttons, stickers, and CDs. Amy wants us to do t-shirts, too, but it seems like such a waste. Cotton's super resource intensive, and we probably won't sell all of them—definitely wouldn't if we used organic cotton, and even that takes a lot of water. It's not like we get much from the venues, though, so I guess it's necessary.

It was nice talking to Michelle, and in hindsight, I hate that. I was done with her, and now I'm not. We didn't even say anything about the house or Nicolas or anything to do with any of them.

I wish this was the first time we'd met. I could write my number down and sneak back to the floor and slip it in her pocket. Then she could call me and we could just talk about—I dunno. Ourselves. And not some stupid supernatural conundrum with a manipulative, suicidal asshat sitting in the middle of it. And we could just be friends on our own terms. Or she could not text me back and I could just assume she was straight and forget about it all, because I'd only seen her the one time and we hadn't bonded over the existential terror of watching people fall over dead, then come back to life by the next time we saw them.

I guess it's not too late for the friendship part. As things stand, we could patch things up. Maybe I can tempt her away from that house.

That night, she texts me and asks if I can pick her up from the bus station in Ottawa and give her a ride to Rohesia in September, since she'll have moved to Montreal for college by then. We've never spent time together in person with just us. I don't want to say no to that. Which means I have to go back this month, too.

<<>>

My heart starts pounding when I spot Michelle walking into the central bus station. She's wearing a burgundy shell with a high neck, dark wash jeans, and the same sleek hiking boots she usually wears. Minimal makeup, if any. Hair shiny and straight and perfect. Elegant as always.

I've never seen her in a place like this before. Only ever at the house. Even the concert was kind of a liminal space. Definitely not well-lit, either. Not like this place.

I stand up and start to head in her direction, but she notices right away, so I wait for her to come to me since I'm closer to the front doors. The sooner I get away from the sub shop, the better.

She asks me how my month was on our way to my (mom's, not that she can use it right now) car. I ask her how hers was. She tells me about her classes, and Montreal in general. I can almost pretend we're normal friends.

That doesn't last any longer than it takes us to get out of Ottawa, though. She asks me why I changed my mind about the house.

I didn't change my mind, actually. As soon as she doesn't need a ride back to Rohesia, I'm gone. I can't tell her that, though. Besides, who knows how long that'll be? I can't just assume someone else will pick her up. Though in theory, someone could. If I ducked out. Not that there'd be any point then.

Who am I kidding? I guess I've changed my mind. But only because I want to spend time alone with her, even if it's in a car and I'm driving. But I can't tell her that, either. “Curiosity?” I try.

She asks about the things Nicolas said about getting my mom out of jail. I can't believe she's still taking that seriously. It's cute how seriously she takes these things.

“So why'd you change your mind?” I ask. “You sounded like you weren't planning on coming back after that second time, either.”

“Same reason, I guess. I wanted to see what would happen. It wasn't as scary once my parents were basically on the same page as me. Well, not exactly the same page. They were really mad when they found out I went back to the house in May without telling them—Michael texted them saying I was with a friend he picked from my contact list, but then they called her parents and of course I wasn't actually there. But at least now if I disappear or something they'll know where to look.”

We talk about what a little shit Michael is (though Michelle seems oddly worried about him for some reason). And how weird he and Emilie are, especially together. I even ask her if her parents know she's going to be in town this weekend (the answer to that is no).

I'm trying not to think about the implications of my actions. About how, if I've changed my mind about going back to the house, even if it's only because of Michelle, then—

Then why wouldn't I die and come back to life, too? At some point.

In fact, it seems unavoidable now. I know it isn't. I could drop Michelle off and turn around. Someone else could drive her back to Ottawa for her return bus. Hell, I could just turn the car around right now. There isn't much she could do to stop me.

But I'm not going to. So I suppose I may as well ask while it's still just us. “Hey, Michelle? What was it like when you died?”