The eels knew danger was coming, but they didn’t flee. They wouldn’t leave the Mother, not while she still lived.
These creatures of the dark sensed the spark of light within her chest. The drumbeat of that ancient heart. They would stay with her until the beat grew louder. Or until it fell silent.
Far below the swarm of boats, the eels blanketed Mrs. Smith’s body with their bodies. From above, they were indistinguishable from the dark water. They were a shield made of flesh and shadow.
In the shadows, they would wait.
30
Jill
Jill pulled on a sweater and went into the bathroom to brush her hair.
The girl in the mirror looked like any other thirteen-year-old. Except for the eyes. Those belonged to someone much older. Someone who’d seen things.
Of course, no one believed Jill’s version of what happened that night in July. The only living person who could’ve backed her story refused to talk about it.
Jill’s parents handled the tragedy by running away. They dropped the dogs at the kennel, packed up their kids, and drove a rented RV to the Great Smoky Mountains.
While divers searched for bodies in Cold Harbor and families the Scotts had known for years planned funerals for their lost loved ones, the Scotts went canoeing and toasted marshmallows. They stayed at the Jellystone campground for a week, hiking and fishing and eating lots of hamburgers and hot dogs.
On the way home, Jill’s dad stopped at a pay phone and made a few calls. She overheard him tell her mother that the search and rescue team had found what they could, but a dozen empty caskets would be lowered into the ground the following week.
Jill’s parents delayed their return by another three days.
The family visited museums in DC and the Philly Zoo. They stopped in New Jersey to see Lucy the Elephant and spent their last day at Adventureland, riding the Frisbee and the Dragon Wagon roller coaster.
By the time they got home, Una had been laid to rest.
Twelve children and fourteen adults had died the night of Charles’s party. Because their bodies were either missing or any recovered parts were, as officials stated, “mutilated by aquatic animals,” their deaths were blamed on the fire. Cited as the responsible party, the yacht rental company would later file for bankruptcy.
July turned to August, and Jill’s parents whispered when they thought she was out of earshot. They talked about taking her to the psychiatrist Charles was seeing or sending her to live with her grandparents until school started. They talked about how the newspaper coverage made the Bernsteins out as villains for their extravagance, how the Pulaskis had dodged a bullet, and how lucky they were to have survived without a scratch. They exchanged theories about how the fireworks had caught fire and where Mrs. Smith had disappeared to.
“She’s not in the house,” Jill heard her mother say one night. “You can feel how empty it is. Her damned vines are still growing, though. They’ve covered the McCreedys’ fence again.”
“The new owners will have to deal with them,” her dad replied. “I have a feeling you’re going to be too busy to do other people’s yard work.”
His prediction was correct.
In September, J.J. was sent to boarding school in Connecticut and the Bernsteins moved to Great Neck. When they hired Jill’s mom as their Realtor and she found them a house away from the water, the only thing the Bernsteins asked for was athirty-day closing. A Gold Coast sign went up in front of their Cold Harbor house in August. It finally sold in November for tens of thousands less than the asking price.
Natalie became the seller’s agent of choice for all the families moving out of the area. She had so many listings that she had to share some of them with Gina. She put a vase of yellow roses in every kitchen. She had platters of Mrs. Pulaski’s cookies at every open house.
Mrs. Pulaski wouldn’t drive to the end of the street anymore, so Jill’s mom had to get the cookies from her house. If Jill was in the car, she’d be sent to the door to collect the cookies. Mrs. Pulaski would always invite her in. While she wrapped the platters in tinfoil, she’d give Jill a special treat and talk about the baby she and her husband were adopting.
As more and more houses were put up for sale, Mrs. Pulaski’s cookies appeared in their kitchens. Buyers sampled them in Heather’s house. In Coach Patrick’s house. And in Aaron’s house. By Christmas, Jill’s mom was the top agent at Gold Coast. She bought herself a gold necklace and enrolled Justin and Jill in private school. They’d start in January.
At seven each morning, a bus would pick them up at the top of the driveway, and it would drop them off at three thirty every afternoon. Jill would be in charge of Justin until one of her parents got home from work.
There would be no more babysitters.
There would be no more counseling sessions with the minister from their church. Jill’s mother had decided it was time for Jill to move on.
It was a thirty-minute drive to her new school. The building was a converted mansion and looked nothing like Jill’s boxy brown public school. The classes were small, there was a strict dress code, and lunch was served family style, with a teacher at the head of every table.
Most of the kids in Jill’s class had known each other since nursery school. On her first day, they stared at her like she was a specimen in a museum. They were fascinated to be so close to someone who’d survived the Bar Mitzvah Tragedy. But they were also unnerved by her.
She didn’t talk much. She rarely smiled. When a teacher called on her, her answers were mumbled. When she gazed at her classmates, she seemed to be looking right through them. They had no idea that she saw ghosts at every empty desk.
