Five Nights at Freddy's, page 6
Mike shifted his attention away from Doug and returned it to his aunt, who was still ranting. He tuned back in, just for kicks. “… who care for the mentally ill should have at least a hint of maturity.” Jane pointed at Mike’s jeans and T-shirt. “Do you see maturity in him?” Jane put her fists on her hips and glared at Dr. Lillian.
Dr. Lillian ignored the question. “As I’ve made clear many times,” Dr. Lillian said, “Abby is not mentally ill.”
Aunt Jane made a sound that was half-snort and half-raspberry. “Oh, right,” she said. “Of course not. Because it’s perfectly normal to sit around by yourself drawing pictures and talking to magical creatures who don’t exist.” Jane wound herself up even tighter. “That child is a trainwreck,” she shouted. “She’s light-years behind where she should be at this age, and it’s only going to get worse.” By the time Jane got to the end of the sentence, her face was bright red, and her voice was cracking.
“How about we all take a slow breath,” Dr. Lillian said, “so we can calm down.”
The “we” wasn’t a “we” at all. Dr. Lillian was calm. Doug was so calm he was practically unconscious. Mike was tense, but he was calm enough. Jane was the one who …
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” Jane shrilled. She pointed a finger at Dr. Lillian. “You’re her doctor. But you’re trying to make me feel like I’m the cuckoo one here.”
There was no trying, Mike thought. Jane was the cuckoo one in the room.
“And what he did to that poor man,” Jane said. The volume of her words dropped startlingly, and her tone changed to what Mike thought was supposed to be sympathetic.
Mike watched Jane’s lower lip quiver. He suppressed a smile when he saw Jane squinch up her eyes like she was trying to squeeze out a tear.
Jane waved a hand like a Southern belle attempting to stave off an attack of the vapors. “I’m sorry,” she said breathily. “I just …”
Jane dug a tissue out of a large cream-colored purse. She blew her nose loudly.
Mike glanced over at Dr. Lillian. She met his gaze and gave him a sympathetic look. Real sympathy. Not the fake crap that Jane was attempting to sell to the room.
Jane blew her nose again. Mike, Dr. Lillian, and Doug sat silently. This was a one-woman play. All they could do was wait for her to get to her next line.
Jane finished nose-blowing. She dropped her dirty tissue on the floor. Mike looked at it, and he felt his lip curl. He really hated his aunt.
“Now, look,” Jane said.
Mike wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Him? Dr. Lillian? Obviously not Doug.
“I tried to play nice,” Jane went on. “I really did.” She clasped her hands together and pasted a nicey-nice smile on her face.
Mike managed not to puke.
“But I have to think of Abby now,” Jane said. She arranged her features into an expression that Mike thought was supposed to be regret. It looked more like constipation. “Enough is enough,” Jane said.
Finally, something Mike could agree with. He’d had more than enough of this meeting.
No one said anything. Jane looked at Mike. Then she turned toward Doug.
Doug still looked like he needed a ventilator. Mike wasn’t sure Doug had heard a word Jane had said.
“Doug?” Jane said.
Doug didn’t move.
Jane leaned over and poked Doug in the ribs, hard. “Doug!” she shouted.
Doug jerked, coughed, and blinked several times. He looked around as if to remind himself of where he was. Once oriented, he cleared his throat and picked up the briefcase that sat next to his small feet. The feet were tucked into expensive black shoes; Mike thought they were called oxfords.
Jane tapped her long, manicured fingernails (covered in pale pink polish that in no way matched her personality) on the slick leather of her bag. She pulled her lips together into a disapproving purse.
Doug was oblivious of his client’s scrutiny. He concentrated on opening his briefcase. When he finally pulled out a sheaf of papers, Jane snatched them and turned to shove them at Mike. He had no choice but to take them.
Glancing down, Mike’s stomach shriveled. They were custody papers.
“In your heart,” Jane said, “you know this is the right thing to do.”
Mike didn’t know that at all. In his heart or any other part of his body.
“I hope you’ll sign,” Jane said.
Mike lifted his head. “And if I don’t?”
Jane waved a hand toward Doug. “Then my lawyer and I will take you to court, where any judge with an ounce of sanity will make sure you never see your sister again.”
Dr. Lillian cleared her throat and began, “That’s—”
Jane shot up from her chair and held the flat of her palm toward Dr. Lillian like a traffic cop. “That’s it,” Jane said. “We’re done here.”
Jane took a step toward Doug and whacked him on the shoulder. Like an obedient, if abused, dog, he closed his briefcase and stood.
Dr. Lillian stood, too. “What about Abby?” she asked Jane. “Have you considered what she may want?”
Jane slowly turned toward Dr. Lillian. Pulling in her chin and drawing her eyebrows together, Jane tipped her head to one side as if she was studying something in a circus freakshow. “Abby,” Jane said, “… is … ten … years … old.”
In contrast to the serene oasis of Dr. Lillian’s office, the Development Center’s hallways were a chaos of color and light. The walls were papered in red, purple, and orange stripes, and the hall floor was covered in carpet squares of nearly every color imaginable. When Mike and Abby first met with Dr. Lillian, she had explained that a lot of kids at the center needed an abundance of stimulation.
That might have been the case, but the “visual stimulation” got on Mike’s nerves. Especially now.
After Jane and Doug had left Dr. Lillian’s office, she’d asked Mike if he needed a minute. He’d shaken his head and stood up. He was really rattled. And furious. And … actually, he didn’t know exactly what he felt. He couldn’t put a word to it. All he knew was that his stomach was in at least fifty separate knots—his colon felt so tangled, he wouldn’t have been surprised if food never got through it again. His head didn’t feel so good, either. His ears were hot, and he was sure an invisible hand was clamped onto his skull, trying to press him down through the floor.
Mike didn’t want to feel this way in front of Dr. Lillian. He needed to get out of there.
That was why they were in the hall. When Mike said he had to go, Dr. Lillian had insisted on walking him out.
Other than all the color, the hall was empty. Surprising himself because he’d planned on just getting away without saying a word, Mike blurted, “She doesn’t want Abby. She wants the trust fund.”
Dr. Lillian glanced at Mike and gave him a gentle smile of understanding. Dr. Lillian was good at understanding. Maybe that was why Mike kept talking.
“The trust was set up for Abby. Not for anyone else. Not me, either. I can’t even use it to pay the rent, and that’s fine. I’m glad it’s there for her.”
Dr. Lillian gave Mike another smile. This one seemed to be one of approval.
“But Jane and that lawyer are going to find a way to get into the trust if she gets custody of Abby,” Mike went on. “I just know it. That’s what her long-term plan is.”
Dr. Lillian didn’t disagree.
“And in the short term, she’ll get the checks from the state,” Mike said. “It’s not about Abby. It’s about Jane. It’s always about Jane.”
Dr. Lillian opened her mouth but then closed it. Another sympathetic smile told Mike that, once again, she didn’t disagree with him.
Together, they turned a corner, heading toward the center’s Activity Room. A couple boys about Abby’s age went racing past. The smells of dirty socks and chocolate went with them. So did the pounding of their feet.
“She makes some good points, though,” Mike said. “Aunt Jane. I hate to admit that. but she’s right that I’m not really fit to be raising a kid.”
Dr. Lillian finally spoke. “I know a little girl who would strongly disagree.”
Mike threw up his hands. “Come on, Doc. You can’t be serious. Abby talks to the air more than she talks to me. I could drop dead and she’d be too busy drawing pictures to even notice.”
They’d reached the double doors that led into the Activity Room, but Dr. Lillian kept walking. She motioned for Mike to follow her. He did.
Just past the doors, a long, wide window looked into the room with thick, bright blue rubberized flooring and multiple play areas. Some of the areas were nothing more than a collection of colorful pillows and cushy play cubes that kids stacked into forts or lay on to draw or play games. Some were climbing towers. Some were elaborate cave-like areas similar to Abby’s “hidey-tent” but more sophisticated. The play areas were placed wide apart so there was plenty of open space for the kids to run around. Mike did a quick count; nine kids were either chasing one another or playing games.
There were also several little tables dotting the room. The only one currently occupied was the one on the far side of the room. That was where Abby sat. By herself.
Mike gestured toward his sister. “See what I mean?”
Dr. Lillian watched Abby as she spoke. “You know, pictures hold tremendous power for children.” Dr. Lillian shifted to face Mike. “You’ve heard the expression ‘Seeing is believing’?”
Mike frowned and shrugged. “Sure.”
What was the doctor getting at?
Dr. Lillian crossed her arms and leaned back against the glass. “Before we learn to speak, images are the most important tool we have for understanding the world around us. What’s real, what matters to us most, these are things children learn to communicate about almost exclusively through pictures.”
Dr. Lillian paused, and Mike nodded. “Okay,” he said. He still didn’t see her point.
Dr. Lillian cocked her head and thought for a second. Then she tried again. “See, kids aren’t all that good at consciously accessing what they feel. Their artwork is sort of like their subconscious.”
“So, you’re saying Abby’s drawings actually mean something?” Mike asked when the lightbulb finally came on.
Dr. Lillian nodded several times. “Without question.”
Mike chewed on that for a second.
Dr. Lillian put a hand on his shoulder. “So let me ask you this. Who’s featured, prominently, in nine out of ten of Abby’s drawings?”
Mike didn’t speak, but he knew the answer to Dr. Lillian’s question. Mike was in most of Abby’s drawings.
Dr. Lillian squeezed Mike’s shoulder. “I can see you get it.” She laughed. “Like it or not, you’re her world.” Dr. Lillian chuckled. “You might not believe you’re the man for the job, but your sister certainly does.”
Mike stared at Dr. Lillian for a few seconds. Then he shifted his attention back to Abby. Could it be true? Was he really the best thing for Abby?
For a second, Mike felt his shoulders lift. His stomach started to unknot. But then the inner snarls kinked up again. His shoulders slumped.
Even if he was good for Abby, how could he take care of her if he couldn’t earn enough to support them? And how could he give her what she needed when he couldn’t even give himself what he needed? And then there was Aunt Jane. How could he stop her from getting custody? These and a dozen other questions swirled through Mike’s mind.
“What if it’s not up to me?” Mike asked, voicing one of the questions aloud. “My aunt’s an idiot, but she’s right. No judge in the world is going to take my side.”
Dr. Lillian shook her head. “Don’t be so quick to throw in the towel,” she said. “You’re Abby’s primary caregiver. Have been for some time. And you’re her immediate family. Demonstrate even a modicum of stability, and a judge might surprise you.”
Is that true? Mike wondered. Did he have a chance?
Dr. Lillian tilted her head. “Have you found a job yet?” she asked.
Mike didn’t answer the question, but his face must have done it for him. Even a second of thinking about his job-hunting failures probably made him look like he’d just sucked a lemon.
Dr. Lillian patted Mike on the back. “That would be a good place to start,” she said.
Mike sat at his kitchen table. In one hand, he held his cell phone. The other hand was turning a soda can around and around on the scratched Formica surface. The ever-circling can was next to Steve Raglan’s business card. The card was crumpled.
Sweat beaded the outside of the soda can, and Mike’s fingers were wet and getting wetter. Still, he kept turning the can. He couldn’t bring himself to do what he knew he needed to do.
Mike glanced over at Abby, who sat on the sofa watching a noisy cartoon. Mike wasn’t sure what she was watching, but there was howling coming from the set, and a lot of raucous laughter. It was getting on Mike’s nerves.
Well, no, the sounds from the TV weren’t really what was getting on his nerves. It was Abby herself who was bugging him.
As Abby watched the TV, she frequently pointed at it and then looked to her left as if sharing a moment with someone Mike couldn’t see. Another invisible friend. What was Mike going to do about Abby’s imaginary friends?
Looking away from Abby, Mike’s gaze landed on the custody papers he’d tossed onto the table when he and Abby had gotten home. He’d left them facedown, but he knew he needed to pick them up and put them away. Abby didn’t need to know what was going on … yet. Mike stood and stuffed the papers in a kitchen drawer.
The papers reminded Mike of Jane’s plan. Mike’s attention shifted back to Abby.
“See?” Abby whispered. “Bears can do that.”
A horrifying thought leaped out of the miasma of confusion in Mike’s head. How would Aunt Jane deal with Abby’s invisible friends if she had custody? As soon as Mike asked himself the question, he knew the answer. Jane would have Abby put in some kind of institution. And once Abby was put away, Jane would find a way to take all the money in Abby’s trust fund.
Mike let go of the soda can, wiped his fingers on his jeans, then pulled the business card closer to him. He punched Raglan’s number into his phone.
Abby continued to watch her cartoon and discuss it with her invisible friend. Mike took a deep breath as he listened to the phone ring in his ear.
A click. Raglan’s voice. In its raspy mode. “This is Raglan.”
“Hi,” Mike said. “Mr. Raglan? This is Mike Schmidt.”
Raglan didn’t speak. All Mike could hear was the faint sound of breathing coming through the phone line.
“Um, the guy who, uh, stomped out of your, ah, office yesterday?” Mike tried.
More silence. Mike counted in his head. One … two … three …
“Ah, yes,” Raglan said. His voice had switched to smooth. Then the voice turned gruff. “Mr. I-Can’t-Work-Nights.”
Mike pulled the phone from his ear and scowled at it. Man, he really did hate this guy.
Mike’s gaze flitted to Abby. He gritted his teeth and returned the phone to its proper position.
“The job you told me about,” Mike said between his clenched teeth. “Is it still available?”
“Yes, yes,” Raglan said. “It’s most definitely available. Why? Had a change of heart?”
No, Mike thought. His heart hadn’t changed at all. But that didn’t matter. He glanced at Abby again.
“How soon could I start?” Mike asked.
Mike’s car sputtered as he turned onto the street that led through the most depressed part of town. He didn’t blame the car for its hesitation. Mike didn’t want to go down this street, either.
Potholed and swaddled—even though the sun was still grasping on to the last of the day, the long, straight road was bordered by testaments to business collapse. On both sides of the cracked and broken asphalt and the crumbling sidewalk that ran alongside it, an endless march of failed or failing enterprises hulked in the descending dusk. A boarded-up factory, a derelict gas station, a small strip mall with only three still-open, dimly lit businesses, a restaurant with only two cars in the parking lot and a half-dark neon sign, a couple of bars that would make a “seedy” bar look upscale—this whole area would depress even the most upbeat person. Since Mike hadn’t been upbeat in years, he started at a deficit, and the area shoved him even further down into the dark hole of despair.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Mike used the other one to hold up the piece of paper he’d scribbled Raglan’s directions on. The paper was the cover page of the custody papers.
Mike frowned at the directions and leaned forward to peer left and right through his windshield. “Where the hell is this place?” he asked.
Too bad he didn’t have an invisible friend to answer him.
Instead of a helpful invisible friend, Mike had Raglan’s voice—in singsong mode—in his head.
“So, here’s the deal,” Raglan’s voice replayed in Mike’s mind. The voice rose and fell and sounded muffled, as it had when Raglan had spoken over the phone. “This place, it’s pretty out there. It was hugely popular with the kids back in the ’80s, but it’s been shut down for a long time now. Only reason they haven’t given it the wrecking ball treatment is the owner’s kind of … sentimental. Just can’t bring himself to let it go.”
There was something weird about the way Raglan said “sentimental,” but Mike couldn’t figure out what it was. Then or now.
Checking his notes again, Mike spotted the turn he’d been told to look for. He urged the car past another shuttered business—an ex-nail salon. No great loss. There were too many of those in town anyway.
The new street was narrower than the last one. And after just a couple hundred feet, it was no longer bordered by old businesses. Thick stands of tall trees pressed close to the road. It felt like Mike was heading into the countryside.
