Towering

phone call had confirmed that there was, that Mama’s fears were justified.
    But she had no reason to fear Wyatt. But still, I wouldn’t tell her about it. She would, as Wyatt had said, flip out.
    I heard her key enter the lock. Phone hidden, I sat on my bed to read.
    Just as I did, she entered. Her face was lined with urgency.
    “I heard voices. Is someone here?”
    Calm. Keep calm. “You heard . . . voices?” I knew she had heard only one voice, my voice talking to Wyatt. But I tried to make my face a blank. “How could anyone be here. I am in a tower, at least five stories up and in the middle of a vast forest. I have not seen anyone but you in years.”
    Her glance darted around the room. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know I heard something.” She walked to the closet and threw open the door. Nothing, of course. Then, under the bed, the very bed upon which I sat. Fortunately, I had moved the rope, just that day, to the back of one of my bureau drawers, under my clothing. That would have incited justifiable suspicion indeed. But there was nothing.
    “Are you finished? Perhaps I have a boy under my pillow.” I lifted it up to show I had none. “Or a tiny little man in that vase over there.”
    She sighed and embraced me. “Oh, darling, I am sorry. I worry about you, and I could have sworn I heard voices. It must have been my ears playing tricks on me.”
    “Had you allowed me to speak, I would have told you that the voice you heard was mine. I was reading aloud.” I tuned to an oft-dog-eared page of Jane Eyre , one I might have been able to recite even without looking upon it. I trusted she had not heard my exact words. “‘I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, or even of mortal flesh:—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s feet, equal,—as we are!’ Is that not so beautiful that you need to read it aloud?”
    “Of course it is, my darling.” She stroked my hair. “And I should not have doubted you.”
    “I forgive you, Mama.” Though I did not.
    “I’m glad.” She opened the hamper she had brought with her. “And if you have not, you will when you see what I’ve brought—your favorite roast chicken!”
    This did cheer me somewhat. How sad that, before I met Wyatt, food had been my only pleasure.
    “And I thought,” she continued, “that, after dinner, we could play a round of Rummikub!”

Wyatt
    I couldn’t call Rachel because, of course, Mama might still be there. The phone was on vibrate, but around here, it was so still, so quiet, that even vibrate was loud. So, instead, I went upstairs. Through Mrs. Greenwood’s door, I could hear the TV, still blasting, another sitcom. How could she sleep through that? But maybe her hearing wasn’t good. I thought about going in and turning it off, but seeing her in her jammies would be . . . awkward.
    I couldn’t sleep anyway. What had the letter said? And what would I say to Zach when I met him. “Hey, dude, you know you fathered a child seventeen years ago, and she’s, like, locked in a tower?” Maybe he was a total waste case from all the drugs he’d taken.
    In the darkness, I swore I could hear Rachel singing. I wondered if she ever heard me.
    It was weird, when you thought about it, my mother moving to Long Island and getting pregnant at almost exactly the same time her dear friend Danielle. Rachel didn’t know her birthday or anything about her parents, but if the dates in Danielle’s diary—the date her mother had met Zach and the date he’d left—were true, her birthday was very close to mine.
    I thought about that a while, listening to a late-night show with a comedian who must have been hilarious. Then, the audience laughter turned into the drone of an infomercial which, thankfully, I could only hear if I tried. Finally, Mrs. Greenwood must have gotten up and shut off the TV because I couldn’t hear anything.
    I could not sleep. I fell asleep, then woke an hour later, slept then woke again. Outside my window, the wind howled and rattled the glass. When I finally went into something approaching REM sleep, I was roused from it once again, violently, like my mother shaking me when I was late to school. I heard a tapping noise, like someone banging at the window, and a voice crying. Was it Rachel? No, just the wind. I pulled my pillow over my head, ignoring it.
    The voice said, “Let me