CHAPTER 11

I followed Mom up the steps to the apartment. "Make yourself at home," she said, opening the door. "Oh, and sorry about the mess."

Right away, I knew this wasn't like Mom. Besides Mr. Spier, she's one of the neat-est, tidiest people I know. And I knew she would never say that, nor would she tolerate a messy house for a second. She even taught us housekeeping skills from an early age. You see, soon after Dad left and Mom got a job, my brothers and I would have friends over after school, and she'd never know it. There came a day, though, when Louie, our old collie, was sprayed by a skunk, and we somehow managed to get locked in the bathroom while trying the old home remedy of giving him a tomato juice bath.

If there's one crazy situation that Mom still hasn't gotten over, that would be the one. That was what made Mom decide that we needed to be more responsible, so she started giving us our daily chores, as well as David Michael, when he was old enough. And the older we got, the more responsibilities she gave us.

Well, it was a little messy, but nothing like the houses I've seen on Hoarders. (And just for the record, Dawn says Mrs. Barrett's house was nowhere near that bad.)

I decided to take a tour of the place, because I was anxious to see how Mom lived. When I followed her to the kitchen, I found a table with five chairs around it, just like there had been when we'd lived on Bradford Court—once David Michael outgrew the high chair, that is. The only difference was, instead of a stove and refrigerator, there was a hot plate on the counter and an ice chest on the floor against the opposite wall.

In the living room, which was attached to the kitchen and separated by a counter, I saw a puce-colored recliner jammed up against one wall, a futon with a ratty white mattress in front of the counter, and a tiny Christmas tree next to the window. The tree was pretty tacky-looking, with only one pathetic string of blue and white lights, three of which were burned out. I also saw a beat-up 12-inch TV on a cracked and warped little black table against the other wall. The TV's left antennae was bent, and the bottom right corner was covered in duct tape. When I knelt beside the tree to examine the presents, I saw some for my brothers, Nannie, and me, but none for Watson, Karen, Andrew, or Emily. I decided to ask Mom about it later.

I walked down the hall and peeked into one of the bedrooms, which had an unmade full-size bed against one wall, a laptop sitting on a clear plastic tote against the other, and in the corner was a pile of dirty clothes piled to my waist. I knew it had to be Mom's room.

Across the hall from Mom's room, I found a bathroom. There was a green rug on the floor, as well as the same color toilet seat cover and bath mat, as well as a light green bath towel hanging on the hook on the back of the door and a hand towel of the same color on the little rack next to the sink. I slipped into the bathroom to use it, and when I was done, I found myself washing my hands in a dark green sink. Then I turned around and studied the tub. It was also dark green with a bit of limescale build-up around the edges. The shower liner, which was just starting to mildew, was clear plastic, and the curtain itself was white with red and green polka dots.

I'll tell you one thing: as untidy as the rest of the apartment was, it made the bath-room look almost immaculate, in comparison.

When I came out of the bathroom, I continued my tour. In another room, I saw a set-up that reminded me of the boys' room on The Brady Bunch. There was a twin-size bed against one wall and a set of bunk beds against the other, all three beds with dark blue blankets on them, with a desk in between. I assumed my brothers slept in this room.

In the very back of the apartment, I found, what I assumed was my room. To my surprise, it looked exactly like my old room from our old house on Bradford Court, right down to the red blanket and sports posters on the walls. Talk about a real blast from the past!

When I came back into the kitchen, Mom was ladling the soup into bowls for us. And after what I'd just been through, I was famished. I didn't even care if it was bean soup, which I loathe. No matter how much salt, pepper, or ham it has, it always tastes so bland. Thankfully, it was chicken and cheese.

"Mom, you will never believe what I've just been through," I said as I sat down and she put the bowl of soup and a glass of eggnog in front of me. "Mary Anne's a junkie, Jason's in juvie, the town looks like a war zone, Sam can't hold his liquor, all the kids are running wild, and—well, I don't know where Charlie is."

"Well, since there was no one available to baby-sit for anyone else, things just went downhill," Mom said, shaking her head. "And as for Charlie, he went to Texas with Aunt Theo, Uncle Neal, and their family."

"All this because I never started the Baby-sitters Club?"

"Huh?"

"The Baby-sitters Club! Remember, I started it because you couldn't find a sitter for David Michael? Claudia, Mary Anne, Stacey, and I all pitched in, and everybody loved us. Is this ringing any bells here?"

At that moment, the door swung open and David Michael came in, carrying a stereo. I did a double-take when I saw him. He was wearing a dark red Public Enemy sweatshirt, baggy dark blue jeans, tan work boots, a faded black parka, and a chunky gold necklace around his neck. He also had two earrings in each ear, a black bandanna tied around his shaved head, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He looked like a gang-banger.

"Hi, Mom," he said breathlessly. "This was all I could find. I lost the cops going through the storm drain. You know, people say the less donuts you eat, the faster you can run."

If I was Mom, I would've given him a piece of my mind, not just for stealing the stereo, but also faor acting like it was a game. But much to my shock, she laughed.

"Good boy," she said. "Just put it in the laundry room."

I couldn't believe my ears. Mom was condoning this! There was no way in hell that she would've ever been okay with what just happened. "Mom," I managed to say after David Michael had left. "What the hell are you doing? You're actually praising him!"

"Kristy, please spare me another lecture on what a mess our family is," Mom said, getting up from the table and putting her bowl in the sink.

"You can't be serious! How can you be okay with this? How can any of this be happening? And where's Watson? I can't find him anywhere."

Upon hearing that name, Mom turned to face me with a thoroughly puzzled look on her face. "Watson? Kristy, are you sure you're okay?"

"NO! No, I'm not okay!" I shouted, jumping out of my chair. "I don't understand anything that's going on here, and why the hell no one can give me a simple straight answer!"

"You know, I've kind of wondered the same thing myself."

By this point, I thought I was going to explode. I went up to Mom, grabbed her hand in both of mine, and looked her in the eye. "Mom," I panted, forcing myself to stay calm. "I just want to know one thing: where is he? Where's Watson Brewer?"

Mom looked at me in surprise. It was almost as if she couldn't believe I didn't even know. But the thing is, I seriously didn't.

"Wh—Kristy," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "he's in the same place he's always been for the past four years...Stoneybrook Cemetery."