"Brigitte Snaps Back"
Chapter Five
"Tangled Up in Plaid"
Sam wakes up, to the comforting feeling of a warm body next to his; his throat is aching slightly from the night before, but he's otherwise okay. He notices a thin waist under his arm, very firm hips against him, a soft breath, a lot of hair scattered on the pillow and holy shit that's Brigitte wearing little more than her underwear, much like him.
(I slipped)
Sam blinks a few times, trying to get the crust out of his eyes.
(didn't mean to do it that way)
He sees that they're all tangled up. She's grabbing his left wrist with both of her hands, his other arm is draped over her. Their ankles are all tangled up, their legs are interlocked.
The greenhouse is silent, but only for a moment. The phone in what passes for his living room goes off, prompting Sam to groggily launch himself from the cot and to the door. He barely manages to clear the threshold, hearing the phone ring a second time, before he practically pounces on it and gets the call.
Brigitte wakes up to the pleasant scent of the bed and the wonderful weariness spread through every muscle in her body. Her cut hand is aching, through and through, like something cut it deep and it needs a bit of time to heal.
From her fingertips to the tips of her toes, she feels absolutely sore.
Awareness starts to set in and she notices, with an exponentially increasing shock that she's actually in a guy's room. In his bed. In her underwear and oh no. No. Shit. Shit.
Brigitte digs into her memory, and there's a very suggestive and very dangerous gap where the interim between injecting Sam with the monkshood and waking up half-naked in his bed should be.
She looks around, her eyes darting from the skin mags on his bedside to the mess on the workbench to her clothes all neatly folded on a chair. She gets up and hastily puts all them on – every layer of clothing makes her feel a bit more like herself. She's pulling her hair out of her sweater when Sam walks in.
"Oh good, you're up... and dressed."
What?
"...what?"
"We need to go down to Leland Street. They arrested your mom last night."
"How did you-"
"Someone at the party pointed them in my direction."
"What did they arrest her for?"
"She confessed to killing Trina."
Sam drives. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Brigitte staring at the mobile scenery around them. He wants to say something, anything, but there's too much he wants to say that it's all stuck in his throat. Questions, comments, rants and accusations roll around his tongue, but he bites it and drives.
Brigitte, next to him, appreciates his silence in her own, silent way. There's so much that fills her mind; plans, templates, scenarios and realities and she's barely containing them all. The only comforts she has are the dull ache of her body and the friendly silence of Sam.
(he wants to help. He's not like the others)
Pam looks genuinely surprised to see Brigitte on the other side of the bars of her holding cell. Brigitte's fingers snake around one of the bars. Pam clocks the guy she knows from school grounds (he's the gardener or groundskeeper or something) on the corner. They seem to have come together, which, Pam decides, is still better than what her girls actually did.
"Mom." Brigitte says, and there is only one question to ask, "Why did you do it?"
Pam knows the actual question, but she knows that they are watching her. Anything to implicate her daughters (daughter, Pamela, Ginger's gone and you know it, so be honest with yourself, fuck a shade of orange) is unacceptable. Un-fucking-acceptable.
(your grammy was very stupid)
"To protect you." Pam says, and finds herself smiling inside at the answer. "From those girls. I don't want you to end up like them."
"Like what, mom? What is it you thought I would be like?"
"Like those empty-headed, boy-crazy blondes. You know what I mean better than I do."
Brigitte can't say anything to that. She chooses, instead, to use the ever-watchful cameras in the room to her advantage.
"Ginger's gone." She says, "She took off. I don't know where to."
"Will she be okay?"
(no, mom. Ginger's dead. She will never be okay again)
"Yes."
Brigitte sees Pam relax, as if knots scattered throughout her are unraveling. Pam takes a deep breath, exhales. Her hand closes over Brigitte's, and Pam squeezes, as if to reassure.
(I was supposed to protect you)
"Mom, I..."
"He seems nice." Pam says, "Is he nice?"
Brigitte looks at her.
"He's..." nice isn't the word, what is the word, "...nice, yes."
"You'll have to take care of my daughter while I'm gone." Pam says, over Brigitte. Brigitte doesn't hear a reply. "She'll need your help."
"Mom..."
"She won't need it too much." Pam says, one hand reaching out to touch Brigitte's cheek, "She's..."
"I can take care of myself."
"I'm so proud of you, Brigitte."
"Mom, I..."
"No." Pam says, "Not a word, young lady. You go now, go with him. Let him be nice to you. I'll be fine. Maybe this way I'll... I don't know, find God, maybe? I'll be fine."
Brigitte stifles her tears, mumbles a goodbye and follows Sam out. Detective Wallace Rowlands is waiting for them in the hall. Once the door is shut behind them, he leads Sam and Brigitte through the police station, his hands in pockets and his gun holster empty. Around them, the scent of paper fresh from the printers, cheap aftershave and even cheaper coffee accentuates the surge of noise.
"We'll be detaining your mother here until we get clearance to transfer her." Rowlands said, "Do you have a place to stay?"
Brigitte glares at him.
"What do you mean?"
"As of this morning, your house is officially a crime scene. We're still waiting for the warrant to go through to strip it down, so to speak, but until then, you or anyone else without a badge isn't allowed in."
Brigitte can feel her heart pounding in her temples. She knows from experience that it doesn't show (she has a tell, but only Ginger knows what it is,) not really. Her blood is running cold.
"So, do you have a place to stay?"
Brigitte feels Sam's hand on her shoulder and can't help but jump a little. The memory of his lips plays again in a flash.
"She's staying with me." Sam said.
Rowlands raises an eyebrow but lets it slide without comment.
"Anyway." He says, "I'll try to persuade them to let you in to collect your clothes and things. It might be a day or two before that happens, though."
(Who needs clothes when you have evidence?)
"We'll figure something out."
Brigitte is silent on the way to the damaged van, and Sam is watching her closely. Sharp, short steps, boots pounding the pavement, arms crossed, her hair almost completely obscuring her face; she's like a bullet determined to tear right through the vest and find flesh. Like a bullet aimed at the world.
Sam gets in, sticks the keys in the ignition and waits. He doesn't have to wait long. All it takes is for him to fish out his pack and light up a cigarette.
"I have a problem." Brigitte said.
(I'm turning into something totally else)
"Lot of that going around. So what's it this time?" he asks with a self-deprecating smile.
Brigitte looks daggers at him, but only for a second. She sees that he means no malice. Her expression softens quickly and she averts her gaze.
"Come on." Sam says, "Tell me."
"I need to get to the house, to my room." Brigitte says, "There's stuff in there that the cops shouldn't see."
"What stuff?"
"Diaries, poems, notes from the games we used to play, plans for the death project..."
Sam almost chokes on his cigarette.
"Whoah, whoah." He says, "What's the death project?"
"School project. Slideshow." Brigitte says, rolling her eyes, "Nobody really died."
"Except for Trina."
Brigitte nods.
"That's exactly why we need to go. If they find them, if they find the notes, they'll know..." she holds her tongue just short of the last few words, but Sam has already snapped to, and is looking at her. Brigitte takes a deep breath, "They'll know that... Pam didn't kill her."
She counts the beats, unable to look at him. She expects an explosive reaction, a blowback.
"Oh, fuck me... you're kidding." He says, "When I said, things must happen, this wasn't... shit." He throws away his cigarette and runs a hand through his hair, "Okay, okay." He murmurs, "Tell me something. Who else did you kill? Because there's no way Trina was it."
Brigitte hesitates.
"Mr. Wayne."
"Who the fuck is Mr. Wayne?"
"The guidance counselor." Brigitte says.
"Anyone else?"
"The janitor."
Sam sighs.
"Okay." he says, shaking his head.
Brigitte glares at him. That's it? Just okay?
"There's just one problem." Sam says, "The cops will be over there right now. How will you get in?"
(help me)
"They should be out front. I can get in through the back. There's a window, low enough that it's not obvious, but large enough for me squeeze through. I'll be in and out in five minutes at the most..."
"And, if there's someone in the back?"
"Out by sixteen." Brigitte blurts out, before she can stop herself.
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"I'll run." Brigitte explains.
"Where?"
"Just... run. Get out of Bailey Downs."
"How?"
"I'll think of something."
"Take your pick." Sam says, "There's a lot of places we can go. Well, alright except for Alberta. I am not going there."
Brigitte's mouth hangs open.
"Sam, you..."
"Don't even think about it."
(how about you take this and we blow)
"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything more." Brigitte says meekly, "You've done more than enough already."
"It makes sense." Sam replies, putting his hands on the wheel, "Think about it. Rowlands just heard that you were staying with me, hell, we were in your mother's cell together. Everyone at the party saw us together. You are my alibi. And then there's the whole cherry hound story..."
Brigitte can't help herself.
"Did she..?"
"What, Trina? As if. She came by the greenhouse a couple of times. We talked. She tried to get me to roll one up once or twice. Then, one time, she walked in, it was business as usual, and she just jumped me. I stopped her before she could do much of anything, and showed her the door. A week later, I showed up for my usual gig and I was the cherry hound."
"So, nothing happened."
"She wasn't all that bad, you know."
"I'll take your word for it."
('cause she's dead now, dead and lying on an autopsy table, waiting to be dissected)
"So... wanna go now, to check it out?"
Brigitte smiles. Sam feels something quiver in his chest. Her sunken eyes, her pale skin – she looks like she has just taken a beating and he pulled her out of the thick of it. She's broken and she's grateful, and it breaks his heart.
Her voice pulls him out of it.
"You're the driver."
Sam drives up Leland Street and then straight into the gridlock of Bailey Downs homes: two-story, red-brick houses with front lawns and separate garages, all looking hollow and cold in the late autumn morning. Bailey Downs seems to be resting, trying to recover from the previous night. Sam can't help but feel that despite the soothing sleep of the monkshood cure, he's still extremely tired. He pretends not to notice Brigitte dozing off in the passenger seat, tempted, himself, to just pull to the side, turn the engine off and join her.
Not yet. There's still some ways to before they can both rest.
Brigitte wakes up to the gentle prodding of Sam's fingers. She shakes off the stupor with half of a cigarette that she pulls from Sam's pack. She glances outside, to see where they are. They are behind her house, which is concealed partially by the picket fence. She gets off and drags an empty duffel bag with her - one of Sam's that used to carry some of his smaller tools. She circles around the van, notices that the grill is still busted, and when she makes it to the other side, Sam says:
"You don't have to go in alone."
"You don't know where anything is. You'll slow me down."
His silence is so pronounced that she can't help but flinch a little. She can see that he doesn't agree, and feels as if she has wronged him with that. She stumbles, tries to find the right words, but she doesn't have the time.
"Thanks anyway." She says and goes. She approaches the fence and begins to feel for the two loose planks. There they are. Brigitte lifts them up, crouches and checks to see if there are any cops. Thank God, no. She adjusts her duffel bag, slips through the gap and disappears. Sam lights a cigarette.
"Don't mention it." He says to nobody in particular.
Brigitte quickly crosses the distance and gets to the low window. The entrance of their room. Ginger's, and hers. Brigitte recalls a game of Post-Apocalypse, where they shut their door and pretend the world had ended outside and they were the only survivors and all they had was each other.
No. No time to dwell. Concentrate. This isn't the time. This isn't the fucking time.
She finds the window and gets on her hands and knees, and then on her stomach to look inside. Through the dust and the smudged stains on it, she can see that since the last time she's been there, nothing has changed. They haven't found anything yet.
Better yet, they're not inside.
Yet.
Brigitte tests the window, to see if it's locked. It isn't. She opens it, and then turns around on her stomach to get her legs in. Her skirt moves up and the chill of the room on her bare legs makes her shudder.
She slides in through the window and finds herself in an ocean of memories. It feels like going to a museum where the artifacts on display are basically pieces of her life, stray fragments lining the walls.
Too much detail. Too much past. Too much substance. Too much reality. Too much for her.
The room becomes, has to become, the space between the artifacts she's looking for. The objects themselves, her goals, are all that matters and the rest, all of the rest, she'll return to later, when she feels that she can safely dwell.
Leather-bound journals, two of them, the latest ones. Hers, black cover, neat. Ginger's, a fucking mess, the little string holding the cover together popped off.
A note pinned to the wall, on Ginger's side, directly above the bed: Death is an underrated art. I do it especially well.
Folders under both beds, outlining their favourite methods of death.
A manila folder filled to the brim with brainstorming material about suicide methods. Drafts of the death project.
The notebook in which various games of Search and Destroy are logged.
The suicide notes for the death project. The polaroids, including the one of the lycanthrope.
The knife that Ginger used to try and cut her tail off. The knife that Brigitte used to kill her.
Norman's dog tag that she can't believe Ginger kept by her bedside. Fuck's sake, Ginge...
Spare underwear.
No time for actual clothes. No time at all. Only time for some of the most essential things before it is time to slip back out and meet the limit of her planning.
Brigitte reaches for the window's frame and pulls herself up. She remembers a suicide note they used for the death project. Smiles after the fond memories and thinks, I am leaving this place forever, without thoughts, without hope, without work.
Her duffel bag now heavy with the pieces of her life, former, Brigitte climbs back up and out of the window. She quickly moves towards the loose planks. She lifts them up, pushes the duffel bag through, and then slips through herself. Upon seeing her, Sam throws away his cigarette and starts up the engine. She opens the passenger side door, pushes the bag in first and climbs in after it. She slams the door shut.
Brigitte feels as if until that point, she was holding her entire being, her mind and body in knots, wound up tight, and now that the limit of her plan is reached, now that everything seems to be in place, each knot is unraveling.
"Got everything you need?" Sam asks.
Brigitte nods.
"Let's go back."
"No." she says, "We have one more stop to make, after we swing by the greenhouse."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Where's that?"
(Take me to where it all ended.)
"Take me to where you buried Ginger."