Ashes of Foreverland (13 page)

She could walk out, go back to the house and close the windows, hide in a scalding shower until she couldn't feel the emptiness, take pills until the falling stopped and she just hovered over the pit.

“That what you want?”

“No.”

She fell once before and found her way out. She could do it again.

——————————————

“W
ho are you?”

He didn't look up.

There was a folder to his right, a stuffed manila folder with ragged corners. He was clutching the table, his knuckles white. She thought he was having a seizure, but then he let go and slid the folder across the table, next to the cup of coffee. That was her cup, cream already stirred in.

Just like she took it.

She could ask him again, but he wasn't going to answer. The answer, it seemed, was in the folder. He sipped at the coffee cup, eyes cast not at a phone or an iPad but the blank slate of a cheap diner tabletop, breath streaming in and out like a metronome.

Do I know you?

There were photos in the folder. Glossy paper and dark colors. She didn't sit in the fake red leather bench across from him. Not yet.

She dragged her fingers across the table, let them rest like twigs on the coarse folder before pulling it closer. There was a stack of about twenty photos inside, all printed on full pages. She didn't need to see them all.

Just the first one.

The rolling hills and a dilapidated cabin.

She knew the inside of the cabin, the beds and the marks on the wall she had scratched to count the days where she woke up—where all the girls woke up—with a shaved head and no memories.

Foreverland.

“I've been there,” Danny said.

A tear streaked over her cheek. Because she knew what he meant. He knew. He hadn't been to the cabin or the wilderness. But he had been
there.

He'd been to Foreverland.

Silence, for once, filled her head. Barb receded into the darkness of her subconscious.

“I was on a tropical island,” he said. “We all woke up without our memories, were told we were sick, that we would be healed. Old men gave us everything we wanted, as long as we took the needle.”

He looked up, his blue eyes clear, placid.

“We never thought about where the girls came from, but it only made sense that you were coming from your own Foreverland, but not from a tropical island.”

He spread the photos on the table.

The luxurious brick house where the old women lived. The garden where Jen's body was buried. The little cabin where Patricia slept. It was nothing like a tropical island.

Nothing but suffering in the wilderness.

“We were the ones that crashed Foreverland,” he said. “A few of us escaped the island, left the old men for the authorities. We didn't know there was another Foreverland. Didn't know you were still in it.”

“Do you remember me?” she asked. She searched his face, begging for recognition.

“No.”

“But we went there? With you?”

“I don't remember much.” Weakness trailed in his voice. “I try not to. It brings back too much...” He shook his head.

“How did you find me?”

“A friend of mine—one I escaped with—he told me to find you.”

“Why?”

“We might be in trouble.”

Despite the ominous tone, the dire warning, the threat that Foreverland might still be out there, she didn't shake or shiver. Not a quiver touched her insides or hummed in her head. For the first time she could remember, she felt alive and present.

Because he was there. He knew the suffering.

I'm not alone.

Cyn dropped into the seat.

She came eye level with the fair-skinned redheaded boy, a ginger with a slight build and an unshakeable presence.

“What kind of trouble?”

“It might not be over.”

“What?”

“Foreverland.”

“How...how is that possible?”

The little bell over the diner's door rang. Danny looked over her shoulder. He said without taking his eyes off the front, “He wrote me, told me to find you.”

“A letter?”

“Yes.”

Finally, she shuddered. She didn't have to ask the color of the ink. “Why?”

“I don't know.”

Danny gathered the photos and dropped them on the seat next to him, out of sight.

“There you are.” Macy stood at the table. “I'm worried about you, girl. Why aren't you taking my calls?”

Cyn didn't look away from Danny. His gaze lingered.
Keep this quiet.

“Sorry, Macy. I got a little mixed up in the head.”

“You all right?”

Did you relapse? Are you using? Do you need me to run this punk out of town? Because you've been acting strange ever since he arrived.

“I'm good, yeah.”

There were pleasantries passed back and forth, thank you for the coffee and the conversation. Danny really helped clear her head, get back on track. Macy hummed and nodded. That wasn't his job, not without the group, not when he had less than a month clean.

Cyn left him at the table. When she reached the parking lot, the whisper returned.

By the time she got home, it was more than a whisper.

You will kill yourself.

Duluth, Minnesota

T
he coffee tasted like dishwater.

Danny cradled the mug, staring at the brown swirls as the tingling faded from his arms and legs. He'd never felt it that strong before. When she sat down across from him, it was like inhaling a steady stream of nitrous. He had been clutching the table to keep from floating away.

Now that she was gone, he sank into the red leather bench.

When he saw her the first time, he'd experienced something like that, but it was faint. He'd chalked that up to the new environment and nerves. He always sat in the back of the room, never got closer than ten or twenty feet to her. But when she sat across from him, within arm's length...

Wow.

It wasn't until the initial rush settled that he noticed the fragrance, a scent that clung to the back of his throat. He assumed it was something she was wearing, an essential oil or something. Even now it hung over the table thicker than usual.

Lilac.

She was beautiful, no surprise. She was stunning, even from a distance. She had the gait of a cat, lithe and dangerous, but fragile at the same time. If she missed a step, he was afraid she might shatter. He got lost in her blue eyes, suppressed the urge to reach out and take her hand. When their fingers brushed, a tingle sent him toward the ceiling again.

It made no sense, but this was the right place.

He thought the photos would jar something loose. Maybe she could explain why Reed sent him. It was just a guess. But there was nothing. All he saw was the ghosts in her eyes—the same ghosts that haunted his dreams.

The memories of Foreverland.

He ordered another coffee and read the newsfeed. He caught up on daily events, counted all the missed opportunities since leaving the villa. He'd stay in Duluth until he figured something out. There was only one certainty: he wasn't going back to Spain.

Not until something makes sense.

The diner's bell rang as the door opened. Danny was thumbing through a story on biomite halfskin laws when he sensed Santiago, could smell the Spaniard's musky body odor, the trace of a cigar.

A strong, slim figure was walking toward him. The backlit glare obscured her features. A slight sense of vertigo turned the table as Santiago's presence got stronger.

Macy dropped into the booth.

He rubbed his eyes. The smell of Santiago didn't match up with the glaring dark-skinned woman. It took a moment for his senses to reset.

Her eyes were almost all pupils, the irises dark brown. Unblinking, she folded her bony fingers on the table. The waitress stopped by. Macy dismissed her without breaking her deadlocked stare.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Danny didn't answer. She was asking something else.

“Huh?” she grunted.

“Living one day at a time.”

“Cute.” She nodded. “You drive a rental into town and shack up in a hotel and decide to clean up in the back of a bowling alley like our chapter is some holy grail.”

Danny stiffened.

He'd been careful to keep quiet, never went directly to the hotel that he'd booked several miles away. He hadn't sensed anyone watching him, no one waiting in the parking lot or following him.

“You come for her?” she asked.

“You know who I am?”

“I can spot an addict a mile away. You ain't no addict, son.”

A chill raced beneath his ribs.
Son.
That's what they called each other on the island, it was their slang. They didn't say
man
or
boy
or
dude
. Everyone was
son
.

“Give me the folder.”

The photos were still on the seat. He didn't move. She already knew too much.

“I will tear this place apart and beat you with a table leg if you don't get a move on.” She leaned over the table, never breaking eye contact. “Give me the folder.”

Someone once told him that you didn't have to be stronger or meaner than your enemy, you just had to out-crazy them. He didn't stand a chance.

He put the folder on the table.

“Is this a joke?” She spread the photos out. “You trying to make her relapse? Push her over the edge?”

Danny didn't respond.

“Who sent you?”

That was the question she wanted to ask. That's what she wanted to know the second she sat down. She was trying to disguise it in all this concern for Cyn's sobriety, but the subtle change in expression—the slight shift from hard rage to hopeful curiosity—told him she was angling for something else.

“I'm going to ask you again.” She leaned in. “Who sent you?”

“No one.”

She looked around, perhaps considering trashing the place to beat him with a table leg.

“Out of the blue you travel across the world to get clean? Is that what you want me to believe, that you just got a wild hair to leave your life to ruin my girl?”

“She's a Foreverland survivor. You know about Foreverland, right?”

“I know about survival.”

“There's not many of us left.”

“Maybe she doesn't want to remember.”

“None of us do,” he said. “But we can't forget.”

“I don't care about you or any of the others. Only one survivor I do and you can bank on this.” She shoved the photos into his lap and stood up. “You break her and you better keep running, son.
¿Comprende?
”

She hovered over him. Her breath was humid with a faint trace of smoke and lilac. Danny met her challenging gaze.

“
¿Por qué iba yo a dejar?
” he asked.

She began nodding, a dangerous smile touching her eyes. Cold fear clenched Danny's chest. Macy shoved away from the table and backed toward the front door before turning to leave.

His coffee was cold.

He needed to find out why Reed sent him here.
They
knew he was here. And Danny didn't know who
they
were, but Reed was sending cryptic poems and planting clues along the way. So there had to be a
they.

Why would I leave?
Macy knew exactly what he said in Spanish.

There was definitely a
they.

Duluth, Minnesota

A
slick of sweat.

The air conditioner running, the ceiling fan blowing. The heat coming from inside her, a furnace churning hot coals.

Get up.

Electric light swam through the fan's blades, shadows flickering over textured ceiling. Shadows painted the corners while a late night pitchman demonstrated a waterless mop.

Wake up, darling.

Cyn's elbow sank into the cushion. Her head a dead weight. Mouth stuffed with cotton.

You're nothing. You don't exist because you're nothing—

“Shut up.” She weaved her fingers through her hair, squeezing the sides of her head. “Shut up!”

It was better not to engage, not to recognize her. It only made her real, gave her substance. Brought the old woman closer to the surface.

She searched a pile of clothes, swiped papers off the coffee table—photos of the wilderness fluttered in front of the television, photos she wanted to ignore but couldn't escape. A glass of water soaked a
National Geographic
crumpled on the floor, the cover photo a puckering tropical island. A magazine that just showed up in the mail.

Her prescription bottle wasn't there.

You're nothing. Stop wasting my time and kill yourself.

“Shut up!”

It didn't make sense that Barb would want Cyn to kill herself. Where would the old woman be without the body? They were both in it. If Cyn killed herself, they'd both be dead.
Right?

Laughter echoed.

These were the dark moments Cyn thought about suicide, to just end all this, to get it over with. What was the point? She lived alone. And every night was a battle with sanity.

With no end in sight.

But it was these dark moments when Barb came so close, when thoughts of suicide rose up that Cyn chose life. Because she knew the moment she swallowed enough pills to end this, Barb would win.

And Cyn was a fighter.

You silly girl. Silly, silly girl,
Barb whispered.
You are a mistake, a hapless floundering mistake. You always have been, and always will be. You cling to nothing—

“You did this!” Cyn kicked over the table. “You should've died! You lived your life, you old diseased bitch! Your life was over. You lived it! This is my body; now get out!”

You were nothing when I found you. A broken young girl with so much potential, wasting away while your body—your young and able body—was trashed and scorned. You didn't want it, so I took it. Now...let...GO.