Clearer in the Night (13 page)

Stepping inside now didn’t feel like that. Not at all.

Shannon wasn’t home. She was probably at the library, writing. She said she focused better there. I left her a quick note, nothing dramatic, just saying that I was okay, staying at Mom’s for the moment, and that I’d get in touch soon. I left it in her corduroy chair, and went back to my room to grab a few things.

When I’d moved out of Mom’s house, I’d decided that I needed to leave behind the matchy-matchy bedding and curtains, and the polished look, like the room had just landed from Magazine Planet. My room needed to say something about who I was, not who I’d always tried to be to please a mother who wanted more than I could give her. So instead of stupid motivational posters and girl-and-her-guitar artist pictures, I’d gone for artwork. Instead of a bedroom set that came with matching curtains, I’d bought a duvet cover that would get filthy easily, and had to be dry cleaned. I’d made my own curtains out of silky fabric in vibrant colors. It clashed horribly with the duvet cover, and I didn’t even care.

I’d thought it all incredibly original when I’d slaved over each tab on my curtains, and scraped for the money for the duvet cover, and the duvet to fill it. But now, walking into it for the first time in a week, it all looked like just another kind of trying too hard. When Shannon had packed my eBook, my laptop, and a change of clothes into my bag, she’d essentially taken everything personal out of this place and handed it to me. If I threw it in the car and started to drive, I’d miss nothing. I could just walk away from this life, any time I wanted. Drive until I ran out of gas, and then start a new life in a new town. Not tell anyone about my dead sister and dead father, and maybe finally get out from under their shadow. Shan had even kindly retrieved my purse from the club and left it on my pillow; there was cash in there, not a ton, but a bit. And I could draw more out of my account before disappearing. I’d seen that on TV enough times; when you left, you didn’t use your debit card or your credit card. You just went. If you lived on cash, it was really hard for them to find someone who didn’t want to be found. There were a lot of people in the world, and if you didn’t stand out, it was easy to disappear.

I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be someone who could just walk away from my mother, and pretend that I was not responsible for her. That I could just let her sink or swim on her own. It wasn’t like she’d ever bothered to toss me a life preserver. But even thinking of it gave me a huge ache in my stomach that made me dizzy with fear. I could walk away, but I’d never actually leave her behind.

I packed my duffle bag with most of my clothes, then added my pillow. A box of my favorite tea that lived on my desk so Shannon wouldn’t drink it when I wasn’t home. Somehow, I’d thought there would be more. I surveyed the room one more time—if I’d lived here for three years, why did it still look so much like a hotel room?—and went to leave.

Shan’s cat, Rupert, a big tabby with black spectacle circles around his eyes, was rubbing up against the door jamb and staring at me. I reached down to give him a scratch under the chin. He gave me a skeptical look for a moment, then started weaving around my legs, purring loud enough to shake the floor. After a couple of figure eights, he flopped over my feet in a scarred, muscled pile of vibrating Jell-O.

I picked him up and snuggled my face into his ruff. He purred like mad, pushing his face into mine. He was Shan’s cat, always had been, but he and I were buddies, and we’d passed plenty of cold Vermont winters together, keeping each other warm when Shan was in class, or at the library.

He butted his head against mine twice, and then suddenly let out a vicious yowl, a howling scream of terror and challenge. He sank his claws into my neck and just shoved, pushing himself away from me and flying across the room. I shouted; the pain was incredible as he tore free. He disappeared from the room almost without touching the floor. I sat back on the bed, touching my face, and my hand came away red. I could feel wetness everywhere. He’d been fine with me, until his face came under my jaw, to that spot behind my jaw, before my ear. Where cats always loved to push up against you and sniff.

What did he know that I didn’t?

He’d never attacked me before, not even when I helped Shan pill him, or clip his claws. He was the world’s most tolerant cat; he’d growl and make this warning sound deep in his belly, but he’d never used his claws. Ever. So he wasn’t the one who’d changed, clearly. He knew something was different with me, and it scared him.

I sat on the bed for a little bit, feeling the blood, warm and then cold on my face and neck. I knew I should get up and clean myself off, see if anything was deep enough to need stitches. But I felt weak and tired. Faded out. Exhausted. So I sat still for a little while and ignored the tears that wanted to fall. There was no need for them. They wouldn’t solve anything, and there was no point. No point at all.

It took some time to get myself back together. An embarrassing amount, really. I was accustomed to being more resilient than this. Even at my flakiest, I’d always been able to shut down the panic and keep going. It was kind of a requirement when you were raising yourself. I took a bunch of huge, hiccupy breaths, and slowly regained control of my brain. Imagining whatever was inside of me pulling some kind of John Hurt chest-burster wasn’t getting me any closer to a solution. Debating whether or not Rupert knew that I was possessed by a demon or some kind of evil monster wasn’t helpful.

There was blood drying on my cheek and my neck. The stinging had faded, but I’d gotten more than a few cat scratches in my time; this was going to hurt like hell to clean up. I probably needed to go by the hospital and have it cleaned out, really. Cats have filthy claws, and you don’t screw with potential infections on your neck. Too close to the brain. And, hey, maybe they’d shoot me up with antibiotics or something, and it would destroy whatever was inside of me.

If only what was going on was a virus or a bacteria that could be killed with antibiotics. Whatever it was that was happening, it was different from that. I could tell that much, at least.

First step: stand up. Go to the bathroom. Check out the damage. Figure out what needed to happen from there.

I hauled myself up, feeling weary and drawn out. The bathroom was just down the hall, but it felt miles away. I trailed my hand along the wall as I walked; I felt like my balance could shift at any moment, and I’d crash over sideways. I flipped on the light in the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I wet a washcloth and started gently sponging away the blood. It didn’t hurt. It should have hurt. My stomach flipped over, twice, fast, but I choked down the urge to run and kept cleaning.

There weren’t even any scars. There were no marks at all. If it wasn’t for the splashes of blood on my shirt, I wouldn’t have believed anything had ever happened.

Well. Superhuman healing powers would probably come in handy at some point. They already had, as a matter of fact. I choked down the whimper of abject terror that tried to force its way out of my throat, and didn’t stop cleaning until my skin was spotless. I walked, ever calm, back to my bedroom. I stripped off the filthy shirt, crumpled it into a ball, and pitched it into my trash can. I pulled a clean shirt out and slipped it over my head. My bra had a couple of small stains, but I’d just pretend they were ketchup for now. It would be easier that way. I stood perfectly still until the fine tremor in my hands settled down, and then I picked up my bags and walked out to my car, parked in my spot in front of our building. I drove back to Mom’s house, refusing to shake or cry or anything at all. I was going to bury myself in a cup of coffee and a good book, and I was going to spend the entire rest of the day pretending that my life wasn’t happening.

In the afternoon, my phone interrupted a particularly stressful passage in my fantasy novel. It took me a minute to figure out why Deirdre Flint was singing so close to the couch, and then I grabbed my phone and pushed the button to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Cait, I’m so glad I reached you.” It took me a moment to recognize the voice of Izzy, my boss at the coffee shop. “I heard about everything that happened. Are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” I said, sitting up from where I’d stretched out on the couch. “But I’m glad you called—”

“We heard you were in the hospital; I’m glad you’re doing better. Do you think you’ll be able to work this weekend?”

That was Izzy, all business, all the time. “Actually, Iz, I think I’m going to have to take a leave of absence. Or something.”

She was quiet long enough that things got uncomfortable, and then I heard her closing her office door. “Cait, what’s going on? Are you pregnant?”

I managed not to laugh in her ear. “Things with my mom have gotten complex. She needs me.”

“Does she need you 24-7? I’m desperate here, Cait.”

“You’re nice, Izzy, but there are ten college kids probably sitting there right now who are dying for my spot.” As one of the three indie coffee shops in a college town, jobs behind the counter were always in high demand. Apparently, you weren’t anyone in college hipster land until you’d slung coffee for a few hours a week. I’d taken the job just because it paid okay, but more importantly, it offered free coffee while I was working, and a serious discount on coffee beans for the rest of the day.

Another awkward pause, and then she said, all business again, “I can’t hold your position, Cait. You know that, right? I’m not trying to be a bitch, and I’ll hire you back in a second if I get the opportunity, but I have a business to run.”

“Understood, Izzy. No hard feelings. Family is family, you know.”

“I do,” she said. She didn’t. I’d worked for her for three years, and had no idea if she had a family or not. I knew she lived alone, but had there been people in her past? Kids, a husband, a wife? A mother who waited up for letters and emails? No idea.

“Thanks,” I said, and we disconnected.

And then I sat there for a minute, my phone in my lap, and wondered for the second time today why I stayed in this town. Shannon was here, sure, but this was the digital age, and if I took off, we’d Skype and text and generally make a nuisance of ourselves. With how different our schedules were, sometimes it seemed like that was how we kept in touch now, most of the time. I’d hear about her exploits, and not tell her about half of mine so that she wouldn’t worry, and we’d be fine. We’d be fine.

It’s not like leaving Mom was actually a bad thing. I’d been delighted to do it before, could hardly wait.

There were a couple of interesting guys floating around at the moment, but interesting guys happened everywhere. And relationships never really worked out for me. After a few weeks, I got hungry. Starving. I twisted and turned and eventually, I ran. It seemed vain to say that it broke hearts, but I always tried to explain that I wasn’t a girl who stuck around to meet Mom. And they always nodded and smiled and said they understood, but in truth, guys—or at least the guys that I used to want to date—didn’t understand that any more than I would have, if they’d said it to me. And so when I got itchy and hungry and walked out, they were all sad and broken, like they thought they had been the one who could make me quit my low-down ways. It was funny, and so sad. It had become easier to just condense the whole process into a night. A dance, a fumble, maybe something more, in a loud setting where no one expected you to exchange phone numbers. If he really wanted to get wild, you’d go to his car, or maybe to his place, but you were always gone before he woke up—easy, since he’d been drinking and you hadn’t been—because it was easier with no strings. Easier to go, when it was time to go.