Compromised (26 page)

B
illie motions me into her small office while she finishes talking to some guy on the phone and points to the chair.

The wooden seat digs into my thighs and I clasp my fingers around the edge, holding my breath.

“Do you know anything about her?” Billie asks. “This aunt who's coming to pick you up?”

I shrug. About as much as I know about my mom and dad. It's funny how little we know about the people we're supposed to know the best.

“Why didn't you tell the people in Nevada? The people at social services?”

“I didn't think they'd listen,” I say. “Credibility issues
with the family.” And if I had listened and they had listened, I wouldn't have had Nicole or Klon. And they were worth all this, I think.

“I'm glad for you. That you found a place. And Nicole—”

“She's coming, too,” I interrupt. “I mean that's what I hope.”

“Let's get real here, Jeopardy. She's already gone. I've seen her before—in hundreds of other faces. Statistically speaking, she's gonna be one of the ones who pull it off. Suicide is the third leading cause of death for kids your age. She—”

My ears ring with Billie's words. They all blend into a monotone beep. Then when she stops talking, the room fills with silence until the walls look like they're bulging with the words she won't say.

“What do you expect from me?” she says after a pause.

I swallow. “You could be different. You could see past her scars. I did.”

Billie looks at me with tired eyes. “What do you expect from her?”

“Just one of Klon's miracles.” I stand up to leave. “It's not too much to expect,” I say.

 

I throw a card key on Nicole's bedside stand—one I stole from the day cleaning staff. “I leave tomorrow. Wednesday, December twenty-third. She's coming to get us. Ten thirty in the morning.”

Nicole glances at the key.

“I could use the company. I don't even know her,” I say. “But she's coming by bus—all the way from Jackson Hole—for both of us. She'll have tickets for both of us.”

Nicole turns away.

“The tickets are open. You can come anytime.” I looked up the ticket rules on the Internet. “Well, within the next six months. Either way, when you're better. Or now. Anytime. But decide what you want to do. Live or die. Don't hang out in this limbo land.” My stomach knots. I know I'm giving her the key to leave—the choice to die. Nobody on the street will make her wear gloves. Nobody will force her to eat. Nobody will care what she does. She'll just become invisible again.

She looks up at me with dead eyes.

“You made a choice to come with me before. Make the same choice again,” I say. “This time we'll get there. We'll go home. I'll get you there.”

Nicole turns away.

“You're just as guilty, you know.” I clear my throat. “You've let them make you become part of the system. You were five years old. That's all. And you didn't call because you were afraid. Not calling probably saved your life, okay? He could've killed you, too. And your life is worth saving.”

I take out the brittle flower and place it on her nightstand. “Come home,” I say, and walk away.

“T
hanks for the ride.” I climb out of Billie's car.

“You want me to hang around?” she asks. “Let me rephrase that. I'm going to hang around until I see this aunt of yours.”

I nod. It feels kinda good to have somebody watching out for me; somebody to make sure Aunt Sarah isn't an ogre and Uncle Mike a troll. Uncle Mike. I have an uncle, too.

I look around the terminal and don't see her anywhere. “Can you hold this a sec?” I pass the backpack to Billie—the one the shelter has given me with a change of clothes and snacks for the trip. “Let me take one last look just to make sure she's not here.”

“She's not here.” Billie holds my backpack.

I pause and nod but take a walk around the bus terminal anyway. Just to be sure. When I come back, Billie's bought us a couple of vending-machine hot chocolates and Danish rolls. They're not half bad.

Between bites, Billie says, “She's too weak to get out of bed most of the time. I think they're going to put in a feeding tube.”

I swallow and look away, wiping the tears.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

“Thanks for seeing,” I say, “past all the scars. She needs glasses, you know. And maybe you could visit her. Be there for her.” I clear my throat. “And my aunt. I think she'll have a ticket for her—one of those open-ended ones. Can you make sure she gets it?”

“I can do that.”

We fall into a strained silence, both eager to see who's going to come off the bus and through the doors.

People stream on and off the buses. I look at the time: ten fifty-three. She's twenty minutes late. Maybe she changed her mind. Billie asks about the bus from Jackson Hole, but there's no bus from Jackson Hole. And we don't know her route. She just said ten thirty in Boise. So we
wait. Billie reaches out to hold my hand, and this time I don't pull it away. This is my last plan—last procedure. If this doesn't work…

I can't come up with a hypothesis because the pain in my chest is too sharp.

Groups of people huddle together in the cold morning air. I don't recognize anybody. I guess I hoped there would be some kind of genetic pull that would lead me straight to Aunt Sarah. Like I'd know she was in the room.

So I sit down facing where people get off the buses and wait.

Three, four, five more buses arrive, and people spill into the lobby—a mess of heavy winter coats, Wellington boots, muddy floors, and welcomes.

Eleven forty.

No Aunt Sarah.

I can tell Billie's getting frazzled. She's successfully torn and divided her hot chocolate cup into even pieces and created a mini checkers game. She's probably wracking her mind trying to figure out how she'll cope with a fifteen-year-old's meltdown. I don't figure they cover devastating loss in her psychology classes.

My last chance is gone. It's over. I'm going to Don and Cherry's—back to where I began. Klon died for nothing. And Nicole…

Then I see her.

A small woman with short, brown curls approaches me. Her cheeks are red and chapped. She looks flustered, nervous. But behind Coke-bottle glasses she has warm eyes. Gray eyes. Like mine. Behind her stands a man who's at least six feet five or taller. His hands are clasped in front of him, thick eyebrows furrowed.

I put out my hand to shake hers and she pulls me into her thick arms.

And I feel like I could melt. Though I know that's scientifically impossible.

T
he door beeps when I open it. I pound my boots on the welcome mat and step inside.

A lady looks over her horn-rimmed glasses at me. “You're the spitting image of her,” she says.

“Um, who?” I ask.

“You must be Sarah's niece. Maya, isn't it? Just passing through, are you?” she asks.

She's one of those asking people. I can imagine her keeping a tally of people's lives in her small shop.

“No.” I clear my throat. “This is home.” I wander up and down the aisles of the store. “Do you have any postcards?”

“Right here, darling.”

Figures. Right next to her at the counter.

“Thanks.” I look through some sepia-toned cards and pick one that has a picture of a sign propped against an old saloon that says “Elk head drop off.” I laugh. “This is great.”

She rings it up. “Postcards. Not so popular nowadays.”

“Hmmm,” I mumble while writing the note—a long one with big letters, lots of detail. I wonder if they got her glasses yet. I glance at the clock. I have just enough time to get to the post office and send it off. I double-check the address, pay her for the card, slip my coat on, and head to the door.

“You got a sweetheart? Some clandestine romance?” She raises her eyebrows.

Well, at least she gets straight to the point. I shake my head.

“So? Who's that special person?” she asks again, winking and smirking.

“Family,” I say. I walk to the door and shrug on my coat, bracing myself for gale winds. One thing's for sure here in Jackson Hole. It's cold.

“Hey, Maya!” the lady calls out to me.

I turn around.

“Welcome home,” she says.

HEIDI AYARBE
grew up in Nevada and has lived all over the world. She now makes her home in Colombia with her husband and daughter. Her first novel,
FREEZE FRAME
, won her much critical acclaim. You can visit her online at www.heidiayarbe.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Jacket art © Insa Wagner

Jacket design by Greg Stadnyk / Mischa Shoni Rosenberg