In the Arms of Stone Angels (10 page)

I dropped to one knee and knelt on the ground. And as I stared up at the baby angel, I spoke to my grandmother.

“Oh, Grams. I miss you so much.”

I ran my fingers through every line chiseled onto the base
of Grams's stone angel—over and over—as I told my grandmother everything. I huddled against the stone and talked until I was done. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I even laughed. And I pictured Grams's face and smelled the baby powder she dusted with after her bath. I even caught a whiff of the tapioca she made that I hated but never told her. Memories of Grams flooded my mind like she was reaching out to me.

But finally it was time to do what I'd come to do.

I reached into my fanny pack and pulled out my box cutter. I held it in my hand and stared at it for a long time. The weight of it was familiar and it brought back a rush of dark memories. I had used the blade to cut myself. And each new scar marked a pain I still carried with me in my heart, but what happened today made me see that I was coming to a crossroad.

I had to want to change for myself. And no one else—not even White Bird—could make me happy. I had to do that on my own. And I had to stop letting others dictate how I felt about me. I didn't care what someone like Jade DeLuca thought. She was a total waste of perfectly good skin. And three pounds of brain matter was about two pounds too much for what she did with it. I didn't respect her, so why would I care what she thought of me?

And that went double for Derek Bast. Sure he could pound me into chicken-fried-steak, but he'd always be a charter member of the asshole club. I was tired of feeling awful. And I was fed up with giving jerks like Jade and Derek control over my life. I wasn't sure how I would do it, but I knew what my first step had to be.

I had to stop hurting myself.

I dug a hole near Grams's headstone—under the watchful eyes of her baby angel—and I buried my box cutter. Under the stars, my truth meter, I swore to my grandmother that I'd
never cut myself again. And although I had no way of really knowing it, I believed Grams heard me.

Nearly 3:00 a.m.

With a big wad of gum in my mouth, I took my time riding my bike to Grams's house. A couple of lines or a lyric needled me all the way there. I had the urge to stop and write them down in the notepad I had brought with me, but I was still flipping words in different order and working it out.

Forever is never-ending music…

Nighttime is my blanket…

The lines were there, inside my head, for the first time in two years and it felt good. I wanted to write down how I felt whenever I stepped foot in a graveyard. The word
home
came to me, but I wasn't sure what else I wanted to say, so I let it stew in my brain until I was back at Grams's again, ready to crawl under the covers.

But before I climbed up the tree and back through my bedroom window, I saw a strange glimmer of light flickering on the drapes of the living room on the first floor. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but when I looked once more, I saw the pale flicker again. I crept toward the window and when I got there, I kept my back to the wall and inched closer to peek inside the bay window. It took me a moment to realize what I'd seen.

Mom was sitting in the dark and watching old family movies. She had a collection that she'd converted to DVD a few years ago. Some were old stuff from Grams, from when Mom was a kid. Light from the TV cast shadows into the living room. I only saw the back of Mom's head as she sat on the couch. But hearing laughter coming from the TV in Grams's living room grabbed my attention.

On the screen, Grams was grinning as she watched me blow out candles on a birthday cake. In these movies, she'd always be young. And Mom looked beautiful. And happy. I'd forgotten how pretty she was when she smiled. Me? I looked and acted dorky, as usual. Some things never change. I still had a weird cowlick in my bangs and was stick skinny.

I also had a tooth missing, right up front. Thanks to the tooth fairy, it grew back and I never needed braces. I used to grin more back then, even with a missing tooth. But somewhere in time I stopped smiling. And I don't remember exactly when that happened—or why it did. It just did.

With a grimace, I crept back off the front porch and headed up the tree for my bedroom. In an odd way, I thought I was intruding on Mom, something private that was only hers. But seeing that old DVD got me thinking.

Even when I was a child, I felt different. I didn't like playing games the way other kids did. And I was quiet. I didn't talk unless I had something real to say and I didn't dress like anyone else. And while other girls played with dolls, I never saw the point. I was off having an adventure down by the creek, up to my neck in mud with lizards and frogs in my pockets. But I guess the real kicker was me hanging out at the local cemetery. Hanging with dead people didn't play well in a small town. Once word got out, I was toast.

Eventually, the other kids stopped inviting me places. I dropped off their radar and they talked about me behind my back. Doing things on my own became a necessity, mostly because I was too stubborn to change. I didn't care if I fit in. And I didn't want to dumb it down to get along. I preferred being in my own head. And as the years went by, it got comfortable for me to stay there—to hide there.

Most days hiding didn't bother me, but some days it did.

After I met White Bird, though, I saw how it could be between two people who were really connected. He made me feel normal. And for the first time, I wasn't just a kid. We really talked about stuff. Real stuff. And he actually wanted to hear my opinions. And that meant I had to have some. He forced me to think. And he really, really listened. When I was with him, I found out something great.

I was actually happy.

But after everything I had with him got flushed two years ago, I was lower than I'd ever been. Had I never met him, I would never have known real joy. But when White Bird got taken away, I sometimes wished I'd never met him. And that killed me.

Now neither of us had moved on from that one gut-wrenching morning. I felt emotionally drained all the time. My life was flat, boring and a lot of nothing. There were no more peaks for me, only valleys of guilt and regret. I wanted to feel better, but I couldn't—not after what I did to him.

Coming back to Shawano had brought the pain fresh to the surface. And I was good at finding different ways to punish myself. I carried my self-inflicted wound with me because I gave myself no choice. And it wasn't because I craved drama. I didn't. I probably would have been content to live my life in boring anonymity, but White Bird changed that. After I'd met him and saw how things could be, I didn't want to settle for anything less.

Did that make me a bad person? Did that make me too weird and unlovable? I really wish I knew.

After I crawled through the window into my room, I thought about going back to bed and forgetting about Mom downstairs, but I couldn't do that. I couldn't shake the sight of her sitting alone in the living room, watching old videos of
Grams and me. I took off my fanny pack, kicked off my sneaks and spit out my gum. And after I got into my PJ bottoms and tank top, I crept downstairs. I still didn't know what I would do once I got there, but something drew me.

Maybe, like Mom, I was looking for answers in the past.

Minutes Later

If I had wanted to peek down from the stairs and watch our homegrown DVD without Mom knowing I was there, that option went away with one step. I had forgotten about a bad creak on the last flight down. I cringed and froze where I was.

“Is that you, honey?” Mom called out from the living room.

“Yeah.”

“You slept all day. I thought you were down for the count. What's the matter…you couldn't sleep anymore?”

“Yeah, something like that, I guess.”

When I joined her, she patted a spot next to her on the sofa. And she cleared her throat and wiped her eyes, putting on a happier face for my benefit.

“I found these old movies. It's been years since I've seen them.” Mom's voice was shaky and her eyes were watery. She'd been crying. “You hungry? I can make popcorn.”

“No, thanks. I'm good.” Eating popcorn wasn't worth the effort of brushing my teeth again so I sprawled on the couch and curled my feet under me. “I don't remember this one. It looks really old.”

The video was real shaky like
The Blair Witch Project,
only no one had snot hanging out their nose…at least that I could see. And the background was of an old mansion with strange gargoyles on the roof that I didn't recognize.

“What's that place?” I pointed. “Kind of weird.”

Mom hesitated before she said, “Your father's old family house. He doesn't live there anymore.”

Mom pointed to the video, mostly to change the subject away from Dad, like she usually did.

“Oh, my gosh.” Mom put a hand to her mouth and gasped. “That's when I was pregnant with you.”

I shifted my gaze to Mom's face. The tears were gone and she was actually smiling. Her reaction surprised me. She looked happy.

The video had cut to the sliding doors of a hospital. Whoever was behind the camera was jumping from person to person and zoomed too close and out of focus. And the clips were spliced together, making it hard to follow. But when I saw Mom's young face—and saw her swollen belly—I knew I'd seen the movie before. Hell, I'd lived it.

“Oh, honey, I remember every minute of the day you were born. Well, maybe not every minute, but the best parts, for sure.” She chuckled. “And your grandmother was behind the camera. I made her do it. She was driving me crazy.”

She didn't have to tell me Grams was there. I heard her screaming over the audio at the nurses when Mom got to the E.R. I couldn't help but grin. Grams barked orders, Mom panted like she was hyperventilating and even before I took my first official breath, I was being a pain. That figured.

“Where was Dad?”

I don't know why I asked that. I blurted it out and should have known better.

“He was traveling…on business. You know that.”

That was her stock answer. And like she usually did, Mom tensed up. I could tell she didn't like talking about him. And for her sake, I let it go. She always said the sperm donor wasn't
there the day I was born because he traveled a lot on business. But I think she said that to make me feel better. I'd only seen one photo of him and my mother wasn't in it. For all I really knew she'd made him up or they'd never gotten married.

Or maybe his picture came with the frame.

None of that mattered to me. Not anymore. I'd learned how to do without him. If my father didn't want to stick around, I sure didn't need a guy like that in my life. Mom didn't, either. At least, that's what I told myself as I watched the movie.

From day one, it had been Mom and me. And Grams.

“You were a kicker, honey.” She laughed and rubbed a hand over her stomach, like she was remembering. “Guess you always have been.” A shadow came over her face. And I figured it was a dark memory that wiped away her smile.

We both had plenty of those.

Mom told me more about my first day on the planet. And she was right. She'd only remembered the good parts. And she'd left out how having a baby was like taking a dump the size of a bowling ball. The Cliff's Notes version worked for me. I didn't want to hear about how much it hurt her to bring me into the world.

The real pain would come later and we both knew it.

She reached a hand out for me and I didn't think twice. I laid my head on her shoulder and let her hold me. I'm not sure who needed it more. Guess that didn't matter.

“Tomorrow morning, first thing, we're gonna fix your hair. I'll do it myself. Will that be okay, honey?”

I nodded and didn't say anything. Sometimes I hated when she called me honey, but not tonight. I nuzzled into her shoulder and hugged her back. And I loved how she held me, like she needed it, too. We watched the rest of Grams Scorsese, both of us wrapped in our thoughts. The light from the TV
flickered into the dark room and onto both of us. But we just sat there, feeling comfortable with the silence.

It was like we both recognized our truce and neither one of us wanted to screw it up by talking. But I hadn't forgotten what she'd said about me always being a kicker. I pictured a stubborn little kid with a scrunched baby face, thrashing around and demanding to get out. And it made me wonder.

When had I quit being a fighter?

Next Morning

I slept in after my late night and Mom did the same. After a pancake breakfast with an ice-cream chaser, my mother focused on my hair. I knew there wouldn't be much she could do, so I kept my expectations low. She sat me at the kitchen table with a towel draped on my shoulders. After she wet down what was left of my hair, she snipped at the longer strands. I saw blond hairs drop to the floor and I held my breath until I realized she couldn't exactly screw it up. Anything would be an improvement.

When Mom was done, she took a step back and grinned. If she had a more perverse sense of humor, her smile might have been a bad sign.

“Pretty good, if I do say so myself. I always knew you had beautiful cheekbones. You got 'em from your grandmother.” She tweaked my hair with her fingers and handed me a mirror.

“If this whole real estate thing doesn't work out, maybe I can open a hair salon.”

“I can't look.” Visions of Britney still haunted me.

“Trust me, Bren.” She grabbed the mirror from my lap and shoved it in my face.

My jaw dropped when I stared at my reflection. I'd never seen me with short hair before. My eyes looked huge and my neck was long. I had the haircut of a boy, but I looked more like a girl than I ever thought was possible, if you didn't count the bruises and cut lip. And with the length gone, Mom had added body and thickness to my normally thin hair. It was scrunched like I'd run my fingers through it. And even though Jade hadn't left me any bangs, Mom had spiked what I had and made the most of it. I looked like a rebellious elf with a serious attitude.

I couldn't help it. I smiled.

“If I had known you would look this cute with short hair, I would have crept into your bedroom at night with the shears.” Mom grinned as she swept hair off the kitchen floor.

“Okay, now you're just plain scaring me,” I said. I flashed to shades of
Psycho.

“I'm not done. Stay right there.”

After Mom tossed hair into the trash, she raced upstairs. I heard her rummaging through her bedroom and I gave serious thought to finding a suitable hiding place. But in minutes, she was back. And she had a zippered bag filled with cosmetics. “Makeover time.”

I rolled my eyes and raised a hand in objection.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” I shook my head and stood to leave, but Mom shoved me back down.

“Humor me. You can always wash it off. And covering up
those bruises might keep people from asking what happened. I'm sure you'd appreciate that.”

I'd given Mom an inch and she'd stretched it into a country mile. My mother was determined to play dress up. And I was her Barbie.

Two Days Later

After Mom made me look more presentable, so I wouldn't scare off little kids or stray cats, I kept a low profile and helped her with Grams's house over the next couple of days. I needed time to heal—both inside and out. The neighbors still spied on us through their miniblinds. And although I'd spotted Derek and his jerk-off buddies parked down the street, they never got any closer.

Except for Mom buying me a new cell phone to replace the one I'd lost at Chloe's party, nothing really happened. And yet I couldn't shake the feeling that would change. Those two days felt like the quiet before the storm.

I was edgy, waiting for the next crisis. Despite the fact that things looked quiet on the surface, there was an undeniable twist in my gut. I believed those feelings had a lot to do with White Bird. I quit daydreaming about him and our past together, mostly because I was afraid of triggering something I couldn't stop.

But at night, he came to me in my dreams.

My nightmares got worse. It would only be a matter of time before I had to do something. The day I had touched White Bird at Red Cliffs had triggered something dark that I didn't understand. I had no idea if it was inside me or if it came from him. And with each passing day that I ignored what was happening, things got worse.

I really had no choice.

“The yard looks beautiful, Bren. You've done a great job, honey.” Wearing a bandanna and apron, Mom took a break from her cleaning and brought me a cold Pepsi. She smiled as she looked over the backyard. “The place was really overgrown, but you've made a big difference.”

I was sweaty and had a layer of dirt up my arms, but it felt good to work in Grams's garden.

“Yeah, but it could use color. Flowers would be nice.”

“Good idea. You feel like making a nursery run with me? We both could use a break.”

It surprised me that Mom wanted to come along to pick out flowers. I thought she'd give me the car keys and let me run the errand alone, but when that didn't happen, I had to scramble for plan B.

“I don't know much about flowers. The whole annual/perennial thing confuses me, but I'll plant whatever you buy. How's that?”

“Okay. I'll just change.” She turned to head back into the house.

“Hey, Mom? Would you mind if I went to the library instead? I'd like to check my email. I'm sure Dana has sent me stuff. And maybe I can find some books to read.” I wiped sweat off my forehead. “I've got my bike. And the library isn't far.”

Mom cocked her head with a questioning look on her face as she squinted into the late-afternoon sun, but what parent would turn down a kid for wanting to read? She shrugged her okay and I put away my garden tools and cleaned up, too.

I hadn't lied about wanting to get to the library, but it had nothing to do with checking my email.
Sorry, Dana.

Shawano Public Library

With my bike, it had been easy to ditch Derek in the street. He never saw me leave. I went around the block and checked.
The only gratifying thing about me having to ditch him was that I knew he'd be in his car baking in the Oklahoma heat while I was at the library.

When I got to the library, I noticed it hadn't changed much, except for a new coat of paint in the entry. The computers were in the same location and the help desk was just as I'd remembered it. Mom used to bring me when I was a kid. I loved the smell of books. And finding my own quiet corner to read was one of my favorite things to do.

Today, it wouldn't be like that. I hadn't come for fun.

Two years ago, the murder of Heather Madsen had been covered in the local papers for months. It had happened during the summer after our freshman year in high school. The violence had shocked the whole community. It was all anyone talked about. And since I had been part of the sheriff's investigation, I'd missed the coverage and had been completely in the dark. At the time, that suited me fine. All I wanted to do was curl up and forget it ever happened.

And even though I had no desire to remember that terrible day now, I had to do it for White Bird's sake. I was the only one who cared what happened to him. It had to start with me. And jogging my memory with newspaper articles at the library was the only way I could do that in secret.

When I first dug through the digital archives of the newspaper, I glanced over my shoulder. I felt someone watching me and I had a hard time shaking the creepy feeling. After a while, I got totally into my search and read every word on Heather's death and forgot about my hinky vibe.

I found it ironic that, according to the newspaper, I was the only witness to her murder, yet I knew the least about it. I'd blocked the trauma from my memory even though flashes of the horror seeped into my brain when I least expected it. I'd
see the color red and always remembered the blood. Or I'd hear a fly and I'd flash to White Bird sitting under the bridge at Cry Baby Creek, mumbling and chanting in a daze. That's how my mind worked.

The tiniest thing set off a chain reaction of horrible images. Yet I couldn't replay the mental video of what happened that day from start to finish, no matter how hard I tried. The pieces didn't fit and I had unaccountable gaps. I only remembered what I'd told Sheriff Logan. I went to that scary old bridge looking for the ghost woman and her dead baby. The urban legend had drawn plenty of kids over the decades. It was a rite of passage in Shawano and everybody had done it at least once. That part of my story hadn't surprised Sheriff Logan.

The haunted bridge was on my way home after I'd spent the night in the cemetery. I hadn't told the sheriff how often I made that trek back then. And maybe he sensed I wasn't telling the truth or hiding something. I wanted it to sound gutsy and cool that I'd gone to that bridge on my own—instead of creepy and serial killerish that I was a regular. That morning, I'd heard White Bird's voice carrying on the wind in the gray of morning, just before dawn. And I'd raced to find him. The shock of seeing him over Heather's body stole my breath away. And my heart has never been the same since.
Never.

That's why I had to read everything I could on what happened that day. I had to fill in the gaps so I could understand. I wasn't sure if any of my research would help White Bird—or me—but I had to do it, even if it made my nightmares worse.

According to the paper, Heather Madsen had been stabbed over a dozen times. And people had speculated that her death had been a crime of passion. That was hard to read. I felt the
sting of tears coming and fought it. My head told me White Bird loved me. He wouldn't have hurt me like that, but there was an insecure voice inside me that was hard to ignore. Heather was pretty. I wasn't. People envied her, but shunned me like I was diseased. Even with all my self-doubts, I still found it hard to accept White Bird would betray me, especially with someone that shallow.

And to compound my misery, I saw countless photos of Heather, the beautiful. The newspaper used a school photo for her obituary. She looked gorgeously perfect and she smiled real sweet, but the brunette with long dark hair and green eyes was anything but kindhearted. And nasty Jade had stepped into Heather's shoes for one good reason—
they fit.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed someone moving between the books and that creepy feeling raised the hair on my neck. When I looked up from the monitor, a familiar pair of green eyes stared at me through a bookshelf. Heather glared back, wicked and smirking. She eased down the aisle with her body masked by books, but her movement wasn't normal. She looked like she was…
floating.

“Oh, God,” I whispered.

I stifled my gasp with a hand. And when an older woman looked up from her book, I shot her a shaky smile until she lost interest. I narrowed my eyes at Heather and wanted her to go away, but her lips curved into an eerie grin. In broad daylight, her cruel expression sent chills scurrying across my skin and I had no idea why she'd come.

One second, she was in the book stacks. And the next, she was standing across from my table, staring down at me, messing with my head. Even though she creeped me out, I did my best to ignore her. Seeing the dead came with a price. I had to get used to their humor.

I had always felt sorry for Heather. And with her being dead, that went double. But I didn't put her on a pedestal. She wasn't a nice girl. And being dead hadn't improved her disposition. Alive, the brunette cheerleader took great pleasure in badgering losers like me. She needed to feel superior. But I knew she had to be really desperate to follow me here.

Heather wouldn't be caught dead in a library.

I did my best to ignore the dead girl roaming the aisles in silence, but one good thing came of it. No matter how disturbing it was for Heather to stare at me while I read about her brutal killing, I was glad she made the effort to show up.

Seeing her had triggered my faulty memory.

Two Years Ago

A week before Heather died, White Bird had been secretive. I'd show up at his shelter by the creek and he wouldn't be there. And when he finally showed, he never told me where he'd been. It wasn't like him to keep things from me. And his reluctance to talk about it hurt me even more. I thought he didn't want to see me anymore and maybe he was letting me down easy by avoiding me. Anytime something bad happened to me, I always assumed it was my fault. That's how my brain was wired—then and now—but White Bird didn't know that.

And I didn't exactly come right out and tell him, either.

I took the easy way out. I asked him why he wasn't coming to the creek anymore. I was hoping his answer would be simple, but I knew when he gazed at me with a sad look in his eyes that wouldn't be the case.

“I won't lie to you, so please…don't ask me again,” he had said. “Just give me space, okay?”

I wouldn't let it go. I couldn't. He meant too much to me.
We argued and I said terrible things. After that, I spent more time in the cemetery at night and avoided the creek. All the good memories we had together were spoiled. I felt lost and I spent hours thinking over what I had done to ruin it.

After I had confronted him, he stopped showing up at his shelter. I had made him a peace offering—a special friendship bracelet that I had woven for him out of embroidery thread and beads—but when I went to the creek to find him, he wasn't there. I hung it on a branch near his fort and left.

And I never saw him again—not until that day.

That's why I ran to him when I heard his voice. I couldn't believe my ears. I thought I was dreaming. I ran along the dry creek bed, tearing through the brush to see him…and talk to him…and touch him.

But that never happened.

I was the only one who had seen him there. A part of me still wanted to run to him, but something held me back. Something terrifying. White Bird was ranting like a madman. He wasn't the gentle boy I knew who had healed a bird with a broken wing. He wasn't the boy who wanted a family badly enough that he had asked me to be part of his tribe. I saw a man that day, covered in blood and holding a knife in his hand.

And the smell of blood and the never-ending buzz of those damned flies hit me like a sledgehammer, but that wasn't nearly as bad as seeing Heather staring at me with her dead eyes. Her mouth was gaped open and fear had frozen on her face like a death mask. Seeing her like that, I had to do something.