Splintered (10 page)

Jeb just stares at me and keeps rowing.
Stars twinkle in the purple heavens, reflecting in the dark water that swirls all around us. We swirl, too, the boat turning in slow circles until it’s impossible to differentiate between water and sky.
Jeb sets the oars in their grooves. “My rowing’s not getting us anywhere. We’re going to have to leave it to the currents and hope for the best.” Starlight flashes across his labret.
“Could you hand me the backpack?” I have a sudden urge to look at those sketches in the Alice book.
Jeb digs out two energy bars and a bottle of water, then steps over the oars toward me, rocking us gently. “You need to eat.” He hands off the backpack and the snack, then sits cross-legged in front of me.
I set the bar aside, open the water, and take a swig. Then I slide the
Wonderland
book from the bag. “They thought you were an elfin knight of the White Court.”
Jeb rips open his energy bar. “Yeah, whatever that is.”
I flip to the sketches. “Here.” The likeness could be Jeb’s twin: muscular build, square chin, dark hair, jeweled red dots lining the outer corners of his temples and lips. Eyes as dark velvet green as the underside of leaves. The only difference is the pointed ears.
Jeb studies the picture, chewing.
“They serve the Ivory Queen,” I explain, “in her castle of glass. Their blood crystallizes when the air hits it. That’s how they mark themselves, by piercing holes in their flesh so their blood can leak out and become jewels. They’re trained to be emotionless, to act only on instinct. Having so much self-control makes them fierce protectors, but it also makes for a very lonely queen.”
Swallowing, Jeb looks up. “You sound like you’re reading from an encyclopedia. How do you know all that?”
I turn the pages until I come to the skeletal rabbit. “The same way I know that Rabid White was tortured by an evil spell that was eating his skin from his bones. But Queen Red rescued him, stopping the bad magic before it could get to his face. He swore to serve her and no other until the day he died. So, why’s he serving someone named Grenadine now?”
“Huh?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Look, you saw me back there. I knew how to stop that dandelion creep. I knew how to walk through a mirror. It’s because I’ve been taught.”
Jeb crumples his food wrapper and stuffs it into the backpack, then waits for me to explain.
“I don’t know how, but before Alison left for the asylum, I came here. It must’ve been a lot of times—I’m remembering more and more. I think it was mostly at night. In our world, anyway. While my parents were sleeping.”
Jeb doesn’t budge, just stares up into the sky.
I slump. “You think I’m crazy, right?”
He huffs. “Have you taken a look around? If you’re crazy, I’m riding the banana train right alongside you.”
I let out a relieved laugh. “Good point.”
“Okay, it’s time you were straight with me.” He digs out the other recliner treasures and lays everything at my feet. “Start with your mom. Why she was really sent to Soul’s.” He pauses. “And what it has to do with your scars, since you obviously didn’t get them in a car accident.”
After another slow drink of water, I tell him my history, from the pruning shears to the bleeding daffodils. But I’m not ready to share details of the moth or my dark guide. Those memories feel private, somehow.
When I get to the part about the talking bugs and plants that Alison and I both hear, his gaze intensifies.
He plays with the laces on my boot. “So, you chose bugs for your art because it was the only way you could—”
“Shut them up? Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “And I thought my childhood was warped. No wonder you’ve been scared of ending up at Soul’s, too.” He leans back on his elbows. “Now I get it. That battle I always see in your eyes. Light and dark. Like my gothic fairies.” He’s studying me as if I’m a piece of artwork again.
“So the sketches you made of me . . . they’re the basis for your paintings?”
His eyebrows rise.
“All those times I caught you looking at me like I’m a palette of paint.”
Thumping his fingers on the boat, he frowns. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”
“I know about the sketches Taelor found.”
Something—either shock or embarrassment—flickers through his eyes.
I clench my fingers. “She’s right, huh? The morbid and revolting are such fascinating subjects.” It hurts to say it almost as much as it did to hear it.
“Is that what she said?”
I lift a shoulder in silent affirmation.
He sits up again and places a hand on my shin. “Look, she lashes out when she feels threatened. After finding the sketches . . . well, she kind of lost it. I mean, the guy she’s been dating has an aesthetic obsession with another girl. You can see her side, can’t you?”
“Maybe.” I never would’ve guessed I was anyone’s obsession, aesthetic or otherwise. If I inspire his art, then why is Taelor the one he chooses to have in his life? “Jeb . . . why do you put up with her?”
He pauses. “I guess because I’m the only stable thing she has.”
“And by fixing her problems, you hope to make up for everything your dad did to Jen and your mom?”
He doesn’t answer. That’s as good as a yes.
Hatred for his father’s weakness and violence flashes through me. “You’re not accountable for his mistakes. Only for your own. Like going to London with Taelor.”
“That’s not a mistake. It’s going to help with my career.”
I stare at my boots. “Right. Just like my ‘mortician sense of style’ will help with mine.” I attempt a laugh, but even to me it sounds false.
“Hey.” The insistence in Jeb’s voice makes me look up at him. “Tae was wrong, you know. About that. Do you think my paintings are ugly or freakish?”
I think of his watercolor paintings: darkly beautiful worlds and gothic fairies weeping black tears over human corpses. His depictions of misery and loss are so poignant and surreal they break the heart.
I twist my gloved hands together. “No. They’re beautiful and haunting.”
He squeezes my shin. “An artist is only as good as his subject.”
For one raw, drawn-out moment, we’re silent. Then he lets go of me.
I rub my knees, warming my leggings. “Can I see them someday?”
“The sketches?”
I nod.
“Tell you what. We get out of this in one piece, and I’ll give you a private viewing.” He holds my gaze for a minute too long, and my blood runs hot. How am I supposed to figure anything out when I can’t even read my own body’s signals anymore?
“Okay.” He looks down at the
Wonderland
book in his lap and slides out the pictures of Alice, moving close. “What’s up with these?” Flicking on the flashlight, he points its yellow glow at them, effectively distracting me from my whacked-out emotions.
The pictures are faded and worn, one of a sad and lovely young girl with dirty smudges on her dress and pinafore. The words
Alice, seven years of age and fresh from the rabbit hole
are handwritten on the back. The other picture is of Alice as an eighty-two-year-old woman.
I place them side by side. What was it Alison said?
“Photographs tell a story. But people forget to read between the lines.”
She said the same thing when she traced my birthmark—insisting there was more to the story than people realized.
Peering more closely at the pictures, I search the young Alice’s face and body. There’s a shadow on her left elbow that seems to match the pigmented maze Alison and I share. I study the same spot on the elderly Alice, but there’s no birthmark.
“That’s it!” I point to the pictures. “There and there. Alice had a birthmark that matches mine and Alison’s when she was a kid, but she lost it as an old woman.”
Jeb holds both pictures up to the light. “Could be the photo was retouched.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
Jeb reaches for the energy bar on the seat beside me, tears the wrapping, and curls my fingers around it—unspoken insistence that I eat. “Are there any answers in the book?”
Chewing a bite of granola, I flip through page after page. I trace a finger over Alison’s blurred notes in the margins while Jeb holds the flashlight. “There might’ve been, if these were legible.” I reach the end, past the sketches and final pages, and am just about to put it away when Jeb tugs it out of my grasp.
“Look here.”
If he hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed the blank page bent in half and glued to form a pocket against the inside of the back cover. I dig out a folded piece of paper. It’s old, yellow, and wrinkled. The word
Deathspeak
is scribbled across the back, followed by a trail of crooked question marks, then a handwritten definition.
Deathspeak: the language of the dying. One can only speak it to the one who was the cause of one’s ill fate. It is the final recompense, to appoint a task that the offender must either carry out or die himself.
Jeb and I look at each other. I unfold the paper so we can see what’s written inside. I know after the first sentence that it’s something I wish I’d never laid eyes on. Yet I can’t look away . . .

November 14, 1934: On the date of mental evaluation, Alice Liddell Hargreaves is an eighty-two-year-old woman of petite height who was brought in by concerned family members. According to relatives, her mental state began deteriorating months ago, when she awoke one morning with no recognition of her whereabouts and only a vague sense of her identity.

The psychologist conducting the interviews notes that the patient is preoccupied with inner thoughts, often brooding and overwhelmed by the size of the room. She occasionally crouches in a corner or perches on a chair when being interviewed. She is inattentive and vague, and has lively interactions with inanimate objects but detached human exchanges.

Patient is not oriented in physicality or place, with a marked impairment of time, inclined to melancholy dissertations over the loss of the seventy-five years she claims to have been locked in a birdcage in “Wonderland,” having been “seduced by a statue boy at the age of seven to dive into a rabbit hole.”

The examining psychologist attributes this to a grandiose delusion originating from a childhood given to vivid imaginings that were fed by the Liddell family’s close friend Charles Dodgson, a.k.a. Lewis Carroll. Patient has fallen back on these fantasies to account for her selective memory loss.

Inasmuch as the patient exhibits the following symptoms: (1) grandiose delusions and selective amnesia, (2) marked diminished interest or pleasure in social interactions unless socializing with bugs or plants, (3) absence of appetite; prefers only fruit and desserts and refuses to ingest nutrition unless drink is served in a thimble and food on a birdcage tray—she is diagnosed as suffering from Mania and Schizophrenia.

Recommended treatment: electroshock twice daily—natural voltage administered by applying an electric eel to the head. Supplement with psychiatric counsel until all delusional lapses are contained, memory is reinstated, and mood of the patient is elevated.

I shove the report at Jeb.
He watches me. “Are you okay?”
How do I answer that? My great-great-great-grandmother

tripped so far into her psychosis that she couldn’t remember her past or present. The thimble and birdcage-tray idiosyncrasies are too close to Alison’s teacup fetish. The consistency disturbs me.

Could something else be going on . . . not a delusion but a manipulation? Is that why Alison is so into the Alice charade? Whatever it is, it’s obvious that she’s headed for the same fate as my other ancestors.

“Do you see why I can’t let her go through with those treatments?” I point to the paper. “The date of Alice’s death. She died just two days after the report. The shock treatments must have killed her!”

I yank my dreadlocks out—ignoring the rip at the roots of my hair—and fling them into the ocean. I’m done fighting my resemblance to Alison. Since we’re teammates in this bizarre game, we might as well look the part.

Jeb pulls me off the seat to sit me beside him, but the boat rocks, and I end up falling into his lap. We both freeze. When I start to ease off his legs, he holds me there. My heart hammers; I can’t deny how amazing it feels to be so close to him. Ignoring the alarms going off inside me, I give in and press my cheek to the soft knit of his tank, my arms folded between us. He strokes my hair as I snuggle beneath his chin, legs curled in the fetal position.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.
For more reasons than I can say.
“You have every right to be,” he answers softly. “But we’re going to get back home. We’re going to tell your dad everything. With both of our accounts and this lab report, he has to believe.”
“No. This only proves that Alice was as crazy as he thinks Alison is. In the end, she didn’t even remember getting married and having a family. Even with the living evidence of children and grandchildren around her, she still didn’t remember.”
Jeb is silent.
“I don’t want to end up in a straitjacket,” I say, holding back a sob. “With every memory I’ve made lost . . . or so meaningless it could belong to someone else.”
Jeb’s arms tense around me. “That’s not in your future, Alyssa Victoria Gardner.” He’s never called me by my full name. He says it like my dad would, loading power into every syllable, which is exactly what I need.
“What, then?” I ask, hungry for any crumb he can spare.
“You’re going to be a famous artist.” His voice is deep velvet—soothing and sure. “You’ll live in one of those artsy, upscale apartments in Paris with your rich husband. Oh, who just happens to be a world-renowned exterminator. How’s that for a twist of fate? You won’t even have to catch your own bugs anymore. That’ll give you more time to spend with your five brilliant kids. And I’ll come visit every summer. Show up on the doorstep with a bottle of Texas barbecue sauce and a French baguette. I’ll be weird Uncle Jeb.”
Uncle Jeb
? I like the idea of him always being in my life. But as I stare at his ribbed tank and envision those circular ridges on his chest—a tragic dot-to-dot of each time he accidentally spilled a drink or left a toy out for his dad to trip over—I’m floored by how fast old feelings sweep in. Though fabric hides the scars, I know every one by heart. I’ve seen them countless times when we’ve gone swimming together or worked in his garage. I dreamed about them in sixth grade, about how it would feel to trace each one with my fingertip.
Right now, I’m wondering the same thing. How it might feel to heal his wounds with my touch.
“Not an exterminator,” I blurt against the pulse pounding in my neck.
“Huh?”
I pause. “I’m going to fall in love with an artist. And we’ll have two kids and live in the country. A quiet life, so we can hear our muses and answer when they call.”
Tipping up my chin to meet his gaze, he gives me a tender, starlit smile—one that melts my insides. “I like your version better.”
His mouth is so close to mine, his breath warm, sugary, and tempting, but thoughts of Taelor and London resurface. I can’t let my heart get stolen by a guy who’s hot for another girl, or be the kind of person who steals another girl’s guy. I’ve already stolen money from Taelor and I’ve let this go far enough. I slip off his lap, my net skirts scraping his tuxedo pants.
As if waking from a trance, Jeb sits back on his palms and looks out over the rippling water.
“What do you think will happen tomorrow?” I ask, my voice as shaky as the rest of me.
“Whatever it is, don’t jump into things without me. We do everything together. Deal?” He lifts one of my hands, smooths the wrinkles on my glove, and curls my fingers into a fist while waiting for an answer.
“Deal,” I say.
“Good.” He bumps my fisted knuckles with his. I shiver—both from the chilly breeze and the sweetness of the gesture.
“Here.” Jeb picks up his tux jacket and helps me slip my arms inside. Then he puts everything into the pack. “Let’s try to get some sleep.”
He cradles my back against his chest, and we spoon in the hull of the rocking boat. His nose nestles in my hair. A spiral of white stars coils and uncoils in feathery sparks to one side of us. It looks like curls of lightning, just like the spider and beetle mosaic I worked on earlier today before I went skating at Underland. Another tremor rolls through me. I remember watching these same constellations with my netherling guide years ago. No wonder it came through in my art.
“I hope that’s not a storm coming,” Jeb whispers against my nape, arms tensing around me. “This boat won’t hold up to thrashing waves.”
Tucking my hand absently into my skirt pocket, I prod the sponge my guide wanted me keep.
“It’s only a constellation,” I answer, and Jeb doesn’t question how I know.
Without speaking, we watch the display overhead until it bursts into a thousand glittering colors, like silent fireworks. When it’s gone, nothing remains but common white stars.
“Wow,” we both say.
After a few quiet minutes, Jeb relaxes, and his breath rasps, slow and even, against the back of my head. Although it’s Jeb’s body keeping me warm, the last things I envision before falling asleep are inky black eyes and a spread of satiny wings.