Surfacing (Spark Saga) (10 page)

             
“Woah,” Cricket says, shaking her head.  “This is crazy.”

             
“You can say that again,” I mutter.  “I really don’t think we should be here.”  I look around, half expecting to see Zach and his mom barreling through the graveyard, shaking their fists.

             
“We’ve come this far, right?”  She doesn’t sound all that convinced. 

             
“I guess.”  I am also not convinced, but I try not to let it show. 

             
She starts searching around the headstone while I watch the parking lot.  Why do I feel like we are trespassing again?

             
“Ok, what did that clue say again?”

             
“
Hard stone will not contain me, but its timeless message is of grave concern
.”

             
“It sounds like the message isn’t in the stone.”

             
“Or he could be referring to the fact that a headstone doesn’t
contain
him… meaning, it’s just a piece of stone with a name on it.”

             
“Good thinking!  But that still doesn’t tell us where the message is.”

             
We both simultaneously look at the ground, then each other.  “Oh, no freakin' way, Cricket.”

             
“Wait—it says
its timeless message
.  The
it
refers to the stone.  So the message is on the stone.”

             
“And it’s apparently pretty stinking important. 
Grave
, in fact.”

             
“Edwin G. Webb.  Born September 17, 1952.  Died April 13, 2010.  Devoted father, brilliant scientist, and pioneer.”

             
“Scientist?  Pioneer?  Who was this guy?”

             
“Well, for one, he was apparently Zach’s dad.  And he was brilliant.”

             
“This is the message we came all the way out here for?  There has to be more than this.”

             
“Maybe there’s more...”  Cricket starts inspecting the headstone further, getting down on her hands and knees.  “Wait—what’s this?”  She starts digging away the dirt at the bottom of the stone.  “There’s something else on here.”

             
“Of course there is,” I say dryly.

             
“O.M.G.  You’re not even going to believe this.”

             
“Trust me; I’m past the unbelief stage.”

             
“There’s a compartment down here… and—” She works her fingers into the dirt and pulls out—you guessed it—yet another cylinder.  And just like that, this is day goes from weird to completely insane.  How do I get myself into these things?

             
Her fingers are shaking as she pulls out the paper and begins to read:  “
You didn’t think you’d find the third clue, did you?  Well, I must congratulate you again, for your perseverance.  To continue:  There is a chip in the stone.  What is broken will soon be restored.”

             
“Huh?  A chip in the stone?  What’s that supposed to mean?  That doesn’t tell us where the next clue is.  That tells us basically nothing.”

             
As if on cue, Cricket starts inspecting the headstone for chips.  “This thing is covered in chips.  What the heck?”

             
“It’s a prank.  Go figure.”

             
“Crap.  Well, it will still make a good paper, right?”

              In the car on the way to the formal wear boutique, I make note of the dirt on the knees of Cricket’s pants, and the mud on my shoes from the lake.  “You think they’ll let us in there like this?”

             
Cricket just laughs.  “Sure, we’re paying customers.”

             
“Well, I’m not paying.  Until I get mom’s plastic.”

             
“Right.”

             
I sit back in the seat and take a deep breath, relieved to have gotten that whole ordeal over with.  I close my eyes and listen to the music, and I am actually starting to look forward to going to the dance.  It will be fun to go out with Cricket and Alex.  Plus, I won’t have to worry about feeling like it’s a date with a third person in tow.

             
“Hey Tess?”

             
“Yeah?”

             
“What do you think that last message meant by
what is broken will soon be restored
?”

             
Oh, here we go again.  Leave it to Cricket.  I love her curious, adventurous spirit, but sometimes enough is enough.  “I dunno.  Maybe nothing.  I mean, it’s a poet playing a prank, remember?  He could be talking about anything.”

             
“But what’s broken?”

             
“Lots of things are broken.  The headstone, obviously.  The dirt.  The relationship that man had with his loved ones.”

             
“Woah, that’s deep.  But what do you
really
think he meant?”

             
I sigh.  “Honestly?  I don’t care.  It’s obviously some personal thing that we will never know the answer to.”

             
“But it has something to do with Zach Webb, remember?  There’s a way to find out.”

             
“Oh no, you’re not suggesting…”

             
“I’m just saying that there
is
an answer.  For someone.  Maybe not us.”

             
“I’m guessing definitely not us,” I mutter.  “We’re just the two nuts who happened upon it.”

             
“It was fun though, right?”

             
“Yeah,” I admit.  “It was fun.  But I’m glad we’re outta there.  It was sorta creepy.”

             
“I’m just sayin’ if this ever comes up in casual conversation with Zach…”

             
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

             
“I said
if.
  I mean, there’s always the possibility.”

             
Cricket, always ready for something new.  “Well I’m not counting on it.”

             
We arrive at the dress shop, and I get a whole new wave of anxiety.  I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress.

             
“Come on, Princess,” Cricket chirps.  “We’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”

               
Zach

             
Dani and I go to our favorite Japanese restaurant for dinner and we are seated at an intimate table in the back, lit by candlelight.  I pull out the chair for her and she smiles at me, her hair cascading across one shoulder in one swift, silky movement.  I touch her shoulder and squeeze slightly as she sits down.

             
“I just love this place,” she says.

             
“It’s good,” I reply, sitting across from her.  In the candlelight, she looks radiant, even in the simple burgundy sweater she’s wearing.  Her eyes glitter, a hint of gold eye shadow across her lids.  She has less makeup on this evening than usual, and I tell her so, adding, “And you look absolutely beautiful.”

             
She glances down slightly, as she normally does when I compliment her.  “Thank you,” she murmurs.  She is uncomfortable with praise, and yet, there is something in her eyes that acknowledges it, and owns it.

             
“You are,” I add, and I mean it.  Even after all this time, Dani still makes me a little nervous.  Sometimes I wonder what she even sees in me.  She could have anyone she wants, and yet here she is.  Maybe we really did bond that day at Fuller Park, years ago.  We were friends first, but what changed, and when?  Perhaps it started that night I rescued her at the tunnel.

             
“I’ll never forget what you did for me,” Dani says, as if she’d read my mind.  “That night at the tunnel.”  She blushes a little.  “Do you remember?”

             
Her kisses are what I remember most—the feeling of being so close to someone, and then suddenly, she accepts me, and wants to be with me.  “How could I forget?”

             
“Do you think we’ll always be together?”  She says this both hopefully and tentatively, as if she senses something that is already in my heart, the conflict raging within it.  How could I begin to answer such a question?  I long to tell her the truth—everything, from the beginning.  She would never understand it.  She would be devastated.  The thought of it makes me weak.

             
“I can’t imagine not being with you,” I admit.  It’s true…and yet.

             
“Me either.  You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

             
I grasp her hand.  “You are something special.  You mean so much to me, Dani.”  The words tumble out so naturally, I feel like a fool.  How can I possibly say such things with my heart so entwined?  If time really is like the surface of water, with all points relative, moving and changing with each tiny movement, then how can love really have the depth necessary to sustain itself?  My mind grapples with the irony.  If what I know of the future is accurate—if Tess and I are meant to be together—then how do I continue?  How do I live?  What do I choose?  After all, I’m assuming that I do have a choice.  How do I live with the reality that I can change everything, with a single action?  I can embrace the love I have for Dani, erase all memory of what I’ve shared with Tess, and presumably that would be the nature of my choice.  And yet, I can’t shake the notion that to make such a choice would be tempting fate.

             
“So, I picked out my dress,” she says.   “It’s a surprise.”

             
“I’m looking forward to it,” I smile.  Will it be the blue one?  I can’t help but remember imagining Tess in that dress, and I feel guilt seize me.  What if she really does choose the blue one?  My mind reels.  “I’m sure it will be perfect.”

             
Dani just smiles, and I can’t help but love her for who she is.  Dani Chase.  My dearest, closest friend.  The girl who stole my weak, inadequate heart.  Dani.  “I love you, Dani Chase.”

             
“I love you too, Zach Webb.”

              Later that night, I sit starting at my email inbox, the folder where I’ve saved all the messages from E.G.W.  I have read them all a dozen times.  I realize that it’s my turn to respond, but I am completely baffled as to how.  Am I ready?  And does being “ready” hinge on my confidence that these messages are, indeed, from my father?  My mind grapples with a way to test the messenger, to come up with some question that will verify who he is.  Of course, why didn’t I think of it before?  I simply have to come up with a memory that is so specific, no one else would even guess it. 

             
On the other hand, if my father has a memory chip, then all of that can be copied and reviewed.  Nothing is guaranteed to prove that he is my father.  Perhaps I should ask to see this person.  I mean, if it’s some person out there with privileged access to my father’s files, then they will balk at the idea of meeting or create some diversion or clever excuse.  If I ask this person to prove his identity—beyond the hidden pages in an old book—then we might be getting somewhere.

             
And so I begin:

September 3, 2012

TO:                            E.G.W.

FROM:
              Zach Webb

RE:
                            Reservations

Dear sir,

             
As you may suspect, my lack of response in this matter is due to my inherent skepticism (of which you, a scientist—if your identity proves accurate—should appreciate).  Upon our initial correspondence, I was sufficiently convinced as to your identity.  But, upon further consideration, I have come to the following conclusions:

1. Given the nature of your research, the availability of personal information regarding you (i.e., your memories and experiences) are subject to the possibility of outside access.
   
2. Your sudden, urgent communication seems inconsistent with what a man in your position might be prone to (i.e.:  Why now?  Why has contact been delayed for years?).
   
3. It seems unlikely that a man would contact his own son and not ask about his mother.
   
4. The nature of electronic communication is, by its very essence, unreliable and potentially deceptive.