The Edge of Forever (8 page)

“Morgan?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to listen to her anymore today.”

Professor March frowns. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but she’s your mother. And since you’re a minor and she’s your only legal guardian, you need to talk to her. She could make things really unpleasant for you.”

I want to tell him what I think of her, but once again he’s right. Better to just go ahead and find out what she wants so she’ll leave me alone. I accept the comm and try to keep a neutral expression on my face as her image appears above my DataLink. “What are you doing at your father’s apartment? I thought I made it clear that you were to come to my place.”

Here we go. “I don’t remember you saying that.”

“I most certainly did. I want you to get over here immediately.”

“I can’t, Mother. I’m a Time Bender, not a Space Bender.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Would you rather I be a dumb-ass?”

Mom lets out a stream of very un-Morgan-like words. I smile, but Professor March’s expression wipes the smile away. He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling at me.

“What?” I ask, not happy with the way he’s acting.

“That’s your mother, Bridger. Show her a little respect.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Who are you talking to?” Mom asks.

“Professor March is here with me,” I say, feeling a split second of satisfaction when her lips curl in disgust.

“Telfair? What does he want?”

“He actually cares about how I’m doing, and he said I can stay with him.”

Mom shakes her head. “Oh no, you’re coming here.”

Anger courses through my body, but I keep my voice calm. “I want to stay with him, Mom. Just for a few days so I can think things through.”

“I said no.”

“Don’t you care about what I want for once? Dad was right, you’re selfish.” The words are out before I can stop them. Maybe I shouldn’t have said them, but I’m glad I did.

Mom recoils like I slapped her as Professor March barks, “Bridger, that’s enough.”

“She never thinks about what’s good for me. It’s always what’s good for her or Shan,” I protest. I don’t get it. Why is he defending her? I thought he was on my side.

“I know,” Professor March says. “But you’ve been suspended from the Academy for a month, and you’re going to be investigated. I suggest you do whatever she says. You don’t need any more blemishes on your record, and Morgan could do that if you defy her wishes.”

I want to scream at how unfair it is. Why should she be allowed to control my life when she doesn’t care about me? But a very small part of me knows Professor March is right.

“Bridger, I’m giving you exactly one hour to get here, or I’ll report you as a runaway,” Mom says.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“Because contrary to what you think, you’re my son and I do love you.” Her voice is softer, more like the one I remember from my childhood, back when our family was still intact.

It’s an act. She hasn’t shown any affection for me since the divorce. Not since I supported Dad when he decided to leave.

“Bridger, don’t do anything stupid,” Professor March warns.

“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll go.”

8

ALORA

APRIL 9, 2013

A
fter Sela deposits me at the house, I plunk my books and bag of donuts on the porch and sit in one of the white rocking chairs. I rub my arm where I felt the touch back at The Gingerbread House as if I can make the memory disappear. I don’t know why I keep thinking about it like someone actually did touch me. Nobody was there except for Mrs. Randolph, and she was too far away from me when it happened.

What if I’m losing my mind? First I skip school and can’t remember what I did or how I got home; now I’m imagining invisible people grabbing me. Next stop, the loony bin.

I wish I could tell Aunt Grace what’s going on, but she’d freak out and drag me to the emergency room. Besides, I
think
I have an idea of what could be happening. The dream I’ve had with my father and the two women are ones I’ve dealt with on and off for years, ever since I came to live in Willow Creek. Usually I just have them once or twice a month.

But I’ve had that dream every night for the past two weeks. Could this be a side effect of my memories trying to resurface?

I can’t remember why I came to live with Aunt Grace when I was six years old. She just said that my dad left me with her and wouldn’t tell her what was going on. I don’t believe that for one minute. It seems weird for him to have left me without telling her why, but for some reason Aunt Grace doesn’t want to talk to me about it.

“I’m home,” I yell once I’m inside.

“Back here,” Aunt Grace replies.

In the kitchen, I find Aunt Grace peeling potatoes by the sink.

“What’s for supper?” I ask as I place my books on the small table to my left. I extract a donut from the bakery bag and take a bite.

Aunt Grace gives me a disapproving look. “Don’t eat another one. I’ll have supper ready in about a half hour. Shrimp, fries, coleslaw, hush puppies, and chocolate cake for dessert.”

“That sounds good, but why are you cooking so much?” There are way more potatoes than Aunt Grace and I can eat.

“Because, my dear, we have a guest,” she says, beaming at me. “Now can you take up those shrimp before they burn?”

“And you invited him to supper?”

“Yes. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to show a little extra hospitality tonight.”

I scoop the shrimp out and drop them on a paper towel-lined plate. “So, how long is the mystery guest staying? Long enough to pay some serious cash I hope.”

“He’s supposed to leave on Sunday, but he said he might stay longer if he gets another assignment around here. He’s a photographer for a magazine in Atlanta, so be extra nice. We might get some free advertising out of this.”

I allow myself to smile. That’s good news for once.

After I polish off my donut, I ask, “Do you need me to do anything else?”

“Yes. Frost the cake.”

Aunt Grace has a bowl of homemade frosting on the center island resting next to the cake. I grab the spatula and start spreading the chocolate goo across the bottom layer. We both work quietly for a while. I watch her, noting how relaxed she seems. Maybe I should strike while she’s obviously in a good mood.

“Aunt Grace, I need to ask you something,” I say, placing the spatula back in the bowl.

“Uh oh, that sounds serious.”

“Well, it’s been so long since I moved in with you and I’m so grateful for you taking me in, but I was wondering if you—”

Aunt Grace shakes her head. “I can see where this is heading a mile away and the answer is still no.”

“But you don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s the usual ‘Why did my parents leave me?’ Am I right?” Her face is grim as she attacks the bowl of potatoes, slicing them into thick strips.

“Yeah, but I thought you would be willing to tell me what really happened now, since I’m older.”

“I’ve told you a million times I don’t know what happened. Your dad dropped you off and you were unconscious. He said there had been an accident and he needed you to stay here while he took care of things. He didn’t have time to answer all of my questions. And that’s the last time I saw him.”

“But don’t you think that’s weird? That he shows up, dumps me off, and leaves without any explanation?”

Aunt Grace slams the knife on the counter and faces me. “I don’t understand why you’re asking all these questions now. It’s been a long time since you’ve brought it up.”

“I need to know the truth.”

“Why don’t you let it go? Whatever happened must’ve been bad if you can’t even remember.”

A sick sensation makes my stomach heave. I force myself to breathe slowly a few times before I speak. “I just don’t understand why you don’t want to help me remember. I know I’ve got the memories up here somewhere,” I say, tapping the side of my head. “Please.”

Her face softens. “Sweetie, it’s more complicated than that. My brother would’ve never left you like he did without a good reason. Whatever happened to y’all must’ve been awful. And because of that, I’d rather you
not
remember. And besides, kids forget things all the time. I can’t remember half the things I did last week, much less when I was young.”

“But this is not normal. I can’t even remember what my own mother looks like.”

“Drop it, Alora. I’m done with this discussion.”

“You’re not being fair,” I shout. “I’m not a porcelain doll. I won’t break. I need answers.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she whispers.

“No,” I say, hating how my voice quivers. “You
won’t
.”

My head feels like it could shatter into a million pieces. I have to get away before I say something I’ll regret. I bolt out of the kitchen, ignoring Aunt Grace calling my name. I know she won’t follow. She has to finish cooking for our precious guest.

I stomp up the stairs, not caring that I probably look like an angry toddler. I’m so busy thinking dark thoughts about Aunt Grace that I don’t notice the guest at the top of the landing until I almost smack into him. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

I have to strain my neck to look up at him. He’s tall, with graying brown hair and an athletic build, probably in his late thirties or early forties. He’s actually kind of nice-looking for someone so old. But for some reason, he’s staring at me with a shocked expression on his face.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

The weird look is quickly replaced with a warm smile. “No. You just kind of remind me of someone.”

“Oh, well, sorry I almost ran over you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not hurt,” he says.

Slipping around him, I mutter, “Well, okay then.”

He reaches out and places his hand on my arm in almost the exact place I felt the touch earlier. I try not to jerk my arm away.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I wonder if he heard my argument with Aunt Grace. Probably, with the way voices carry in here. “I’m fine. I just have a headache and I need to lie down for a while.”

“That’s a shame. Mrs. Evans said supper would be ready around six, so I’m heading downstairs a bit early. I haven’t had time to check things out. I’m Dave by the way. Dave Palmer.” He thrusts his hand out at me and I reluctantly take it. It’s too warm and moist and I want to wipe my hands on my jeans as soon as I let go.

“I’m Alora. Nice to meet you,” I mumble. “I better go. My head’s killing me.”

He steps to the side and waves me past. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”

I hurry down the hallway, past the guest rooms, to my bedroom—the last one on the left. Once inside, I flop down on the bed. My chest heaves as I try to calm myself. I wish today would hurry up and end. Aunt Grace’s denying she knows anything about my past is driving me nuts. It doesn’t make sense, hiding details from my life, and I hate how it makes me feel like a freak.

The more I think, the angrier I get. If Aunt Grace is going to keep lying to me, then I’ll have to find out myself. Surely if there was a bad accident, it would’ve been reported in the news, or maybe Aunt Grace has some secret information she’s hidden from me. If I could find something, it could jog my memories.

I massage my fingers over my temples. The pain is awful, worse than I’ve ever had before. If I had more energy, I could go for a run to the river—that always relaxes me and makes me feel like I’m in control, like I can leave my problems behind. My eyes are so heavy, though. I close them and succumb to sleep.

Chirping crickets and croaking frogs are the first things I hear when I awake. I stretch and then frown. I’m lying on something hard, something wooden. Alarmed, I bolt upright. It’s night and a full moon hangs low in the sky, framed by stars. I’m on the pier at the river, behind the inn. Fear rips through my body.

What’s happening to me?

9

BRIDGER

MARCH 11, 2146

T
he first thing I notice when I enter Mom’s apartment is a burnt smell. Shan is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. His hair, light brown like Dad’s, sticks up everywhere. At thirteen, Shan is as tall as me, but he’s all arms, legs, and elbows.

“What happened?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“I overcooked the protein pie again.”

I snort. “I take it you were in a Sim Game?”

“Yep. I was running for my life during the 2056 Cali earthquake. It was a blast.” He takes a bite of a sandwich—probably a vegi-spread, his favorite—and says, “You might want to avoid Mom. She’s in a mood.”

“Yeah, what’s new there?”

Shan shrugs. “Hey, just thought I’d warn you.”

“Right. Thanks.” I smile, but he’s already turned away to head back in the kitchen. Shan has an appetite that could rival someone twice his size. That’s typical. Talents manifest in kids when they’re around thirteen or fourteen. One of the symptoms is they’re always hungry.

A sickeningly sweet smell envelops me as I continue down the hallway. Mom’s lame attempt at covering Shan’s burnt supper.

The whole apartment is so different from Dad’s. Mom’s into what she calls Retro Classic, whatever that means. The furniture is weird-looking. Everything is white and black, and the walls are set to an obnoxious shade of red. At least she left my and Shan’s rooms alone.

“It’s about time you got here,” Mom says when she spots me. She’s lying on the white lounge in the living room, watching the news feed on the TeleNet screen.

I keep walking.

“I’m talking to you, Bridger,” she says. She swings her legs off the lounge and stands with her hands on her hips.

I focus on putting distance between us. All I want to do is view the DataDisk in peace and avoid another fight with her.

But she won’t leave things alone. I attempt to activate the lock command when I’m in my room. She overrides it and storms in.

“Oh, no,” she says, pointing her finger at me. “You’re not going to pretend I’m not here.”

I decide to tell her what I know she wants to hear. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you the way I did. Are you happy?”

Mom crosses her arms and glares at me. “Oh, so you’re sorry now? At least you can admit that, but it doesn’t change things. You’re in trouble and you don’t seem to care.”