Through to You (13 page)

He nods like this makes perfect sense. “They went on vacation and didn’t wake up. The police said there was a leak.”

It must have been carbon monoxide.

My mom had a case once where a whole family died of carbon-monoxide poisoning because of some pipe in their basement. They all just went to bed one night and never woke up. The mom, dad, and two kids, even their dog died. I can’t imagine losing either of my parents. I’m surprised by the thought, but I know it’s true at the same time.

I lower myself to my knees in front of him, and squeeze his shoulder. “I’m sorry, O.”

He shrugs. “I was a little kid then.”

I glance back up to the darkened window above us, and Owen follows my gaze.

He tilts his head. “When I was really little, Nina used to be a lot more fun. She got nice again after we met you.” His smile returns. “That’s why I’m glad you’re back.”

“Yeah …” I rise to my feet, uncomfortable. “Me too.”

He tiptoes back to the door, but turns.

“Will you stay around, Cam?”

I hesitate, thinking of Nina’s bizarre warning, but picturing Viv alive and healthy, alone in her room a few blocks away.

“I might hang out a bit,” I say.

I walk down Genesee Street, trying to sort through the jumble of facts in my brain. Nina’s parents are dead here, but since she doesn’t go to my school and seems so much happier back home, it’s a safe guess they’re probably alive there.... I hurt my leg in
both
places, but here I still played football. Except now I’m dead here, and Viv’s dead there. My head reels. Who—or what—decides what will happen? Wouldn’t it have been fairer to at least kill me and Viv in the same place? If I had died in the accident with Viv, and he hadn’t, Nina wouldn’t have had to lose her best friend … she might be happier. The other me would have kept doing everything right, and
his
Viv—

I stop short in the middle of the road.

I’m such an idiot. In my head I see her too-thin frame hunched over on the bed, wiping at her blotchy face. No wonder she screamed when she saw me—Viv thinks
I’m
dead.

A dull ache spreads through my chest like a reopening wound. The thought of her suffering the way I have overwhelms me. I don’t care anymore who lived and who died—Viv is alive, but she’s in pain—because of me.

I start walking, faster, toward the end of the street. I’ve been trying to tell myself for months that she would have been okay if I’d died. But the grip of her despair was too familiar. Her hunched, hollow form looked too much like the image I’ve been glaring at in the mirror for two months. I just need to watch her again, make sure she’s okay. I up my pace to a jog before reaching the bottom of the hill. If anyone knows how Viv feels right now, it’s me.

I break into a run.

VIV
’
S LIGHT IS STILL ON. I FORCE MYSELF TO WAIT ON THE SIDEWALK
by our initials until my leg stops throbbing and I’m sure the coast is clear. The outdoor floodlights are on too, but they cast as many parts of the yard into shadow as they illuminate.

There’s movement in the window.

I stay perfectly still.

Viv’s slender, short-haired silhouette comes into view. She hugs herself, lingering by the glass, profile sweeping back and forth like she’s searching for something in the yard. After several minutes, her arms fall to her sides, and she backs away from view.

This is my chance.

I dash across the yard, pausing under the willow tree. There’s a half second between there and the window when I have to cross a beam of floodlight, but I’m counting on no one looking out at that exact moment.

I peer in a corner of the window as I did before, heart in my throat. Viv’s pacing the room. She’s still wearing her pink pajamas, but she’s thrown on a too-big Fowler Rams sweatshirt over them. I used to have one just like it. She stops with her back turned. I can’t tell what she’s doing, but then she shifts a little and I see she’s biting her nails. She always does that when she’s upset. I scan the room around her, eerily similar to the room I knew … and somehow different. It’s not messy enough to qualify as a pigsty, since you can actually see a large part of the floor, but since the desk and dresser are mostly obscured, it’s a long way from tidy. She still has all her quotes and pictures on the walls, but they’re different. There’s more glamour, more
people
—fewer pictures of things and places. Over the bed there’s a shot of us from the Valentine’s Day Dance.

She turns to pace back this way, and glances at the window.

Our eyes meet.

I see her body stiffen, but this time she swallows and doesn’t scream.

I feel like I need to offer some cue—let her know it’s just me, it’s okay—and then I remember. I knock gently on the glass: 4-2-3.

Her shoulders loosen, just barely, but she stays across the room. I push on the window, and this time it slides up. Her big, beautiful dark eyes get a little bigger, but she still hasn’t moved or cried out.

There’s a notch in the house foundation that has always been just big enough for my foot. I watch Viv carefully before I slip the tip of my shoe into it, hoisting myself to the window ledge. Her room has a window seat inside, but I don’t dare come any farther than the sill in case I need to bolt again.

I sit sideways in the window and stare at her. As hard as I’ve tried to keep her in my memory these last two months, I’ve still forgotten how beautiful she is. Even in an old sweatshirt, eyes red, hair a mess—it’s all I can do not to tear across the room and fold her into my arms.

Her bottom lip trembles. She hasn’t moved, but her eyes are shining. She wraps one arm across her waist, bringing her other shaking hand to her mouth. I realize she’s at a disadvantage. I know neither of us is a ghost, or a zombie, or whatever—but she doesn’t.

I hold my arms out to her.

“It’s me,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

She draws in a sharp breath, but it’s like some threshold is broken. She crosses the room, arms outstretched, her body pulling her forward. She stops abruptly, right in front of me, and I don’t move or breathe. There’s doubt in her face—anxiety. Slowly, she reaches a hand out to touch my cheek, flinching as our skin makes contact. Her fingertips glide cautiously over my stubbly jaw, and her other hand comes up to touch my cheek. My eyes are locked on hers, gauging her hesitation. She runs her fingers over my face, through my hair, like she’s inspecting for authenticity. I try not to laugh—or cry. Finally, as if the strength has gone out of her, she sinks to the window seat, facing me. Her fingers glide from the back of my neck, under my chin, up to my lips.

“It’s you,” she says.

I pull her to me, and she grabs my arms, my shoulders, as if she can’t hang on. Our lips come together, anxious and hungry. Her mouth is warm and soft, and everything I remember; her scent is intoxicating, like the first day of spring. Her fingers wander to stroke the nape of my neck, making me shiver the way she always used to. I twist my fingers through her short curls and they are
just
as sexy as they were long. I slide my hand to her waist, find her skin, and it’s so warm and smooth I want to bury myself in it. We kiss like we’re trying to devour each other, and it’s the single most electrifying sensation I’ve felt in my whole life.

We stop to catch our breath, but that only means holding each other so close, we’re practically one. I trace the arch of her brow with kisses, and she gasps just the way she always used to. She rests her head on my shoulder, and I close my eyes, breathing in this moment to make it last forever. Her arms are tight around me, but she suddenly goes still. I can feel her heartbeat. But then she starts to shake.

I pull back, peeling myself away enough to see she’s crying.

“Oh … no,” I say, wiping her cheek with my thumb. “It’s okay.”

She lets out a stuffy sob and shakes her head.

“I’m so sorry.”

I kiss her eyelids, taste her tears.

A sharp moan escapes her lips, and she buries her head in my chest.

Someone pounds on the door.

“Viv? Is everything okay? Open up.”

She sits bolt upright, wide-eyed, staring at me like I really
am
a ghost.

“My dad.”

“It’s okay.” I turn in the window. “I’ll slip out.”

“No!” She lowers her voice with effort. “Don’t go—don’t leave me again.”

I brush a stray tear from her cheek.

Her eyes are wide and panicked.

“Viv, if you don’t open the door now—”

I take her face in my hands and press my lips to hers. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

I WATCH VIV
’
S DAD PATROLLING THEIR HOME LIKE FORT KNOX FROM
across the street. There’s no way he’d have believed her if she’d said she wasn’t upset once he saw her tear-streaked face. Shortly, the light goes out in her room, and I guess we both have to resign ourselves to waiting.

Tomorrow is nothing after two months of never again.

The corner is quiet when I step back through the green light—the most magical, wonderful, weird light in the world. I take a long look around, making sure of where I am. My eyes come to rest on the shrine wrapped around the wooden pole, and this feeling overtakes me. I pull the sunset photograph down and stare at it. My hands tremble, but when I touch Viv’s face in the picture, the emptiness doesn’t come. These images have reminded me every day for two months that I would never see her again, but now I just close my eyes and inhale her scent lingering on my skin.

I tear another photo off, then one of the cards, and I can’t stop. Red and white ribbons tangle in my fingers, and I pull them down, laughing. A teddy bear falls from its pin to the ground, and I practically giggle—I can barely hold it together. None of this stuff means anything anymore. By the time I finish, the pole is as plain as the old one was before the crash and my sides ache from the unfamiliar joy. There’s a pile of cards with bullshit sentiments heaped on the sidewalk with the dead flowers and candles. I scoop it all up, making sure not to miss a shred of insincerity, and grin while I carry it across the street to the bus shelter trash can.

I tuck the photographs under one arm, saving them for myself. They used to make me feel so cut off, like she was frozen in the images forever without me, and I’d forget what she looked like if I didn’t have them. I used to think there was only one way I might ever see her again. I tip my head back and stare into the cold, starry sky, wondering if there’s someone—some
thing
I should thank. Then I wonder if I’d even be saying it to the right sky.

I hesitate by my mom’s car in the driveway. Every light in the house is on, even though it’s barely six o’clock on a Saturday morning. Mom suddenly acting like
a mom
—so not what I need right now. I close my eyes and return to kissing Viv, her lips soft and warm, her eyes so full of life. It’s like just thinking of her sets music playing inside me. I shiver with exhilaration. But when I open my eyes, I’m still standing alone by the car.

I walk heavily up the steps and put my key in the lock.

The house reeks of cigarettes. I slam the front door to give a little warning, and brace myself when my mom comes barreling out of the kitchen, her face tired and angry.

“Where have you been?” she demands. “Do you know what time it is?”

I open my mouth to speak, but my jaw just kind of hangs there. It’s not like I’ve never come in late before. What’s odd is that she noticed, or made time in her schedule to care. My cheek twitches. I know what comes next—she’ll try to play judge and jury. Lawyers love to do that to their kids.

She stops in front of me, hands on her hips. “I came home late, but you weren’t here. Why don’t you ever answer your cell phone?”

She folds her arms across her chest. Now
I’m
supposed to be the defense. I try to think up a really good courtroom-solid alibi, but the truth is so goddamn awesome. And so unbelievable.

“Mom, I’m sor—”

“I was just about to call your father …”

The music playing inside me cuts out. She can’t call him. I thought coming home would attract the least attention until I can sneak back to Viv tonight, but if my dad gets involved …

“You don’t need to do that,” I say.

“Camden, where were you tonight?”

Her eyes are bloodshot. Her clothing stinks of Marlboro.

“When did you start smoking again?” I ask.

She hesitates. Her gaze drops to the ground. She tucks a loose hair behind her ear, but her whole hairdo’s a mess.

“Are you … high or something?” she asks.

My eyebrows shoot up. Her face is so serious I almost burst out laughing, but I control myself because that would look crazy, and crazy would go over worse than wasted right now. I close my eyes, extend my arms, and touch my fingers to my nose a few times like the police make you do if they think you’re drunk. Then I put both my arms out for balance and walk a straight line across the room, heel to toe, turn at the end, and come back.

She stands waiting with her arms crossed, obviously unimpressed with my performance. I glance around her at the dead plants, the dust, the holes where stuff is missing everywhere. She looks so tired and alone. For a second, profound sadness breaks through my mood and I wonder when she got this way. Was it before Dad left?