Unhooked (2 page)

I glance away and resist the urge to smooth down my soaked jacket.

“Arrangements have been made for us to lease your flat,” my mom says, thrusting the creased papers toward him.

The man stares at her for a long, awkward moment before he finally takes them from her outstretched hand. He reads one sheet and then the other, and when he's finished, he glances up at us. With another questioning look at my mom, he jerks his head toward the interior and disappears into the house.

My mom follows him without too much hesitation, but Olivia grabs my arm. “Are you sure about this?”

Of course I'm not sure.
I give her a halfhearted shrug. “I guess we should go in,” I say instead, avoiding her eyes as I follow my mom into the house.

Inside the smoke-darkened barroom, the boy could scarcely believe that the soldier who sat across from him was the apple-cheeked brother he'd once known. His brother sat stiff and straight, his eyes like flint even as he smiled. “I'm not frightened,” the solider assured the boy.
Neither am I frightened,
the boy thought to himself. . . .

I
NSIDE, THE ONLY LIGHT COMES from A dimly burning chandelier fitted with what look to be gaslights. My mom is already speaking in hushed tones with the goblin-shaped man, so I let my bag slump to the floor and dump my jacket on top of it as I take a look around. I'm not surprised to find the rest of the house is as gloomy as the sky outside.

Everything about the place feels old and worn-out. The air has the thick mustiness found in closed-up attics or forgotten parts of old libraries. Which, actually, isn't a bad description for what I'm seeing, because everywhere I look the walls are covered with all sorts of junk. Ornate mirrors, decorative plates of all shapes and colors, ancient-looking portraits of stern men and unsmiling women. The carpets are worn dull and smooth from age, and the woodwork has lost any bit of shine it might have once had.

Olivia's shoes scuff into the hallway behind me, and despite my misgivings about the house, I relax a bit. She didn't leave. Not yet, at least.

But she will,
I remind myself. In two weeks she'll be gone. And I'll still be here. At least until my mom decides it's time to move again.

“Is this place for real?” she whispers over my shoulder.

“Unfortunately,” I say.

She takes a few steps to examine one of the oil paintings on the wall. Its surface is barely visible from a combination of age, soot, and dust. She swipes at the surface and then rubs her finger and thumb together to smudge away the grime.

“It could be worse,” I offer, trying to keep my voice light, but my throat is too tight even to pretend optimism.

“Gwen—” Olivia starts, but thankfully, my mom's voice interrupts us.

“We're all set,” my mom tells me, and I realize with some relief that her voice—her whole demeanor, really—has changed. It's finally started to take on the usual steel each of our moves normally begin with. Sometimes that calm, focused determination will last months before it starts to crack. It can last longer if she's working on a project or one of her commissions—in Westport it lasted for more than two years.

“My rooms are back there,” the small man is explaining as he jerks his head toward a hallway behind the large central staircase. “If you need anything . . .”

“Thank you,” my mom murmurs, but I know she'll never take him up on his offer. Once her supplies arrive, she'll keep to herself and her art, like she always does. Until something sets her off and she decides we need to run.

“Come on, then.” Assuming we'll follow, the old man turns to the stairs and starts up. When we reach the second floor, he pulls out a large ring of skeleton keys and uses one to unlock the first door we come to. “This 'ere's the flat.”

The door swings open, and he steps inside a room that smells like it hasn't been aired out in at least a decade.

With a wet snort, he looks around the sparsely furnished apartment as though approving of what he sees. I can't imagine why—the apartment looks like it was last lived in about fifty years ago. “The other bedroom is this way,” he says. Without bothering to make sure we're following, he heads farther into the darkened flat.

We follow him back through a narrow hallway lit by the strange and ghostly glow of more gas lamps and up another staircase so narrow, we have to climb single file. At the top, though, we find a room that is surprisingly airy. Here, the ceiling follows the sharp point of the roofline, and windows line the far wall, helping to make the space feel more open. Even with the overcast skies outside, this room is by far the brightest place in the house.

A studio, I realize. Because my mom will need the light to work.

The lower level of the apartment had been decorated by someone who had a thing for avocado green, but the décor in this room might be original—it looks Victorian and seems to have been untouched by any previous tenants. The walls are washed in a soft blue, and a large bed stands against the back wall. A massive carved fireplace that now houses a small heating unit takes up most of the wall to the right.

On the wall opposite the fireplace is a large and intricate mural. Time has faded its colors, so the design is barely an impression of its former beauty, but even so, it's striking. Wispy figures that look like they might have once been beautifully rendered fairies dance beneath flowered trees as bright, starlike orbs swirl around them.

“What is
that
?” my mom asks. I've heard her sound less horrified with the lizards we lived with a few years back. There's a strangled quality to her voice, like her panic is already wrapping its fingers around her throat, even as she tries to pretend she's calm.

It hasn't even been an hour. Our boxes haven't even arrived yet.

She turns on the landlord, her eyes fierce. “Is this some sort of joke? Because it's not—”

“It's just a painting,” I tell her gently, touching her shoulder before she can finish.

She flinches away, her words forgotten. She never wants me to touch her when she's like this—I should know that by now. Still, her rejection stings.

“This room used to be a nursery.” I can feel the old man lurking too close behind me. “Course, it's been a lot more since, but no one never could bring themselves to get rid of the wee folk.”

My mom turns back to the mural. “I can't stay here,” she whispers in a ragged voice. Her unease feels like a living thing snaking through the room, but I don't understand her reaction. The mural is beautiful, charming even. “And I can't work here. Not with them watching and—”

“Mom,” I say gently, before she can work herself up too much more. “It's okay.”

She turns on me, her eyes wide and wild, and I sense Olivia stiffen beside me. She knows my mom can be eccentric, but I've managed to hide most of this from her. Two years, and Olivia has only ever seen the aftermath. She's been there when I turn up exhausted and at the end of my rope, and she's never asked the questions I know she wants to ask when she lets me stay the night at her house.

“You see them, don't you?” my mom asks me in a strangled whisper.

“I see them just fine,” I assure her. “We all see them. It's a painting. That's all it is.”

She shakes her head, her mouth set tight as her eyes dart between the mural and me. “I can't work here,” she says again. “Not until they're gone. I won't stay here.”

“You don't have to.” I try to reach out for her again. “We can go back to Westport. It's not too late.”

“No.” Her eyes are hard and almost accusing as she takes another step back, jerking away from me again. “It
has
to be here. It's been arranged. But this room . . .” She's no longer looking at me. She has eyes only for the wall, and I know what she's thinking—she needs to work. Hers might never be calm or easy paintings, but those canvases are the way she keeps herself centered. She needs to create, or she will lose herself bit by bit to her fears and delusions.

“I can't,” she whispers over and over as she shakes her head, and I know that if I don't stop this, things are going to get bad, fast.

“We'll get some paint to cover it, then,” I say, trying to calm her down. I look to the old man for assurance. He gives a halfhearted shrug, which is close enough to permission for me. “Olivia and I will stay up here tonight, okay? Tomorrow we can talk about painting it or going somewhere else.”

I hold my breath and wait as my mom stares at the mural for a long unsettled minute. Part of me hopes she won't agree, that she'll decide this place is all wrong, but then she gives a small nod.

“We can paint over them.” She finally looks at me again, and I see her slowly coming back to herself. “We
need
to stay here,” she says, her blue-gray eyes serious.

“We'll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight Olivia and I will sleep up here. It'll be fine. Right, Liv?”

“Sure, Mrs. Allister. We'll be great,” Olivia says, stepping forward and giving my mom a quick hug. My mom doesn't pull away from her.

“See? All settled.” I touch my mom's shoulder again, feeling her muscles quiver as she forces herself to not jerk away from me like I'm one of the monsters she imagines. I pull my hand back and give her the space I know she needs as I try to ignore the bone-deep loneliness I feel in a room filled with people.

“Is there a way to turn this thing off?” Olivia asks as she walks over to get a better look at an antique sconce hanging over the bed. The lamp is an elegant twist of glass that reminds me of a fluted flower. As she examines it, the orange-red flame throws a strange glow across Olivia's upturned face. Like the lamps downstairs, it's burning even though there's plenty of daylight left.

“It ain't safe to turn it off—” the old man starts with a growl, but then he stops short, like he's just said something he shouldn't have. “Old lines and all. Never can tell what would happen,” he finishes, his voice only a bit softer. “Besides, it's tradition to keep it burnin'.”

“Leave the lamp be,” my mom says softly, her voice still filled with worry.

I look over to find her staring at the fairy wall again, one hand slightly outstretched. I can't tell if she's reaching for it or pushing it away.

“I assume everything's in order, then?” the old man says.

When my mom doesn't answer, he eyes me.

“Yes,” I say, trying to smile. “Thank you.”

“Right.” The old man seems satisfied enough as he leaves us alone in the attic room.

“He's not serious about the light, is he?” Olivia asks, her brows bunched.

“I think he was,” I tell her. Because I don't know how I'm supposed to explain that there's always
something
in each of the places we've moved to. Rows of stones carved with protective runes. Lines of salt or iron nails buried at the four corners of the property. Crystals hanging from the windows or, this time, lights that must always remain burning.

“I guess we should start bringing up the bags,” I say, glancing at Olivia.

“He's not going to get them for us?” she asks, and her confused expression is almost enough to lighten my mood.

I shake my head. “It shouldn't take us too long. The rest won't be here until tomorrow anyway.”

“Right,” Olivia says, shooting me a concerned look. I give her a subtle nod to let her know I want a second to talk to my mom before I follow. “I'll just get started then,” she tells me, heading toward the stairs.

I hesitate, waiting to see what my mom will do. But she only seems to have eyes for the fairy wall. It's like I'm not even there.

“We could still go back, you know,” I say, taking a step toward her. “We could get you some help. I'm sure Olivia's mom knows someone at the hospital who could—”

My mom glances at me, and the look on her face makes the words die in my throat. “We're safe now,” she whispers. “Everything will be fine.”

“We were safe in Westport,” I say with more bitterness than I mean to let slip. “I was happy there.”

My mom frowns, like she doesn't really understand why I'm pushing her on this. “I know you were, but . . .” She doesn't finish her thought, but her brows pinch together. “This is the right thing to do,” she says finally. “You'll just have to trust me.”

This is where I'm supposed to say,
Of course I trust you.
But I can't. Maybe in a few weeks, after the rawness of being torn away from the life I'd dared to make for myself has eased, but not yet. “This won't be the last time, will it?” I ask instead.

My mom has never said any of our moves would be the last. She's never even pretended, and I've never asked—only hoped. But this move is different. This move doesn't feel like me and my mom against the world. This move feels like me and my mom against each other. This time, I need to know.

She gives me a wobbly sort of smile, and in that moment I understand Olivia was right. If I stay with my mom, my future is destined to be a series of never-ending moves. It will be a life without any true home or any lasting friendships. And if I leave? If, once I'm eighteen and legally free to go, I walk away? I'll lose the only family I have. Because my mother will never stop moving. Not as long as she believes there are monsters chasing us.

When I start to turn away, she catches my hand. “Gwen,” she says, turning my name into a plea, like she understands where my thoughts have gone. She lets go of my hand long enough to take a bracelet from her own wrist and slip it onto mine. “You're nearly grown, you know,” she says, brushing my damp hair back from my face. “It's time you have this.”

I pull my arm away from her and examine the bracelet. It's one I've never seen her go without—blue-gray stones almost the exact color of her eyes. They aren't quite round, like pearls, but they are smooth and almost translucent. When I was little, I used to love running my fingers over the cool, wobbly stones as I counted them.