Where Silence Gathers (13 page)

In the distance, a bird sings. Even this intimidates my visitor, obvious by the way she tenses. Slowly, praying she won't bolt, I lower myself back to the step. The dog watches me with wide eyes that remind me of Apprehension. I try to go completely still, but the need to move, to twitch, to tap is constant, so I pretend to be interested in a rock by my shoe. I reach down to touch its smooth surface. For eleven seconds, we stay like this. Her staring and evaluating, me aching to show this damaged animal some kindness. It's a strange sensation, allowing this part of myself to shine through when I've become so accustomed to keeping it smothered in the darkness.

She takes one step closer. Then another. And another.

I barely dare to breathe. It seems like the only sound on the mountain is the skitter of dirt every time the pads of her feet touch the ground. I keep my gaze glued to that rock. Its image is imprinted on my brain now. When I close my eyes tonight I'll see it, the gray ridges and pitted texture. Then a black nose comes into view, and she's so close I could bury my fingers in her tangled fur. But I don't; the only way something can truly come to you is from its own choice.

Choice.

Before the vacuum of bleak thoughts can suck me in, my new friend cautiously sniffs the back of my hand. The beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of my mouth, and I forget Revenge and Forgiveness and all the rest. For the moment, at least. “You picked a fine time to show up,” I whisper, showing her my empty hands in a slow movement. Her scent reaches me, and it's so awful I have to make a conscious effort not to cover my nose. “I would go get something from the fridge, but it's kind of a war zone in there right now. It's my fault, of course.” The dog edges forward some more, ears perked as though she's really interested. I purse my lips, imagining Missy lying in bed, Saul fiddling with gadgets in a piano, just to keep their fears and pains at bay. Fears and pains I've caused.

The dog bumps her head against my wrist, probably aiming for my hand or too timid to, and I oblige by scratching her ear. She closes her eyes in pure bliss, as though no one has ever touched her before. It makes me feel … guilty. For being so consumed by losing my family when there are some who never had one to begin with. But I can't think like that, not if I'm going to keep my promise to them and make the right choice.

“Maybe it's a good thing that I'm hurting them,” I add quietly, envisioning the moment when I finally open that red door. “It'll make it easier when … when I finally go into Foster's house. Right?”

Alexandra.

The dog lets out a yelp, and before I can comfort her she tucks her tail between her legs and runs.

She heard it, too.

This isn't happening.
It's the same thing I've told myself every other time the voice rips through my head. It doesn't work now, though. Not after what I saw in the mines. Suddenly a gust of wind tries to blow me away, the strength of it out of place when there's only been a serene breeze to disturb the leaves.

Still raw from the incidents on the road and at the mines, still brittle from the realization that my best friend doesn't love me, I feel something inside me just snap.
“What do you want?”
I scream, clutching my head.

There's no hesitation. No, there's almost a sense of …
eagerness
in the response.
The mines. The mines.

It's no longer a hiss or a whisper. The voice is distinctly male, and it must be gaining strength or confidence, because I've never been able to discern that before. Fear and Resentment follow me as I jump up and storm to the front of the shop. “You want me? Fine!” I yank my bike upright and swing my leg over it. Saul must be keeping an eye on the windows, because the bell over the door jangles as he rushes out, shouts my name.
There's no point
, I want to shout back.
Let me go.
But that's what love is: holding on and holding tight no matter what. Through death, through pain, through everything. There's a part of me that wants to turn back and be worthy of it. I'm standing on the edge of that bridge, though, and I'm tilting forward. Falling. There is no turning back.

It's seven miles to the mines. By the time the warnings appear on my right, my thighs and lungs burn. Hysteria bubbles up inside of me and bursts out in breathless laughter. I keep going, inexplicably drawn to this place. Then I crest the hill, and there's the entrance.

It has an air of expectancy surrounding it. I tip the bike to the side and get off violently, letting it crash to the ground. I stand a few yards away from the leering darkness and raise my voice. “Well? Here I am! You wanted this.
Now show your fucking face
.” My chest heaves.

Nothing. Seconds pass. In the daylight, the mines don't seem so terrifying or mysterious. If I tried hard enough, I could convince myself that I hadn't seen anything last night.

As tranquility presses in, making me doubt that what I saw was real, my fury begins to fade. Birds continue to call to each other and the treetops murmur and the sky is so blue it's almost mocking. What did I expect? Sammy Thorn to come sauntering out, have a conversation about his hobby of taking children? I raise a shaking hand to push my hair out of the way. Revenge was wrong—I have truly, deeply, utterly lost my sanity.

Manic laughter is rising up inside me again. It's a moment away from bursting into the clearing … but then something moves. The laugh dries up like one of Francis's flowers. I stare.

This is not a stray dog or some leaves.

The same silhouette emerges from the shadows, stopping just in front of a shaft of sunlight. And this time, I can see his face. The features have become fuzzy in my memory, but the edges become sharp and clear once again. My stomach drops, my heart explodes, my head becomes a balloon that floats up into that blue sky. Suddenly Emotions are everywhere, reaching for me, offering commentary in a blend of different voices and expressions that I don't hear or see. Disbelief, Surprise, Joy, Wonder, Denial.

When I finally manage to speak, I sound like the child I was the last time I saw him. “Daddy?”

Sixteen

“Alex!”

Briana smiles, surprised but happy to see me. Her smile quickly dies when she sees my face. “What is it? What happened?” Blind to the presence of the Emotions, she pulls me inside her house, her skin the only warm spot on my icy skin. I can hear Joe's station playing on their old radio. Briana stays by the doorway and waits for me to respond. It must be later than I realized, because both of her parents are home. Francis is in her chair, the one with the pink flowers and fraying edges, looking down at a checkerboard between her and Briana's dad.

“Alex?”

Her sweet voice breaks through the haze, and I focus on Briana again. She's standing so close I can feel her breath on my cheek, ready to take on any burden I'm willing to give her. And suddenly I can't tell her about anything, especially not what I saw in the mines. “What's wrong?” she repeats.

I force a smile and shrug, as though it's nothing. “Feeling a little moody, is all. I could use some girl time.”

Of course she doesn't believe me—I can see it in her eyes—but that's where Briana and Georgie differ; one allows the walls while the other wants to kick them down.

“I might be able to help you with that,” she says, hugging me. She must have just showered; her hair is wet and the smell of her shampoo wafts over me. Where I would normally pull away, I don't. After a few seconds she's the one who breaks free, cupping my elbows. “Come on in. I was just watching Mom kick Dad's ass.”

“It's not over yet!” Bill calls from his spot. He holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and squints down at the board. I follow Briana into the room and we settle on the floor in front of them. Einstein twines through my arms and legs, purring. I pat him absently and enjoy the sight of Francis, more animated than I've seen her in months. Strange that she should be so alive on a day consumed by the dead.

The thought yanks me back to the mines, to Dad. It happened so fast. One moment he was there, looking right at me with his familiar brown eyes, and the next he was gone. Reality is setting in again, and with each passing second I'm more and more convinced that I imagined the entire thing. How could it be real? There's no such thing as ghosts … is there?

One thing I know with utmost certainty: I have to go back.

“Honey, it's your turn.” Francis plucks the skirt of her nightgown, studying the pieces on the board closely.

Just then, Elvis's “
Burning Love”
comes on. Bill claps his hands and jumps up, startling all of us. His knee knocks the game board and checkers scatter across the floor. Francis jerks back, scowling. “Damn it, Bill!”

Ignoring this, he rushes to the radio and turns the volume knob so loud that Einstein flees the room. Then he returns to his wife—Briana and I scramble out of the way—and holds his hands out to her, grinning. “Come on!” he exclaims, swinging his hips from side to side. “We danced to this at our wedding, remember? Briana, you were there, cooking in the oven. It's our family song!”

Briana laughs, and I'm smiling. Elvis sings his encouragement. Francis gives Bill another exasperated look, but he just grabs her fingers and hauls her up. Joy is here now, doing an odd little jig that makes the fat in her arms jiggle. Her orange-red hair is a fire that warms us all. Briana shouts encouragement. Francis is worse than Revenge as she dances, her movements uncertain and awkward. She doesn't stop, though. All too soon the song ends, and a gentler one comes on. Joe introduces it in his familiar drawl. Bill tugs Francis against him, and they sway there together as if Briana and I don't exist.

Now Love accompanies them. Her palms cup their backs. Their minds will dismiss the sensation as something ordinary; that's how it always works. Francis closes her eyes, the veins in her eyelids so thick and blue. Like rivers on Saul's maps. I remember the helplessness in her the last time I came here, when the pot on the sill was still only dirt. It feels so long ago.

Finished with their summons, Joy and Love stand back, whispering to each other and grinning. All of this reminds me of that first afternoon in the attic. The laughter, the warmth, the closeness. I miss Revenge so much it's an ache in my chest, like he has his fist wrapped around my heart and keeps tightening his hold, no matter how hard I try to be free of him. “Why can't all love be as easy as that?” I murmur.

My friend sighs. She bumps her shoulder to mine. “Love isn't complicated, Alex. People are.”

Bill says something in Francis's ear and she giggles. I watch the two of them, thinking that hope is always found in the places you least expect it.

When I don't respond, Briana looks at me sidelong. “You say that like you have experience. But so far as I know, you've never dated anyone.” There's a question in the words.

The pause after she speaks is palpable, but without the pressure that usually pounds in from all sides like the storms that frequent this mountain. Here's my chance. I could be honest with Briana for the first time in my life. Tell her about the other plane and my father and everything else. She would believe me, she would understand. That's who she is.

But Briana's world is beautiful, even with its flaws. I don't want to be the one who puts something ugly in it. So instead I just say, “I messed up, Bri. I don't think Saul and Missy are going to forgive me.” The image of Saul running after me as I sped away on my bike flashes and fades in my mind's eye. That ever-present shard of glass in my heart burrows deeper and I actually put a hand to my chest, convinced I'll feel it there.

Light from the window falls across Briana's face and dust glints like stars. “Of course they will,” she murmurs. “You just have to earn it.”

She's not talking about me and Saul anymore. She's staring up at her mother, Longing and Hurt and Love surrounding her. I wish I knew what was wrong. Suddenly she stands, and every step she takes away sounds like an earthquake. Neither of her parents notices. Slowly, I follow. We reach the hallway and Briana doesn't say anything; she just focuses on another pot of soil next to the door. Past experience has taught me that she won't—can't—talk about her mother. So I touch her arm and say, “I better go. I'm pretty sure Saul has grounded me until graduation.”

“
If
you graduate.” Briana finally looks at me.

Another pause. The look in her eyes kills me. I feel like I'm running down a road and everyone I love is standing a mile back, calling to me and urging me to stop. To return. “If I graduate,” I echo softly. She expects me to defend myself or offer some kind of explanation. I do neither. “See you later, Bri. Thanks for … for this.” When I leave, she doesn't try to stop me or say goodbye.

I lift my bike upright and get on, pedal far enough that I'm out of view. Then I stop on the side of the road. Gravel crunches beneath my sandal. I dig my phone out of my pocket and find the number in the
RECENTLY CALLED
list. Press
TALK
and hold it to my ear. Just like all the other times, it rings over and over. I have the sound memorized, so much that I know exactly when the voicemail will interrupt.

But this time the accented voice doesn't drone an apology to me. Every vein in my body twitches when there's a click and the voice says, “Hello?”

It takes me several attempts to croak, “Is this Dr. Stern?”

“Yes, this is Dr. Stern. Who is this?”

“This is Alex Tate.” I can barely breathe. “I think you knew my father. Will Tate?”

Silence on the other end. I wait for exactly four seconds, then open my mouth to say something else, anything that will get me answers to all my unanswered questions. Before I can, there's another click.

The dial tone moans in my ear.

Piano music floats through the floor. I stand in front of my bedroom window and make myself listen. Saul has been at it for hours. Every note, every key reveals the inner turmoil I've caused. Missy clatters around in the kitchen, making supper even though none of us will probably eat it. The smell of grease fills the apartment. Then Missy swears vehemently, and the scent of charred food joins it. I focus on the faint outline of the moon above me, toying with my eyebrow ring, spinning it around and around through my skin. Eventually I become aware of a hot presence at my back. Then, chocolate.

“Get out.” I don't turn around.

Revenge moves around me, forcing me to take a step back. His brow is furrowed, and he's holding a bottle of vodka in one fist and some small rocks in his other palm. Our favorite things to have for a night on the bridge. We would get drunk and skip stones. He thought he could come here and pretend like nothing has changed. The time for pretending is so far behind me it's not even on the horizon anymore; it's just gone.

“Alex, what—”

“You may have to be there when I face Nate Foster, but you sure as hell don't have to be around me until then,” I hiss, wishing I could shove him. An Emotion solidifies at my back.
“Get out
.”

“First tell me what I did.” His green eyes threaten to breach the wall of anger I've built.

“It doesn't matter. All that matters is that we're
done
.” My control shatters, and I reach out to plant my hands on his chest, to push him right through the window and watch him fall as hard as I have.

The moment I'm about to make contact, Revenge vanishes. He bursts into sight again by the closet. His gelled hair glints in the lamplight and he's never been more beautiful to me, now that I know I can never have him. Not really.

“I'm not leaving this room until you—” He stops, clenches his jaw.
Until you forgive me
, he'd been about to say. Ironic. So, so ironic.

Saul's music strengthens, wrapping around us. I close my eyes. In the darkness I see Dad in the mines, the glint of Francis's teeth as she danced, the curve of Briana's shoulder when she hugged me so tight. I remember how Georgie's voice sounded when she let go of her dreams, the way Missy's chin trembled while I threw her love back in her face. There are other memories that try to overwhelm me, but I find a semblance of endurance and push them back.

“Just let me hate you. Please.” I meet Revenge's gaze and know that there are tears in my own. Emotions touch me, some violent, some gentle. They don't linger.

“I-I couldn't exist in a world where you hate me,” Revenge says quietly. I've never seen him desperate; it's obvious in his voice, his eyes, his face. He tries to hide it, but I know him too well.

Yet I didn't see through all his lies. I face the sky again, unable to look at him anymore. The stars have begun to emerge. Unlike the night of my birthday, they're utterly silent. I take a ragged breath. “I saw something today. I'm still not sure if it was real or not. But it made me realize something.”

I don't go on, and Revenge dares to come close again. His breath tickles my ear. “What did you realize?” he asks.

My father's voice haunts me.
Alexandra
. “I'm not capable of forgiveness.”

The creature I once called my best friend has no response to this. After all, it's the only thing he wanted. For me to choose him. What else is there?

Confirming it, Revenge leaves me with the moon and my thoughts. A bitter smile curves my lips.

Saul stops playing downstairs, and a second later there's a knock on my bedroom door. “Alex? There's supper if you want it.” The floor creaks as Missy walks away. I'm just about to follow when something moves, drawing my attention; a spider has made a home out of the corner of my window. My skin crawls instinctively. Though it's on the other side of the glass, it would be easy to kill, just like the one in the attic. All I would have to do is push the frame up. Something stops me, though, and I just watch it. The web beneath the little creature glistens as it waits. So still, so patient.

It happens in a moment: a moth flies into the trap. It immediately struggles, but the spider is too fast. It zips across those gleaming strands. I lean closer, morbidly fascinated. The predator's movements are cold and efficient as it wraps the moth again and again and again. The winged thing is still alive, trying to break free even when it's obvious the end is near, that it's futile to struggle against it. Then the spider presses close, as if to kiss, though its intentions are far more sinister. Funny, how an act so lethal could seem like something entirely different.

For an instant I consider reaching out and saving it. Crushing the spider so the moth can wriggle out and away from this place of death. Death is inevitable, though, and it's too late, anyway.

I observe the gruesome pair until the writhing lump of web goes utterly still, and then I turn my back, letting the spider finish its meal alone.