6 Digit Passcode (9 page)

My words trail off when I can no longer conjure them. I don’t know what else to say. Roma is the one among us who has the right words, the only words worth saying right now.

My breathing feels shallow and my head is starting to spin.

“Roma?” I ask, my throat feeling almost too dry for me to push the words out. Roma sets down her needlework to listen. “Did my mother die because of me?”

I expect Roma to answer me immediately, to tell me
no, of course not
, and repeat the words until she’s certain I believe them. But she hesitates, and lets her silence speak for her.

I try to finish sewing but my vision is just blurry enough that it’s impossible for me to see where my needle is. Roma is just sitting there next to me, still as a statue, and the tension in her muscles is nearly palpable.

“No,” she finally says after a pause that is far too long. I turn away, and she puts one hand on my shoulder. “No, Everly, listen to me. Your mother didn’t die
because
of you. She was keeping a secret that would have put both you and your brother in danger. She made the choice to
protect
you two, and that choice ended up costing her life. But there is no way that you or Fray could have predicted or prevented what she did. Your mother… She knew she was going to die. She didn’t know when, but she knew
how
. And she knew that before you were even born.”

“Then why didn’t she tell me? I could have helped. I could have
tried
. She didn’t have to just… just let it
happen
.”

I feel a hot tear trace down the side of my face and I blink quickly, rubbing the moisture away with my hand. I can’t help but think that my mother was a selfish woman; she knew that there was going to come a time when her death would tear her family apart, but she didn’t even try to prevent it. Did she even fight back? I can’t remember. I know that she died quickly, but I was too busy cowering under the bed to notice much more than the noises around me.

I remember Fray coughing and sobbing. I remember my own frantic breathing. But I don’t remember my mother screaming or shouting or pleading. The only sounds I heard from her were a shallow gasp and the cracking of her body as it fell apart.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Did she
want
to die? Is that why she didn’t fight it? Did she want to leave us that badly?”

Roma abandons her sewing on the arm of the couch and leans over; her other hand comes up around my back and she pulls me into a side-ways hug. It takes me a moment to settle down into her embrace, and I can’t seem to move my own arms to hug her back, but she holds me around my shoulders and rocks me gently. Silent tears run down both sides of her face and into my hair. She smells like clean linen and cinnamon.

My mother used to do this when I was little; I used to get embarrassed when she tried to hold me like this as I got older. Now, I wish I hadn’t pushed her away so much. I wish I had realized the importance I had in her life before it became the death of her.

“I’m sorry. She didn’t tell me much, your mother, and I don’t know what she was thinking in her final moments. But I do know that she loved you, and that she would have done whatever it took to protect you and your brother. But that doesn’t make it –
any
of it – your fault. It was because she loved you. Wouldn’t you do the same, for someone you love?”

An image of Fray immediately flashes into my mind, and I nod against her shoulder. If Fray was in danger, I would gladly die to save him. But then where would that leave him? He would be alone, buried under a mountain of guilt just for being alive. Would he rather be dead than carry that grief around with him for the rest of his life?

Would
I
?

“She loved you,” Roma repeats, smoothing out the ends of my hair with her free hand. “She loved you and Fray more than anything. And whatever her reason for doing what she did, she wanted you two to be happy. She wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this.”

“I know,” I whisper against her shirt. “But it’s hard. Because I loved her, too.”

Roma’s sigh echoes in my ears, long and deep. I feel so small and weak. I’m supposed to be strong enough to take care of my family – what’s left of it – and already Fray’s bravery has surpassed my own.

I just can’t stop thinking about it, even though it hurts. I keep hoping that if I search far enough in my mind I’ll find a memory of my mother that will tell me why she did what she did and what my role was in her death. My guilt won’t ease until I know for certain, and it’s crippling enough as it is. Just one more piece of her secrets and the weight may crush me.

“I know you did, sweetheart. And I know it hurts. But there is nothing you could have done to save her. Okay? So you have to let her go. It’s what she would have wanted.”

I nod again, but I’m not really listening to what she’s saying. I need to let her go; I know I do. But I feel like maybe I’m not the one holding on anymore.

“Okay,” I say, even though I’m very far from being okay.

“I don’t know who killed your mother. I’m so sorry that it happened, but I wouldn’t tell you even if I
did
know. Focusing on revenge and prying into such dark things – nothing good can come of it. Your mother would not have wanted you to remember her for her secrets; she would have wanted you to remember her for the things that made you
happy
.”

“I know…” I whisper into her shirt. “But I can’t stop thinking about it. The Digit who came to get me… He knew about her. He knew about my parents and Fray and everything that happened. You don’t think he might have had something to do with it, do you? I don’t feel safe anymore, Roma. I don’t… I don’t even know who to trust.”

“Trust
me
,” she says; “And trust in your mother. If she had thought you were in danger here, she wouldn’t have left you. The important thing is that you and your brother are safe, and that your mother’s secrets are buried with her. You should try to forget about everything else; thinking about it will only bring you more pain.”

A thousand more questions burn in my throat, but I swallow them down with a nod. My mother must have had a good reason not to tell me; I have to believe that she had my best interests in her heart. But I also know, though Roma denies it, that she died because of me.

I also get the distinct feeling that the things she hid from me are important, but I have to find them out on my own. It would be wrong of me to involve anyone else in something that can only end in tragedy.

Roma continues comforting me while I pretend I’m not crying, she pretends not to notice, and I try to forget that I am the reason that both of my parents are dead.

Chapter nine

I don’t know why my feet pull me back to that house. It’s almost like I can’t control it, like my body knows something I don’t about what really happened in there.

I don’t want to see what’s inside, but I have to force myself to. This time, I have a reason for coming here. I made a mistake before, leaving her behind. Now I’ve come back to make things right.

I’ve returned home to bury my mother.

I know that it won’t be an easy task, but if it will ease some of my guilt and give her some sense of peace, wherever she is now, then it’s worth it. I don’t know how I ever thought I’d be able to live with myself knowing that I left her in that house to rot away.

I’ve got a shovel in one hand and a bed-sheet in the other. I snuck away while Fray was sleeping; under the cover of the dark night sky it’ll be easier for me to pull her body outside without being noticed.

Just the thought of what I’m about to do makes me feel sick to my stomach. I cough, trying to suppress a gag, and I’m not even past the front door yet.

Maybe I shouldn’t be here. I should go back to Crissy’s house and let myself forget. It’s been weeks; how deeply has the damage of time set into my mother’s skin? A child shouldn’t have to see her parents’ dead bodies, and yet here I am, willingly doing just that.

My hand hovers over the doorknob. I let go and turn away, but I only make it down one step before I’m back up again, staring at the painted wood and wondering how something so beautiful could hide something so ugly.

Kind of like my mother and her secrets.

I swallow and slowly open the door. It creaks on its hinges, and immediately I am assaulted by the worst stench I have ever smelled. Once, when I was little, my family went to stay with my father’s parents over Christmas and forgot to throw out a package of ground beef my mother left out on the countertop to thaw; when we got back, a week later, the entire kitchen smelled of rotten meat, and it took days of scrubbing and spraying before the scent finally dissipated. The entire house reeks of the same odor, only this time it’s ten times stronger and I don’t think any amount of cleaning could get rid of it.

Turning my head away from the blood spatter on the floor where my father was murdered, I make my way to the staircase. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of what looks like a patch of torn skin with a clump of dark hair along one side. I suppress the urge to retch, and pull my eyes away.

I half expect – and wholly hope – that my mother’s body will have vanished just like my father’s, but such luck tends not to come more than once, especially in a situation like this. I open the door to her room, and there she is, in the same position she died in.

This time, I can’t stop the gag that rips through my throat. I double over and heave, the entire contents of my stomach coming up in waves. Even after I’ve thrown up all that I can, I still retch a few more times until I’m able to control it. My gags turn into coughs, and then into wheezes. I feel lightheaded and every time I stand up straight, white patches dance in front of my eyes. I guess I’ll just have to crouch to do this, then, because I’m not about to back down now.

“Mother, what were you thinking?” I say, as if I believe that she can hear me somehow. “You should have told me what was going on. I can protect myself. Why didn’t you
trust
me?”

My voice breaks more the longer I speak, until all that comes out are pitiful sobs and coughs. I’m crying, and I’m ashamed of myself, and all I want is for my mother to hold me and comfort me and keep me safe.

“You tried. I know you did. But I’d rather you had talked to me about it first. We could have done something
together
. If you died to protect me, then who’s left? I’m all alone now. You left me
alone
, Mama!”

I sniff and take a deep breath, wiping my eyes and my nose off with the sleeves of my sweater. I love her –
so
much – but I’m also angry with her. And I hate myself for being angry with someone I love. Especially someone who loved me enough to die for me.

I chance a quick look at the body on the floor and immediately wish I hadn’t. Her hair is so brittle it’s already begun to flake off; her skin is stretched painfully thin and sinks so deeply over her bones that I can see the shape of her skeleton underneath. She looks so fragile, I’m afraid to touch her. What if she breaks apart in my arms?

Quickly, I unfold the sheet in my hands and throw it over her. The darkness of her skin, now more ashen than black in color, rises through the cloth, and I can still make out the silhouette of her sunken eyes and jutting bones from underneath it.

I pull a pair of gloves out of my pockets and slide my hands into them. I can’t bear to touch her, even through the sheet. I fear that the stains she would leave on my hands would never wash out.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I’ve got to move you. I don’t know what will happen when I do, but it’s better than being stuck in here, isn’t it? I’m so sorry. I should have done this a long time ago, but I was too afraid.”

I swallow down a lump in my throat, but it rises again just as quickly. Taking great care not to damage any part of her, I roll my mother over until the sheet is wrapped around her on all sides. I can still feel her body through it, but less so than I would have without such thick gloves.

Surprisingly, the thing that bothers me the most about having to carry my mother’s body down the stairs and outside is how easy it is. She’s so light, it’s no different than carrying Fray to bed when he falls asleep on the couch. But the sensation of her bones shifting and her skin cracking is enough to balance out the ease of lifting her body in my arms.

I push the door open with my hip and lay the body down on the porch, on a bench behind a layer of wooden fencing that will hopefully shield her from the prying eyes of any neighbors looking out their windows.

Of course, me taking up the shovel I left outside and using it to dig a hole in the middle of the yard is more than enough to cause a scene should anyone see it. Thankfully, it seems that the entire neighborhood is holed up in their homes, fast asleep or otherwise occupied.

The air is crisp and the ground is dry, which makes digging into it that much harder. I’m glad that it isn’t frozen solid, but I’ve never been very strong, and I have to hurry so that I can get back to Crissy’s house before anyone notices I’m gone.