A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (16 page)

“He’s cleaned up his act?” she asks.

“Yes. And he’s… Julia… he’s good. He doesn’t know it, but he’s really kind. But that’s not why I called.”

Julia laughs. “Are you
ever
going to get to why you called? I’m not in any hurry, I don’t hear from you often enough.”

“I am,” I say. “You just needed that background. I’m ready.”

“Okay.”

“Dylan had this friend. When he was living on the street. She went by the street name of Spot—he doesn’t know what her actual name is. He said she was fourteen at the time… which makes her about sixteen now.”

“Okay….” Julia’s voice trails off.

I swallow. “Spot got kicked out of her house because she was gay. And for a while they were close friends. He says she was like a sister to him. But when he cleaned up and went back to school, she disappeared. He tried to find her, but no luck. Anyway… a mutual friend of theirs told Dylan the other night that Spot is dead.”

Julia mutters a barely audible curse.

“Anyway… that’s the story. The thing is… we don’t know when it happened… or what happened… or why. And … Dylan’s really broken up about it, Julia. She really was a little sister to him, I can see it. He loved her. I want to find out who she was, and what happened to her.”

“And… how can I help?”

I smile, just a little. “I just… can I borrow some money?” I swallow, then launch into my pitch. “Like… a few thousand dollars? Mom or Dad would never help with this. But I’m thinking, maybe a private detective, or something like that, could find out something. There can’t be that many teenage girls turning up… dead… in Atlanta. Can there? It seems like we should be able to track her down. At least then Dylan could have some idea what happened to his friend.”

Silence at the other end of the line. I breathe, then a little faster, then I say, too quickly, “Julia, I can pay you back. I really can. I don’t get my trust fund until I’m 21 but I’ll get a part time job somewhere, or—”

“Alex, stop.” Her command is sharp. “It’s not that. I’d gladly pay whatever you need,” she says.

“You’ll help? Really?”

“Alex—are you sure you want to get mixed up in this? Does he mean that much to you?”

I sniff.
Damn it.
I wasn’t going to get emotional. But I can’t help myself. “Julia, you didn’t see his eyes. He’s so sad.”

“And you want to take care of him.”

Horrified at myself, I hiccup. “Yes.
He’s got a strength I’ve never seen. But it’s buried under a lot of pain. Julia, you’d love him. Please help?”

“Of course.
Tell me everything you know about her. Where were they? You said Atlanta? I know a guy there, lawyer for one of the studios… he might know some people. How long are you going to be in Haifa?”

“We leave for Jerusalem in the morning, then back to the United States on December 9
^th
.”

“Oh… you don’t have much time left at all.”

When she says that, I almost feel tears welling up again. “No,” I whisper.

“Chin up, Alex. You can handle this. If it’s the real thing, I promise you it will survive some time and distance.”

She’s right. Besides, I graduate high school in another 18 months. That’s not long at all when you consider everything. Maybe we can go to college together? Maybe…

It’s too early to think about all that. Way too early.

But I love him.

I swallow. Then I start telling Julia everything I can remember.

For four weeks, Alex and I have been riding on buses together all over the country. We’ve been in Tel Aviv and Haifa, Nazareth and the Dead Sea. But
this
ride, to Jerusalem, is the quietest we’ve been. We’ve ridden the two-hour drive mostly in silence, her leaning against me, both of us sometimes looking out at the countryside and mostly at each other. About halfway through the ride I kissed her, all of my attention zeroed down to the scent of her hair (strawberry) and the pliable, wet feel of her lips against mine.

After a few moments of that, I hear a disapproving throat clearing. We break apart, in a bit of a haze, only to see Mrs Simpson in the seat in front of us. She’s sort of towering over us, actually.

“I’m well aware you two are in love. But please maintain some decorum in the bus.” She gives me a kind smile, then steps away, leaving me and Alex sitting there, heat on our faces.

I’m well aware you two are in love.

I haven’t told Alex that, have I? No. Not yet. But it’s true. There’s no doubt. Loving her is … it’s ecstasy. It’s intoxicating, it feels like I’m gently floating up into the sky holding her hands. But it’s also agony. It’s knowing that I have to say goodbye. It’s knowing that in 8 days, we get on a plane back to the United States and
we might not ever see each other again. It
hurts.

We both sink back into our seat. I look at her with a grin, and she smiles back. Neither of us says anything. But I take her right hand in my left, and she leans her head on my shoulder. We ride a few more minutes, and then she says, “Dylan? Will you play me a song?”

I swallow. Then I nod. She shifts off my shoulder, and I stand and pull my guitar down from the overhead rack and open the case. Quickly I tune the instrument.

I close my eyes, centering myself. I feel a tightness in my chest, my heart beating loud enough I can hear the pulse in my ears even over the bus. Because I haven’t played this song for her. Because, well, I hadn’t written it until the other night. Usually I just play covers, mostly old folk and southern rock—Eagles, Dylan (of course), Atlanta Rhythm Section, Cat Stevens. But this one is
mine.
But that’s not the reason I’m struggling a little. The reason for that is because it’s about
her.

I take a breath, then strum an open E chord, followed by a slow A Minor. Then I begin to work my way through the song. The beginning is all guitar, no lyrics. I was going for a haunting, almost ethereal sound, with occasional harmonics.

Her eyes are directly on me. So I start singing.

Broken

Lost

Alone

A boy lost in forever

Out on his own

Afraid

Determined

Driven

A boy rebuilding a life

But heart still hidden

Her eyebrows are drawn together, her eyes on me. I think she was expecting me to play something familiar. If so, this has caught her by surprise. I shift to a new key for the chorus.

But then a new day came

A desert, a sea, a sky, a love

But then a new day came

Everything changed

Back to the original key for the next two verses.

Magic

Beauty

Brilliance

A girl from forever

He found her

A touch

An embrace

A kiss

He wanted her to know

What he couldn’t say with words

At this point, I’m looking out the window, because
I can’t
look at her.
I can’t.
Not with what I’m about to sing. But I keep going, because I don’t know what the hell else I’m supposed to do.

But then a new day came

Adore

worship

idolize

treasure

But then a new day came

Because the boy had found what he’d always needed, what he’d always wanted

A view from forever

With the last word of my sappy as hell song, I strike a power chord F that rings through the whole bus with a resounding hum. I don’t hear any response—or see any, because, my eyes are squeezed shut.

But then someone in the back starts clapping. I open my eyes, and hear more of them, all of the kids on the bus clapping.

Alex, though, she stares at me. Green eyes wide, the faintest, most beautiful smile on her face.

I can feel heat on my cheeks. “I… um… cobbled that one together the other night.”
Stumbling on my words, I open up my guitar case. Then drop it. I pick it up again and put the guitar in, my cheeks hot. I snap the case shut and toss the guitar back up top. And cough.

Finally I sit back down, and pray for the bus trip to continue.

That song.

Was he really singing about me? He was. He was singing to me. About me.
He wrote a song about us.

Dylan hasn’t said
I love you.
But he wrote a song about me.

I’m hyperventilating.

As the other students stop clapping, I whisper, “That was beautiful.”

He just shrugs, a faint smile on his face. He’s nervous. I can see it. Normally confident as hell, Dylan’s vulnerable side comes out when it comes to showing who he is deep inside. I make it easy on him. I lean forward and kiss him hard on the lips. Mrs. Simpson can just close her eyes and look away.

Unfortunately, the rest of the kids burst into applause again at our kiss.

Now
I’m
the one who is blushing.

Half an hour later the bus arrives in Jerusalem. Unlike Haifa, which looked a lot like home, and Tel Aviv, which looks almost generic with its glass and steel towers, Jerusalem is firmly a city out of the ancient world. Our route into the city initially takes us through winding and sparse desert hills, great ravines to either side of the highway. We start to come into the suburbs, but we’re trapped in urban traffic.
Cars and pedestrians everywhere. The buildings almost all of the same dun-colored stone. Palm trees scattered here and there.

All of us crane our necks to get a good look out of the bus. People everywhere, some of them dressed in normal western clothing, others in green uniforms—many, many uniforms—others in the black suits, beards and hats of the ultra-Orthodox Hasidic Jews. The street signs are trilingual—Hebrew, Arabic and English. Normally, men and women with uniforms and guns are everywhere in Israel, but they are far more evident in Jerusalem. On every street corner.

Mrs. Simpson stands up and says, “Our driver says we’ll shortly see the walls of the Old City. Then we’ll be headed to the King David Hotel for a diplomatic luncheon. You will all want to be on your best behavior, because the British Ambassador will be giving a speech.”

“That will be just as exciting as watching snow melt on a cold day,” I mutter.

Dylan snickers. “To you, maybe. It’ll all be brand new to me.”

I shrug. Then I sit up straight. “Look!” I say.

Just overhead in front of the bus, green street signs. One on the left says, “Damascus Gate.” The one on the right reads, “Jaffa Gate/Talpiyot.” Ahead, between the rows of buildings, a large stone wall with stone towers. The wall grows as we approach. It has crenellated battlements, and rising above the wall are church steeples and minarets.

“The Old City,” Dylan says. “I
so
want to go there.”

“Me too,” I say. “Do you think they’ll let us?”

“I don’t know. There’s supposed to be an official tour next Thursday. But I’m not sure about non-official visits.”

The bus turns right when we reach the old city and begins to circumnavigate the city. The walls are beautiful, and huge, towering over the hundreds of people we see walking everywhere.

I grab Dylan’s hand without thinking, pulling it to my lap. Next Thursday will be close to our last day in Jerusalem. I don’t want to think that far ahead. I don’t want to think to the time I have to say goodbye.

Half an hour later, the bus has made it through the traffic and we arrive in front of the King David Hotel. A multi-story building made of the same tan stone as everything else in the city, it’s fronted with tall trees and a lot of greenery. The bus stops at the sidewalk, not attempting to navigate the curved driveway. We all stay aboard as Mrs. Simpson steps off the bus and meets with a man outside. The man—balding, with a white, short sleeved buttoned shirt, looks stressed out. After a couple of minutes, Mrs. Simpson steps back on the bus.

“All right, kids. Everybody off and follow me. Leave your bags, we’ll be coming back to the bus after the luncheon.”

Ten minutes later, we’re all sitting at circular tables in a large ballroom on the second floor. White linen covers the tables, and uniformed waiters rush about. This is more formal than I’d expected.

A few minutes later, the boring part begins. A man who looks vaguely familiar takes the podium. I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to place him. Not sure, but I’ve seen him somewhere at another diplomatic function. Russia? Possibly. That was a long time ago, and I was still pretty young. He introduces himself, but his name isn’t at all familiar. In any event, he’s from the U.S. Consulate.
His presentation is predictably boring, and
like a lot of diplomats, a tremendous number of words leave his mouth, almost all of them canceling out the other things he’s said, until the end arrives and there’s no meaning left at all.

The truth is, I don’t listen at all. Instead, my mind keeps returning to Dylan. The look on his face when he closed his eyes. I don’t think he knew he has a slight smile on his face, a look of near ecstasy as he sang. Dylan will never be a hard core musician, but what he lacks in talent and experience, he more than makes up for in passion.

He wanted her to know

What he couldn’t say with words

My heart nearly stopped when he sang those words.

A view from forever.

How am I ever going to survive going home? Saying goodbye? I love him.

After that thought, I sit up, suddenly interested. The speaker from the US consulate is introducing the Deputy Chief of
Mission
from the British Consulate, a woman named Wendy Li. A petite woman, obviously ethnic Chinese, but I’ve seen her. I’m certain of it.
But
where?
Almost certainly in China, but I wasn’t sure.