Chasing Midnight (13 page)

“Why aren’t you coughing anymore?” I ask, wondering if this is a good morning for him or if wish number seven on my list got lost in translation.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your asthma. Where’d it go?”

He laughs a little, his smile lingering just long enough for
me to catch a glimpse of the old Spencer hiding somewhere inside of there, catching me off guard. But in a second his armor is back up and the old Spencer is buried again. “Of course you forgot,” he says. “Unless it’s about you, why remember anything?”

“Spence, come on . . . ”

“It’s called surgery.”

“Yes!” I yell, punching my fists in front of me. I can’t believe it. “Wow. It must have cost a fortune,” I say more to myself than to him, not caring at the moment how mental he thinks I am. I can’t believe Spencer is well.
Finally.

Icing on the cake.

“You seriously forgot.” It’s a statement rather than a question. “Figures.”

“No, no, no! It’s not what you think. This is the best news I’ve heard in . . . in forever! When was the surgery?”

But I don’t hear his answer. White flashes in front of my eyes, blocking my vision for a split-second. When it disappears and I find Spencer’s face again, everything looks all fuzzy. He frowns at me and steps backward. “You’re being so weird.”

I try to blink through it, but the flash of white returns, replaced by an image of Spencer. He’s in a blue and white hospital gown, being wheeled away from me, fading away under the blinding lights of a sterile hospital corridor.

And then my vision clears, and I’m back, wondering what I just saw. “Wait . . . ” I say, confused.

But when I look up, Spencer is already down the hall, moving even faster than before, until he has disappeared into his bedroom, the door slammed shut.

Of course he had surgery. How could I have forgotten? It’s all there now; I remember! I can’t help but smile right here in the hallway at my (our) victory: no more coughs, no more expensive medicine, or trips to the emergency room. No more skipping parties or missing school.
No more sick Spencer.

I did it! I actually willed my brother well.

A cheer shoots through my heart and the clock pendant around my neck seems to burn with heat at the realization that Spencer’s lungs have been fixed!

I’m willing to live with whatever consequences now.

Bring it on.

“Oh, hi,” Mom says, her voice shooting through the silence when I return to the kitchen. She looks so official, wearing a pencil skirt and heels. It even looks like she borrowed my flatiron for the first time ever, her chin-length hair smooth and sleek, and not pulled away from her face in her usual frazzled ponytail. Even her nails are all done up in red. “Have you practiced the piano yet today?” she adds.

I don’t even know where the piano is.

“What are you all dressed up for?” I ask, avoiding the piano question. I have to admit, I’m a little jealous at how she layered a gold, chunky necklace atop two longer strands, like she knows what she’s doing. That is not a talent my mom is supposed to have, especially since
I
suck at it.

“What do you mean,
dressed up?
And will you stop biting your nails, Mackenzie, honey?”

I stop mid-bite, not even realizing that’s what I’m doing.

“I don’t know why you won’t let my girl file them for you,” she says, still staring at my nails. “She does such a good job.”

I don’t know either, other than the fact that I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I thought
I
was her only girl.

“I want you to try this new smoothie recipe I found. Will you get a lime and a bag of spinach from the fridge for me?”

Aha!
There she is—my smoothie-queen, health-nut mother. At least she didn’t completely vanish into somebody unrecognizable like some other people around here did.

“It’s full of vitamins and antioxidants, and it’s supposed to be good for your complexion.” Her smile is still there, and her
cheerful, high voice sounds the same too—though she isn’t quite as talkative as the norm. But then again, she
is
in the middle of concocting a miracle smoothie.

“Did you have some kind of catering convention today or something?” I ask when the noise of the blender stops.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, pouring the foamy green liquid into two tall glasses. I sip the smoothie. This one isn’t that bad; I think I kind of dig it, actually.

“I mean—why are you all dressed up? Normally you’re a jeans lady. You look like, I don’t know, important.”

“I do
not
normally wear jeans,” she says like I offended her. “Where’d you get that idea?”

I choke, realizing my mistake. Apparently my jeans-loving Mom disappeared overnight, even if the health-nut side of her didn’t. How am I supposed to know all these things? “Sorry,” I say, gulping the smoothie down so she can’t expect me to talk anymore.

But now I’m curious.

Too curious.

Where
does
she work, anyway?

“How was work today?” I ask, hoping she’ll forget my momentary lapse and maybe give me a clue.

“Same as usual. Although, the market isn’t doing me any favors.”

Market. I’m kind of guessing she doesn’t mean the farmers market, especially in that outfit.

Still trying to figure it out, I sip at my smoothie while she rinses out the blender and then paces across the floor, out of the kitchen. Suddenly I remember what I’m missing. “Mom,” I chase after her.

“What?” She stops her ascent halfway up the stairs, looking down at me.

“How’s Indy?” I ask, wondering if he ever even got hurt last night. Wondering if he’s recuperating in his room or in the hospital or . . .

She stares at me, blank-eyed. Confused.

What?
I want to ask, but wait out the awkward look hanging between us, instead. “The twins . . . where are they?” I say, still amazed at the lack of toys and musical instruments lying all over the house. That’s some maid we have.

“Who?” she says, the puzzled look in her eyes scaring me.

I freeze.

My heart seizes up.

Did she not hear me correctly? Did I mumble? Is my mother now hard of hearing?

My brain shoots out a dozen possibilities in rapid fire—like, maybe my brothers are at boarding school, or they’re locked away in time out, or they both have broken legs in the hospital . . . or . . . or . . . But nothing sticks.

Except for one thing.

“Indy and Ezra . . . ,” I say again, terrified for her response. Her brown eyes remain blank despite the smile still plastered on her face. “Who are Indy and Ezra?”

four

I
slide behind the wheel of this ridiculous car no teenager
deserves, not even able to enjoy it. Before today, I had no idea that real Napa leather or a Harman Kardon surround system smells and sounds like a million bucks. I might as well be driving our old minivan with cloth seats and a broken stereo because right now I feel like garbage. Greasy garbage in the back alley dumpster, to be specific.

If money can’t keep my heart from succumbing to this kind of ache, then what’s the point of it? Isn’t a healthy bankroll supposed to provide some kind of immunity from this, or at least soften the blow?

Halfway down the street, I slam on the breaks, skidding to a stop in the middle of the road. Thankfully, nobody’s behind me. With my arms draped over the steering wheel, I hang my head forward, trying to get my emotions under control.

My mind is all fuzzy, as if tears have seeped into my brain and swollen the memories of my little brothers. I give into the pressure until my eyelids fall, blocking out the sunlight glaring through the window.

Instead of a reprieve, however, my mind sinks further into a dark pit, the reality of my missing brothers crushing me. I gag at the thought that I offered up my two little
brothers without even realizing it. Gave them up—just like that. Sure, Spencer’s healed, but at what cost? I thought losing my best friend was bad. But this is worse.
So much worse.
My stomach aches, burns. Like I threw those two little bodies atop an altar and drove a knife through their hearts with my own hands.

No.

This can’t be. I never said their names out loud. The Bird Lady wouldn’t have taken them away from me without my permission, would she?

I bury my face in my arms, trying to figure out how there can be no Indy and Ezra anymore. How a simple status upgrade can result in completely erasing two people off the face of the earth. This isn’t like finding out my best friend doesn’t know me anymore, because
that
can be remedied. But this—what am I supposed to do about this? What is the protocol for when something you love has been completely wiped out? When there’s nobody here to even remedy?

Maybe I can demand them back. Tell the Bird Lady the deal’s off.

Yes, that’s what I’m going to do!

I look around the car, as if expecting her to appear suddenly, to appease my demands and make everything all right, though somehow I know it’s much more complicated than that. Still, the achy feeling in the pit of my stomach is enough to make me try something.

“Bird Lady, where are you?” I yell. “I want out of this.”

Silence.

“Now!” I pound my fists on the steering wheel, accidentally sounding the horn. Then I turn around, hoping maybe she somehow popped into the backseat, the way she’s magically appeared and disappeared on me in the past.

But she’s not there, and I don’t know what to do.

I feel guilty crying about it too—not that I don’t want to. But bawling doesn’t make sense when I’m surrounded by
everything I ever wanted. It seems so greedy, like crying at my own birthday party.

Then again—how can I
not
cry? These are my brothers we’re talking about! Indy. Ezra.

Two little guys.

My emotions skip back and forth like a tease, tipping one way and then jumping back over the edge to safety, until I’m convinced my inability to settle one way or the other might numb me completely. It isn’t until my phone buzzes for the sixth or seventh time that I finally snap out of my breakdown and peek at the screen, realizing it’s James.

He wants to know when we’re meeting up.

I text him back, asking for a rain check, annoyed at myself for flaking out on my first date with James Odera but at the same time not caring at all; my little brothers’ non-existence is so much more tragic than ditching my new boyfriend.

His text back to me:
Who are you with?

My response:
Huh?
Who does he think I’m with?

And then that’s all I get from him. Nothing else. Not a
See you later
or
Miss you
or even an
OK.
Which seems strange in and of itself; forget the fact that I haven’t known James long enough to be able to determine what’s a strange response or not.

Who are you with?
seems weird, though.

Beeeeeeeeep.
A loud, deafening horn blasts behind me. I look up, startled. Confused.
Be-Beeeeep. Beeeeeeeep.
A car zooms past, the driver craning his head, scowling.

“Sorry,” I mouth, stepping on the gas just as another car whips around the corner. We avoid a collision only because his reflexes are sharper than mine and he slams on his brakes at the last second. I swerve and punch the gas to get out of the way, mouthing another sorry at another irate driver.

Feeling on the verge of running into disaster any minute.

I so need my best friend right now. Aly, why’d you have to go and forget me like that?

Aly.

Five minutes later I find myself pulling into an open parking spot in front of Vinyl Underground. Forget that look Aly gave me last time I was here; I’m determined now more than ever to make us friends again. To make things right between us. If Bird Lady won’t get me out of this, at least I’m going to do something to fix what I can. While I can.

The sun’s glare has turned the store window into a mirror, making it hard for me to see inside unless I stand with my face and hands pressed against the glass. I vote against looking like a stalker again and turn the knob to let myself in.