Descendant (3 page)

A
fter the officer drops us off, I stand on the sidewalk for a long time, staring at the top-floor windows of our building. It looks normal, like nothing bad has ever happened there. Like no one ever died within those walls.

The landlord meets us in front of the tall stucco building, offering a new key. He says he checked on my dog, and he’s sorry about Gram. I don’t say anything. We climb two flights of stairs and Mom clicks the lock on the new doorknob. The living room is now mostly empty. Mom drops the keys on a hall table that survived and walks to the fireplace.

Erda, who was locked in the bathroom during the break-in, growls. “It’s okay, Erda,” I say, weary. “It’s just us.” She pads up to me, tail between her legs as if she, too, is frightened to be here.

Mom stares for a long time at a picture of the three of us, Mom, Gram, and me, soaking wet, laughing, standing in the rain with our arms around each other. A tear runs down Mom’s cheek as she tips the picture face down on the mantle and takes off the back.

“Mom? What are you doing?”

“I thought she’d gone loony when she showed me this.”

“What are you talking about?” I put my arm around her shoulders. “I love that picture.”

Mom’s eyes fill with more tears. “I love it too.” Taped to the back of the frame is a tiny silver key. She slides her thin hand behind a gap in the mantle and brings out a small wooden box, sighing in relief. “I’ve been worried they found this.”

“What is it?” I rub my face with my sleeve.

“Isabelle left you some stuff.” Swallowing hard, she unlocks the box. Wrapped in soft, black velvet are Gram’s most prized possessions. Her antique blue and white diamond ring, a handful of Healing crystals, a pocket-sized book of herbal remedies, and a sealed envelope with my name on it.

Mom’s voice breaks. “Isa made me promise to give you these things if anything ever happened to her.” She picks the ring up and places it in my palm. “This is your legacy. All we have left of them. Be careful with it, Abby.”

The lump in my throat threatens to choke me as my hand closes around the ring. Mom places the crystals in my free hand. “I don’t remember much about our late-night conversations, but I do remember a few things Isa would want you to know. If you ever have questions ... I’ll try.”

The crystals feel warm in my fist. The ring fits best on my left ring finger and feels right, like it’s supposed to be there, so that’s where I leave it.

Mom hands me the book. I hold it between both palms and bring it to my nose to inhale the essence of lavender and rosemary I’ll always associate with Gram. The pages are filled with descriptions and pictures of herbs and plants, outlining details of their uses and how to find them.

“I don’t know how to Heal without her help,” I say.

A flicker of pain rides across Mom’s face. “That’s probably why she left you this.” She hands me the sealed envelope. “Don’t open it until you’re ready. I’m curious to know what it says, but you don’t have to tell me—unless you want to. This is for you, Abby. Only you.” She meets my eyes again and hands me the box.

I replace everything but the ring, then turn the key to lock it all inside. “So.”

“So,” she repeats.

“Will we leave tomorrow then?” I wonder how much is left to pack, what we’ll even want to keep.

Mom’s mind seems to turn in the same direction as she surveys our surroundings. “The next day,” she says. We stand in the kitchen doorway, our eyes resting on the floor where Gram died. “We’ll need time to bury Isabelle first.”

I lean my head against the door jamb, squeezing my eyes shut. “Oh.” I almost forgot about that little detail. We’ve never had to have a funeral before we moved.

Mom reads my thoughts. “Just us, Abby. Graveside. I’ll call the mortuary first thing in the morning and see if someone’s willing to say a few words, maybe pray.”

Exhausted, I turn away from the kitchen. My bedroom door closes with a quiet click as I curl into a ball on the bed and let the wave of guilt crash down on me.

I didn’t save her.

I was born a Healer—and Gram has been pushing me to study the Healing arts for years. Maybe if I had studied harder or learned faster. Maybe if I was smarter or had stronger powers—or a stronger heart—I could have saved her. Healed her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Something was missing. Something went very wrong, and it’s my fault. It’s my heart, my soul that lacked the ability to Heal Gram. Gram’s dead because I didn’t do it right. I’ll be haunted with this knowledge for the rest of my life.

I hug the box and sob, letting out my grief until the pressure in my chest flows into my head and clogs my sinuses. Then I cry harder. Erda senses my despair and jumps on my bed—something she’s never been allowed to do—and curls up at my back to rest her chin on my side. We stay in this position, without moving to get food or go to the bathroom or even to start packing, until the light fades into blackness. Eventually, I fall asleep and dream about Gram until I open my swollen eyes to stare out the window at the sun peeking over the horizon. However hollow I feel inside, however badly I want to lie in bed and let the dark of night consume me, a new day is
dawning. It’s as if Gram is urging me to get up, to find the courage I need to move on.

Erda’s chin is still nestled on my side. She blinks with wide, sad-looking eyes, and whines. She is mourning Gram’s loss too.

I nudge Erda’s head away and crawl off the bed. My puffy eyes sting and my head throbs from crying, but neither of those things feel half as achy as the hole in my chest.

“Come on, Erda,” I say, heading slowly for the bathroom. “Let’s get packing.”

I’ll
  never get used to winter in Wyoming. Nothing could be further from the sunny weather we left behind in Nevada. My suede jacket has been replaced with a coat that makes me feel like a marshmallow. If it wasn’t green, I could bury myself up to my waist in snow and pass for a snowman. Except then I would probably freeze to death.

“Watch your step.” The elderly bus driver nods at the ice-coated sidewalk. “Gets slippery this time of year.”

“Thanks.” I use the door for support and test my footing, positive that the most graceful ballerina could easily kill herself on such a treacherous surface, even in boots with three-inch-thick rubber soles. When I’m confident I have enough traction to keep from falling—thus making a poised entrance onto the grounds of my new school—I take a long look at Jackson High.

It feels small, probably because it’s contained within one building. The red roof curves into a dome on which there is no buildup of snow or ice. The large windows on the second-story level to my right reflect the jagged Teton Mountains. A positive, bluish energy surrounds the building. Seeing it calms my nerves.

Warm air streams through my lips in a puff of white as I hitch my backpack higher and take a few experimental steps toward the main entrance.

Only seconds later, a snowball whizzes past my head. Another
smashes into my backpack, while a third breaks to bits at my feet. I whirl around and almost turf it right there. A group of boys barrels toward me, a volley of hard-packed snow torpedoes gunning down anyone in their path. I’m directly in the line of fire. A dark-haired boy in a blue coat grabs my shoulder and whips me around to use as a shield, and is simultaneously nailed in the forehead. He goes down, dragging me with him. “Sorry.”

Icy wet cold seeps into my jeans, and I’m pretty sure my hip will be purple by tomorrow. “You sh-should be!” My teeth chatter. “Why did you do that?”

“I was under attack.” His hands fly up in defense. “I grabbed the first shield I saw. Not my fault you were in the way.” He gets up, brushes the snow off his pants, and smiles—showcasing a row of straight, white teeth. “Sorry. Again.” More snowballs fly. He scoops up a handful of slush and takes off running.

Jerk.

Fingers of cold creep under my coat, stretching to the top of my head. I brace my bare hands on a mound of snow and push myself up. Whatever happened to the guys you read about in romance novels who offer to help a lady up from the ground when she falls, and who aren’t responsible for knocking her down in the first place?

They don’t live in Wyoming,
I tell myself as I open the heavy wooden door, relieved by the whoosh of warm air that blows in my face. My first destination is the office. The secretary is stationed behind a long wooden counter that cuts the room in two. On one corner of the desk, a fern struggles for life, yellow and mostly leafless.

“What can I do for you?” the lady asks.

“I’m Abigail Johnson.” I unzip my bag and find the registration forms Mom signed last night. “It’s my first day.”

The secretary’s eyes soften as I hand over the papers. “Good to meet you, Abigail,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Kelly. I arranged your classes the other day after your mother called, so this will only take a minute.” Her fingers fly over the keyboard, and a printer hums to life. She hands me a schedule and a map. “Welcome to Jackson High.”

“Thank you.” I sit in a chair near the fern to go over my class list. Since I’m here, I tug the silver chain from under my shirt and spin the garnet crystal a few times, aiming my energy at the fern. For practice.

“What up, Ms. K.?”

I don’t look, but for some dumb reason my heart thumps at the sound of the voice behind me. Energy spikes in the docile air. I hope no one’s watching the fern. My eyes stay riveted on the paper like it holds the key to an important secret.

“Doing well, Kye,” says Mrs. Kelly, her voice breathless. “How was your trip?”

“Educational,” the voice responds. “Have you ever been to Ireland?”

“No, but it’s on my list of places to visit when I retire.” Mrs. Kelly sounds flustered. I chance a peek over the edge of my paper—she’s patting her hair.
Pathetic.
I roll my eyes, refusing to turn around and look at whoever makes her act that way.

“It’s amazing. You’d love it.” The bell rings. “Gotta go,” he says. “Have a good one.”

“See you later, Kye.” If voices can smile, Mrs. Kelly’s does as she returns the goodbye. Fighting a giggle, I stand to leave. A sidelong glance at the now perky fern gives me a sense of satisfaction.

I make my way to English, where a stately, pear-shaped teacher named Mrs. Carlson hands me a list of suggested reading and directs me to the only empty seat in the back corner. From here I can see almost everyone without turning around. It’s an advantage because I can peek into each person’s energy field and find out what they’re like before we even meet.

After Gram’s death, I bought several books about auras, wondering how I didn’t know what was coming before it happened. Turns out, I should have. Gram’s aura was purple when I left that morning. Purple means serious danger.

That’s a mistake I’ll never make again.

“Pssst.” From the next desk over, a girl with fluffy, dark-brown hair gestures at me. “What’s your name?”

I tap my index finger on my lips and raise my eyebrows in the direction of Mrs. Carlson.

“Oh, don’t worry.” The girl waves her hand, shoving my objections aside. “She loves me. I’m her favorite.”

I slide lower in my seat. “Well, I’m not. I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day.”

“What’s your name?”

“Abby Johnson.”

“I’m Rose Westover.” She points to a blonde head two seats up and three seats over. “That’s Jen Thomas. We’ve been best friends since preschool. You should eat lunch with us.”

Rose shuts up when Mrs. Carlson stands to begin a discussion about the reading homework she assigned over winter break. I follow along easily and answer a few questions correctly because I’ve read
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
before.

At the end of class, I glance up and find Rose standing next to me, smiling. Her aura is the brightest, most unusual shade of turquoise I’ve ever seen. She’s highly energized, influential. Happy. Likeable.

“What?” I can’t help but return her smile. Rose is contagious.

“For being new here, you sure know a lot about our Shakespeare assignment.”

We head for the door together. “Repeated lessons are a hazard of attending many different schools.”

“Oh,” she says. “What class do you have next?”

My schedule is already a crinkled mess. “Drama. Why?”

“Down the stairs, right at the bottom, and then keep going straight until you run into the auditorium door. Sit near the front of the stage.”

I try to memorize her directions. “Um. Thanks.”

“Where are you from?”

The question forces me to push away thoughts of Gram and our experiences in Nevada. “Most recently, Las Vegas.”

“Cool.” She looks at her watch. “Gotta run, but later I’m going to track you down to find out where you live, if you have a boyfriend, and if you two ever—ya know—and when’s the last time you got drunk? And I need to know
everything
about Las Vegas.” She claps a hand to the top of her head. “We have to hang out. Soon.”

My head is reeling as I start down the stairs. “Maybe.”
Not.

Thanks to Rose’s directions, I find drama easily and am shocked and amazed when the teacher, Mr. Akers, starts class by ordering us onstage for a ten-minute Thai Chi warm up. I thought Thai Chi was one of those quirky things only practiced by fanatics and Californians.