Flutter (10 page)

“I understand,” I willed myself to say, but I wanted him to stay. I was surprised at how much I wanted him to stay.

He shut the door quietly behind him. I watched him head west into the woods. Then I realized that he had left his hat on the table.

I called to him, “Ash!” I slipped on my boots and headed out the door after him.

“Your hat!” I called. I ran toward him and handed it to him. Our hands touched for the briefest of moments and our eyes locked. I immediately found it impossible to catch my breath. The clearing, the air between us felt charged, electric.

“Emery,” he said.

He held my gaze, and the way the corner of his mouth turned up, I began to feel self-conscious. I broke the gaze. “You need stitches.”

“I’ll get them at the shelter.” He nodded and left.

I trudged back to the cabin, my head spinning. I put on some water for tea. I flitted about the cabin, picking up Dala horses and giving them a look. I pirouetted over to the east window and looked out at the cold lake, so crisp and gray-blue. “Ash,” I said aloud to myself, and smiled. I quickly rolled my eyes at myself, and shook my head.

And then I remembered the picture—my portrait. I smiled as I retrieved it from the windowsill.

It was strikingly good. I knew enough about art to know that he had talent, that he was no hack. The hard angles of his lines, the abandon of perspective, it was modern. Clean and new.

That was when I saw it, the way that he had drawn the curls in my hair.

“No!” I whispered.

The two parallel lines, the one line meandering away from the other into a loop, just like I had drawn over and over for each new doctor, for each new member of my team, for each nonbeliever. My loops. Here they were in black and white. My secret, laid out for everyone to see. How did he know? Who was he?

Who sent him?

I quickly sat down on the bed before I could faint for the second time in as many days inside this cabin.

My breath felt ragged in my throat. Then, a hint of ammonia. Not now! But my eyelids fluttered. I gripped the bedspread in both my fists, and I fought it. I fought back against that thrum behind my eyes.

But I didn’t win.

I’m instantly knee-deep in the stream, all alone. I know something is wrong. I feel goose bumps break out over my skin, and I look around, hoping to see my boy, someone, anyone. But no one is there. It is dusk, that moment in between the night and the day, when the air takes on that eerie, smoky quality. It is oddly quiet. No wind blowing. No gurgling from the stream. And I don’t like it
.

A frog croaks in the distance, and I jump a bit in the water. A mosquito buzzes past my ear. I try to swat it, but my hand doesn’t move quickly enough
.

For the first time ever, I wonder if I can be physically harmed in the loop. I can’t imagine why not. I just have never had to think about it before
.

I see movement out of the corner of my left eye, and I turn and
it is gone. Again, in a moment, the same movement, like a shadow, dark and slithery, moving across the surface tension of the now-still water
.

I don’t turn this time, afraid it will go, yet wanting it to. I move my eyes only a bit so that I can get a better look at it—just out of the corner of my vision. My heart beats heavy, fast, hard in my chest
.

I watch as the shadows play out on the top of the stream, and a picture forms. Shadow pictures. I see a face in a moment, but then it is gone. The black shadows, moving, swirling, and then in an instant, I see it again. I recognize it
.

The picture Ash drew. His mom. It is there
.

I gasp. The shadows move, and the picture is gone
.

I flail back a few steps out of the water. I turn and see him then. My boy, all rosy-cheeked, dark disheveled hair, his eyes serious. “Emery,” he says. He smiles
.

I reach for him, but then I see the prism of light, not just in my peripheral vision this time. It’s surrounding the boy, in waves of color, around the edges of his body, his arms, his head … almost like a halo. He shakes his head, and in that instant I have so many questions on the tip of my tongue
.

But they will have to wait for another time
.

I awoke in my cabin, exhausted, wrung. The sun was higher in the sky.

Was my little boy trying to warn me about Ash?

It certainly seemed like it. I shook my head and tried to clear away the in-the-loop cloudiness, but I couldn’t get a hold on what was going on here. There were too many pieces. My head throbbed behind my eyes, and I couldn’t think straight.

I realized my pants and socks were damp and mud-caked from my time in the stream. My loop. How exactly would Dad and Dr. Chen have explained that? I changed into a clean sweatshirt and pair of jeans, marveling at the physicality of my loops.

I saw Ash’s picture of me sitting on the kitchen table. I
threw on my boots and coat. He would have some kind of answers for me. He knew too much about me. It was all laid out as plain as day in that picture.

I walked toward the portrait, grabbed it without looking at it, and shoved it in my pocket, heading out into the cold, fading afternoon, determined to get some kind of answers about what was going on.

I trudged toward Winging Stables, crabby and disappointed. Disappointed that I might have to leave Dala Cabin and the little bit of refuge this place had offered me. Crabby that Ash had wormed himself into my situation. Why couldn’t I have just come here and had some peace and quiet? Hadn’t I earned that?

And maybe I was a little disappointed that Ash … well, that he wasn’t just a happy coincidence, that he wasn’t just a handsome stranger with a kind smile.

He was obviously something. Sent by Dad. Something. I was winded and ridiculously worn out by the time I got to the stables. My endurance was shot to hell. Dad and Dr. Chen would not like this.

A fatherly-looking man stood smoking a pipe on the porch of the nearest outbuilding on the Winging Stables property. The farm buildings were clean and well kept; the horses in the pens were impeccably groomed. People took pride in their work here.

“Hello, sir,” I said, and waved as I came nearer. The man wore his silver hair in a ponytail and had wire-rimmed
spectacles at the end of his nose. He didn’t smile when I walked up, but he didn’t look unfriendly.

“Hello, I’m—”

“You must be Emery,” he said. “Jeannette, my wife, has told me all about you.”

I flushed. Of course. Small town. I grimaced at the thought of how everyone by this time tomorrow would know that I had come here to see Ash. “Yes, sir,” I answered. “I’m looking for a boy that works for you. Ash. Is he here?”

“Yes, he is. Check in the round barn. He was mucking stalls there.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading toward the stables nearest to the round pen.

“And welcome to Esperanza,” he said, eyeing me quizzically.

“Some welcome,” I muttered under my breath.

I stepped into the viewing room attached to the indoor arena. A large picture window opened up to the arena, and there were two young girls taking a riding lesson. I could hear the muted sounds of a teacher yelling out commands to the girls, their horses. On the walls hung awards—ribbons, trophies, certificates. Ash sat at a desk in the far corner of the room, his head bent over something, reading intently.

I almost lost my nerve, turned on my heel, and walked right back out the door. The way he sat there, so … unsuspecting. He looked so unthreatening.

But he glanced up then, and I saw his expression change. He smiled at me, but caught himself, studying my most certainly venomous expression. He looked taken aback. I pulled out the portrait quickly. I took another look at it and felt the sting of utter betrayal fresh and whole. How could he know?

Well, he did.

I walked over and slapped the portrait onto the desk in front of him.

“This. How do you know? Who sent you already?” I spit out every word between clenched teeth.

He looked at the paper. “What? How do I know about what?” he ventured.

I pointed right at the way he had drawn my curls, my hand shaking. “This!”

My voice broke over the word
this
, and I watched his expression change. He still looked confused, but also … concerned.

He stood up next to me. “I’m not sure what you think I know,” he said. “But I don’t know it. I promise.”

For a moment, my anger fell away a bit. I looked around, unsure what I was doing here, how I had gotten to this point.

“No! What is going on here?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said.

I gave him my most ferocious look. “You know too much about me. And you are stalking me. I should call the police.”

“I don’t know what you think I do,” he said.

I clenched my hands at my sides. “Can’t you just leave me alone!” I yelled at him, like a child.

He considered this. His eyes locked on mine.

I shook my head, put my face in my hands. “You don’t know my father?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

And when I looked at his eyes again, I saw something there. Loneliness? Empathy? Or just me reflected?

“I’m sorry,” I said, getting that stingy feeling in my nose. I was going to lose it. Everything was getting away from me, everything seemed upside down.

He clenched his jaw, and again his face looked familiar. Did I know him?

I should have been afraid. But I stood there.

He took a step closer to me then. The air between us still and exploding at the same time.

I sniffled once. But I didn’t let the tears come. I willed them back. Ash reached one hand up and placed it gently on my shoulder.

“I’m leaving,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I turned around and headed for the door. I looked back just for a moment, and he looked like how I felt. Not hurt, not defensive, not agitated. No, it was more than that. His mouth was parted like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. He held his right hand out after me, beckoning me, but not really.

He looked confused. Unnerved. Baffled.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said.

I stopped for a moment, sighed. I reached and left my hand on the door handle for a moment, then shook my head.

We said nothing. Only the ticking of the large clock above the windows to the arena made noise.

“Emery,” he said finally.

I didn’t move. “Yes?” I said, but didn’t turn around. “I don’t know your secrets.”

“I know.… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

I opened the door then finally. I mustered all the courage, all the resolve that I had in me, because what I was about to say felt so wrong in such an inexplicable way, so odd, even eerie. But I knew I couldn’t involve
this
boy with my plans, with my life, with anything.

“Please leave me alone, okay?” I said quietly, staring intently at my hand on the brass door handle.

“Okay,” he answered. I didn’t turn around and look at him. I couldn’t.

“Stop camping out, stop showing up, stop being nice,” I forced myself to spit out. I stepped out of the viewing room then. I let the door slam closed before I had time to hear a response, my mouth twisted into a frown, the cold, chilling wind whipping my hair into my face.

The Esperanza Library was easy to find, tucked in a residential neighborhood, away from the commerce of the square but just a few blocks north of the Broken Egg. It was a short, squat building. Lots of cement, barely any windows. I was happy to finally get there and find some leads.

I spent the afternoon there holed up at a computer station, in the far back corner of the library, searching fruitlessly on the Internet, trying to find something, anything, that might point me toward what I was supposed to be doing for my boy in the loop, what it was he needed help with. I looked through dozens of pages on the Web, desperately trying to find the church with the windows or anything about a farm called Next Hill. I added the words
silver
and
key
to my searches, the word
nine
, but found nothing that made much sense.

Although I was trying to be invisible, I did force myself to ask the nerdy young librarian if he knew about Next Hill. He apologized that, no, he did not.

“I’m Rob, by the way,” he said. “Is there something else I can help you with?” And I realized in that moment that I would have to come up with some kind of cover story. Something. And I would have to be careful how much asking around I did. I couldn’t leave too obvious a trail.

I shook my head, told Rob thanks, and left for the day, feeling exposed, watching over my shoulder the whole way to the cabin.

On my second morning at the library, I found a book that I hoped would lead me somewhere—a large, heavy volume on keys throughout history. Apparently, people collected keys, all sorts of keys, antiques and automotive, decorative and utilitarian.

I sat down at a table, opened the book, and saw that it contained photo after photo of keys: skeleton keys and diary keys, ancient golden pirate-looking keys, silver keys, all with some kind of obvious physical significance. There were written histories to accompany each of these keys and more pictures, sketches, tables of monetary values.

It was interesting to someone, I’m sure. But not helpful to me. I turned my key around in my fingers as I sat at the library table, the fluorescent lights reflecting off its surface.

It was just a normal, everyday silver key, to someone’s house, to someone’s car, to someone’s something. There were no markings, no telltale engravings. Just a plain silver key.

I sat down at the computer station again, trying to talk myself out of checking my email. I didn’t want to do it, was scared, didn’t know if I could bear to face what I had done to Dad. How I had left him. And Gia.

I had been gone a few days now, and at that moment, it got the best of me. I clicked on the Internet icon. I logged on to my email account and found only a handful of emails so far. I opened the most recent one from Dad.
Where are you?