For Ever (34 page)

After several minutes of listening to the
sound of my mom’s humming, I hug her one last time and smile before
standing.

“I’m okay, really. I just need some
sleep.”

“I’m here when you’re ready to talk about
it,” she says gently.

“I know.”

My smile wilts as soon as I turn away from
her. Going to the stairs, I walk carefully to my room. With each
step, it feels like I might shatter and disappear. People die
everyday. I know this. But it doesn’t comfort me. And I don’t have
a god to ask, question, or blame. My time is short, and I’m not
certain of anything beyond the love I feel. For my mom. For Ever.
It’s all I have left.

When I open the door to my room, my heart
speeds up. There’s a black gift-wrapped box sitting on my comforter
with an envelope. I walk forward and pick up the envelope with a
shaking hand. My name is scrawled in neat script. I pull out the
blank white card and read the single word:

Midnight

Tearing open the box, I stare down at its
contents for several moments before lifting the tiny camcorder in
my palm. The screen is already open and playing. The numerals at
the bottom right match the time on my alarm clock. It’s a live
feed. I jump when Ashley comes into view. This is footage from her
bedroom. My stomach twists. She has no idea she’s being filmed. But
she looks healthy, safe, and unaware of the horror I almost
inflicted on her.

Iago kept his promise. I can’t ask for more
than that from the person who is going to kill me. But now that
everything is settled, and there is no going back, my last moments
stretch out before me like a cruel punishment. What can I do?

I could cry.

I could scream.

I could write letters, one to my mom, one to
Ever. But what would I say that I haven’t already told them?

My last option: I could end my own life
before a stranger can take it from me. But I already know I won’t
do that. It would kill my mom, and some small part of me still
believes there is always hope, right until the very end.

I turn off the lights and wait. At some
point, the door opens, and I shut my eyes and pretend to sleep,
waiting for my mom to leave. As soon as I’m alone again, I watch
the numerals on the clock and wonder if it will hurt, if there
actually is an afterlife … if I will feel anything ever again.

11:58

Sitting up, I reach for the camcorder. The
feed is still active. In the low light, I can see Ashley’s breaths
rising and falling as she sleeps. Under different circumstances, it
would feel creepy watching my friend sleep. Right now, I just feel
relief and gratitude. Everyone is safe. Exhaling slowly, I step out
of bed and walk to the door, and then down the hall. But at the
landing I freeze uncertainly.

Will he jump out at me? Or am I supposed to
meet him outside? Will it end quickly?

Before I can set foot on the stairs,
awareness grips me. My pulse thudding in my ears, I turn to face
the mirror hanging on the wall. The blackness ripples, and I watch
mutely as a hand emerges across the inky divide.

Taking one last breath, I reach out toward
the blackness with the fleeting hope that this isn’t my final
moment.

That this isn’t my end.

I nearly drowned when I was ten. We were on a
day trip to Orange County to a beach I had visited the summer
before. The clouds were rolling in off the ocean, and it was cold,
especially for Southern California. I didn’t care, though. I ran
out to the water before my parents had even laid out our stuff,
jumping up and over the first wave. Thrilled by the icy blast of
water, I did this over and over, until I was exhausted. As I was
about to get out, I turned, just in time to see a much bigger wave.
For a few seconds, I thought I could float up and over it like the
last one, until it suddenly picked me up and hurled me into the
thrashing water, my back scraping against the sandy ocean bottom.
The water held me under until I thought my lungs would burst. When
I finally came up for a single breath, it was just in time to see
another monster crashing over my head, stealing what air I had
left.

I had taken what I thought was my last breath
of air.

I try to open my eyes, but it’s painful. I
lie completely still, aware that it hurts to inhale—like I’ve had
fire instead of air to breathe. After several more seconds of
excruciating pain, I decide that sleep is best, and I let the
darkness take me.

Over and over in my dreams, I see the same
face. Glowing green eyes, exquisitely etched features, bronzed
skin, all framed by a halo of golden honey-colored hair. I want to
reach out and touch this perfect being, but I can’t. I’m rooted in
place, and when I begin to struggle against the inertia, his
expression changes, his eyes darkening with rage. I open my mouth
to scream, but no sound comes out. Finally forcing my eyes open, I
see cream-colored walls, exposed beams, and ancient furniture.

“
Ma pauvre, tu es sain et sauf
,” a
voice whispers.

Attempting to sit up, I feel my muscles
scream in protest. Then I blink, which causes my eyes to burn. It
seems like I haven’t opened them in years. When someone raises a
cup to my lips, I jerk so violently that I nearly fall over. A
wrinkled hand grips my arm, and I look up into the eyes of an
elderly woman perched on the edge of the bed that I’m still mostly
tucked into. She smiles at me.

“
Te sens-tu
?” she says.

I blink at the realization that she’s
speaking in French. Then, as I stare into her eyes, it dawns on me
that I can search her thoughts. But I clearly don’t understand
French very well, only bits and pieces. I can tell only that she’s
concerned for me and wants to know if I’m okay, which is a good
thing. A shiver runs through me.
Why can I read her mind
?
And even more importantly, why can’t I remember … anything? I
swallow and try not to look completely crazy. I need to speed
things along—and figure out who I am and why I’m here, wherever
here is.

“
Anglais
?” I whisper.

“Of course! I am so sorry!” she says. “Yes,
English.”

Afraid to ask who I am, which would sound
beyond crazy, I go with the next most logical inquiry I can think
of.

“What happened to me?”

“You had an accident, and Alexandre, he
brought you here—”

“Alexandre?” I croak in a poor imitation of
the French pronunciation.

“
Tu ne te souviens pas
?” she mumbles,
almost to herself.

No! I have absolutely no freaking souvenir of
an
Alexandre
! And I have no idea how I got here. I let it
go, though, because I need to figure out who I am, what’s going on,
where I am, and how I got here—before I have the insane freak out
I’m on the verge of having. The old woman rises from the bed and
pulls back the covers, offering me a surprisingly strong hand to
steady myself with. This is good, particularly since my legs nearly
fail as soon as my feet touch the worn hardwood floor.

“
Viens avec moi, petite
! I have drawn
you a bath. And after you will have something to eat, I think,” she
says.

Wondering whether I can outrun this ancient
woman while I’m feeling so weak, I briefly debate trying to escape.
Then I glance down at the ridiculous floor-length white nightgown
I’m wearing. Besides, I still have no idea where I am, so I may as
well figure that out before I start running around in someone
else’s pajamas.

“I am Edith Rousseau,” she says, pronouncing
her first name with a hard
te
sound rather than the American
th
.

Following her down a cavernous hallway, I’m
struck by a vision of Hansel and Gretel from the Grimm fairy tale,
the two children being lured into the candy cottage by the old
witch. But the instant the image enters my mind, I feel bad for
thinking so poorly of this woman with her vibrant blue eyes,
snow-white hair coiled into a neat bun, and her cool, papery skin.
She turns back and smiles at me as she opens the door to another
room. I recognize in that instant how beautiful she must have been
once. When she beckons, I peer past her and see a large and
surprisingly modern bathroom. There’s a fluffy towel and some
folded clothing sitting near the edge of a sumptuous, claw-footed
tub brimming with bubbles. I stare in awe until my caretaker nudges
me into the room and shuts the door quietly after me.

Stripping off the nightgown, I walk
tentatively to the edge and dip my hand into the water. It’s hot,
and I lose all reservation. Stepping in, I hold the edges and lower
myself into the delicious warmth until I’m completely submerged.
Only when my lungs are ready to burst do I break the surface and
reach for the soap.

The water soothes my muscles, and there’s a
large glass on a table at the edge of the tub. I’m so thirsty that
I reach for it without caring what’s in it. I drain the sickly
sweet liquid, and that’s when I discover that I could drink ten
more glasses and still feel thirsty.

Setting the glass on the floor, I pour some
pleasant-scented shampoo into my hair before scrubbing my entire
body until my skin is pink. Then I let the tub drain and turn on
the hot water, rinsing off the soap and shampoo before stepping out
and picking up the towel. On the counter I find a package, like the
ones at nice hotels—only this one has everything. Lotion, a
toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and every other toiletry essential
that I can think of. The clothing is new—black slip-on shoes,
underwear, a cream blouse, and a black knee-length skirt, even a
bra. All of it fits, which causes a shock of unease to course
through me when I remember that some stranger brought me here.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, I clear my
mind and try to remember something from my life from before I woke
up. For an instant, I grasp the familiar vision of a woman smiling,
her blue eyes crinkling as she says a name—my name!
Wren
.

My mom! How could I have forgotten her? I
struggle to recapture other pieces of my life, but it’s all
stubbornly just out of my reach. My eyes narrow, and I realize that
I have to find out who brought me here. Standing, I clean up the
bathroom and then open the door a crack, peering down the empty
corridor. I step out and walk carefully down the hallway. As I pass
a gilded mirror on the wall, I stare mutely at my reflection and
then recoil, overwhelmed by a memory of a disembodied hand reaching
from the darkness toward me.

My pulse throbs in my ears, and I hurry away
from my image, instinctively following the mouthwatering smell of
food. I weave my way down a stone staircase and through room after
room, each one looking like it could belong in a medieval castle.
When I reach the kitchen, the modern appliances starkly contrast
with the stone walls and ancient hearth. Edith Rousseau turns and
clucks at me.

“
Voila
! There you are!” she says in
her heavily accented English. “You sit.”

On the unfinished wooden table there’s a
crusty loaf of bread, a steaming bowl of soup, several hard-boiled
eggs, and a bowl of strawberries and cream. My stomach growls, and
I have to restrain myself from running to the table and devouring
everything in sight.

“
Manges
!” she urges, pointing at the
table.

Without further hesitation, I sit down on a
wooden chair and tear off a piece of bread, unable to get it into
my mouth fast enough. I pick up a cream-covered strawberry and pop
it into my mouth next. Dipping another piece of bread into the hot
soup, I devour it before peeling an egg and taking a bite. I can’t
remember having food this good—but I guess that doesn’t mean much
since I can’t remember
anything
. After a few minutes, I’ve
eaten myself senseless. Embarrassed, I look up at my hostess, and
she smiles before taking a sip from her teacup.

“Madame Rousseau …”

“Edith,
petite
!” she scolds.

“
Merci
. Thank you,” I say, feeling
weirdly emotional to have some stranger taking such good care of
me.

I’m about to ask her about my mother—and
where I am—when she nods toward a door across the room that looks
like it leads outside.

“Alexandre … he is waiting for you.”

My stomach flips, and I’m instantly
terrified. Without knowing anything about my life, I remember that
I’m not supposed to be here, wherever here is. Standing, I walk
toward the door, wishing that I could stay in the nice, warm
kitchen with my elderly French caretaker. I can’t, though. I need
answers, and maybe whoever is waiting outside can give them to
me.

I’m still shaky, but as soon as I step
outside, I forget everything else and look around the lovely garden
with its bright pink, orange, and purple flowers just beginning to
bud. Even more stunning is the village in the distance, set afire
by the rising sun. A bell begins to chime, reminding me that time
is in fact moving forward.

I walk across the dewy grass as the sun’s
rays stretch toward me, and up ahead I see what looks like a stone
pool. Next to it, standing facing the view below, is a tall man,
his coppery hair blazing in the burgeoning light. As quietly as I
can, I walk toward him, not sure what I’m going to do. Is there any
chance I can overpower him? I wonder. I look for an object I can
use for a weapon if necessary. No luck. My blood pounds in my ears
as I creep closer.

Then, when I’m still a few feet from him, he
seems to sense my presence and turns slowly. I stumble to a stop,
mesmerized by the glow of his deep blue eyes. He is unnaturally
flawless, but even more beautiful when he smiles at me.