Glimmer (13 page)

“You’re not listening, I said we’re done!” I twist the ring off, thrust it into his hands, and run into the locker room. I did it. I broke up with Dan, which means I’m not a cheater anymore. No. I’m still a cheater; nothing will change what I did. But I made it as close to right as I could.

Only, Dan doesn’t seem like the type of guy to just let a girl—the girl who changed his life—walk out on him. Anxiety chills my limbs as I wonder what kind of ex-boyfriend Dan will be. What if he clings to denial, like Liz about my amnesia? He’s liable to blow his savings on a truckful of roses and show up at Preston House pleading with me to take him back. If guilting me into being his girlfriend again doesn’t work, what would he try next? Stalking me? And then there’s his loyal football buddies. They could gang up on Marshall and really hurt him. The ring may be off my finger, but I know this isn’t over yet.

Chapter 22
MARSHALL

To kill time before meeting Mr. English at Mollie’s, I zigzag down Main Street and wander down side streets, checking out smaller storefronts. Trying to get a feel for this place that Elyse grew up in.

The downtown sidewalks are crowded; first Friday night of the season. I bump into Jim and Candace holding hands on Main Street, dreamy looks in their eyes. Jim’s traded his button-down shirt for an orange “I ♥ Summer Falls” T-shirt, and Candace is feeding him some kind of pastry from a pink waxy paper bag that smells like cinnamon. They’re too besotted to notice me.

Across the street in the town square, the young homeless woman’s busy balling up tiny pieces of bread and arranging them artfully on the statue of W. P. Preston. Pigeons and sparrows and crows surround her, adding to her aura of insanity as they peck at the morsels of bread left on Preston’s austere bronze face, his giant boots, and the crotch of his trousers. When one pigeon poops right in the statue’s lap, she cackles, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. What keeps her out of the asylum?

I turn the corner onto a tiny side street just in time to see a familiar figure step in front of me. It’s Elyse’s mom.

“Hey, Liz!” I wave—and that’s when I see the sign on the door of the building she just exited. “Pleasant Nights Motel.”

“Oh god.” Liz looks mortified. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here.” My face must look pretty shocked—Elyse’s mom’s having an affair?—because she quickly adds, “It’s not what you think. I just . . . well, sometimes I get real tired, I guess. I don’t even remember booking the room.”

I look down at the duffel bag over her shoulder and feel a tightening in my gut. “You just woke up in a hotel room . . . and don’t know how you got there?” Not a sign of stellar mental health.

“We all have moments,” she says as if trying to reassure herself. “Especially at my age.” Right, thirty-three is the onset of senility.

She glances down at her watch and bites her lip. “Shoot, dinner’s going to be late. . . .”

“Don’t worry, Jeffry can figure something out.” Actually, that guy didn’t seem tech-savvy enough to nuke a plate of leftovers. But I had to say something. To reassure her that things would be all right, even if I’m not sure they will be.

As she walks away, her shoulders look sadly uneven, the left one dragged down by her heavy duffel strap. The bag’s neon red vinyl, a screaming clash with her faded pink sundress. Liz packed a bag and checked into a motel, but now she can’t remember why? And from the sound of it it’s not the first time. I
have
to share this with Elyse. We have to help her mother—somehow—before it’s too late.

—

I arrive at Mollie’s Milkshakes at the same time as Mr. English. It’s packed to the gills, mostly with high school kids. Couples especially. It’s a hot day, but the ice cream’s cooling them down, as well as the huge fans hanging from the rafters. Sunglasses rest on top of sun-bleached heads. Spaghetti-strap tank tops and sundresses show off tan arms.

A few people look up to see us, and from one of the group tables two girls call out simultaneously in flirtatious voices, “Hi, Mr. E!”

“Emma. Bryn.” Joe nods at them stiffly, his smooth cheeks turning pink. His silver-tongued classroom act is gone—here, he’s just an awkward young guy in owlish glasses. Really young, I realize. In the bright sunlight, his unlined face looks not a day older than any of ours. Despite his stodgy teacher costume of khakis, shined loafers, and blue button-down shirt, he could be our peer.

He catches me watching him. “So,” he prompts, eyebrows raised, “you brought her notes, I take it?”

My mother’s notes. I remember the book Miss Niffenhauer was talking about. “Are you a journalist too?”

“Journalist?” His head jerks back as if I’ve insulted him. “Marshall, are you messing with me?” His thick lenses seem to magnify the worry and eagerness in his blue eyes. “My god. You don’t even know who I am, do you? It’s me, Joe. Joe Clifton. From the Institute?”

What Institute? “You’re . . . not Mr. English?”

“Mr. English is just my cover story. I’m the occultist assigned to investigate your mother’s . . . well, your mother’s death.”

I can’t feel my arms and legs. It feels like I’m floating an inch to the left of my body.

“Good gracious, this is bad.” Joe is so taken aback, he pulls off his Coke-bottle glasses and sticks both temple tips in his mouth. His eyes look normal-size now, but his face looks even younger and smoother. His eagerness to please reminds me of Ruta, his nerdiness of Jeremy. No wonder we were friends. “But Eva’s defense spell should have protected you!”

“Spell?” My heart pounds. “You’re talking about a
magic
spell?”

Joe looks overwhelmed. “What other kind of spell is worth talking about? Marshall, what’s happened to you? This is worse than a few heatnaps. It’s like you’ve been erased from the ground up.”

My stomach sinks. He knows. He knows I’m broken. I made Elyse promise not to tell a soul and then I gave it away just by acting stupid. Okay, damage control: At least I didn’t tell him about her. I’ll keep her secret to the end.

“Wh-who could have done this to you?” Joe’s eyes have gone round with fear. “Because if they could get to you, I’m cooked. Let’s just say there’s a reason my father pushed me toward investigation and not spell casting.”

“Dude, calm down.” I’m not sure if I’m telling him or myself. “What do you mean, someone did this to me? Someone wiped my memory using . . . magic?” It still sounds ridiculous.

He gives me a pitying, patient sigh. “Of course with magic, Marshall. And magic is how you’ll cure it too. But first things first. Let me fill you in on the history you’re missing.”

My head’s already spinning, but he had me at “cure.”

A cute pixie redhead appears with a notepad, and Joe orders a strawberry phosphate while I stare at the menu, unable to concentrate or make a decision. She pops her gum.

“He’ll have a chocolate shake,” Joe says with confidence.

“Is that what I usually get?”

“No. I just figured you were never going to order, and besides it doesn’t matter. She’ll get confused and bring us the wrong thing. They always do.”

I laugh, relieved. “How many times have we come here together?”

Joe hesitates. Then he breaks into a geeky smile. “I could tell you anything right now and you’d believe it, wouldn’t you?”

It’s not a reassuring thought.

“What do you want to know first?” he asks.

“I want to know about me, what kind of person I am. What I was like. I’m tired of connecting the dots to try to figure it out.”

“You’re not alone.” His owlish eyes turn suddenly serious. “All human history’s full of holes. As a species we’ve forgotten almost everything about ourselves, and still we move forward. Well, except here in Summer Falls. I think evolution’s stopped for a little nap here, if you will.”

I feel relieved. “So, other towns aren’t like this then?”

He laughs. “Other towns and cities are
very
different from Summer Falls. This place is enchanted, like Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Only people here aren’t quite asleep, they’re just pleasantly drowsy.”

“You mean like the heatnaps.” And Liz’s moments. “How does anything keep running in this town if people are so scattered?”

Joe glances around, then lowers his voice. “Something’s holding this town together, but it’s not the townspeople.”

“Something? What could possibly do this to everyone?”

“The answer to that’s above my pay grade,” Joe says. “But they don’t seem to mind. It keeps them happy before it burns them out.”

Pixie Waitress ambles over to us with an order of fries and three Cokes carefully balanced between her arms. Not what we ordered. At all.

“Thanks, love.” Joe pats her on the head like she’s a puppy. She smiles shyly and wanders back toward the kitchen. “You can tell that one’s had a lot of bad memories wiped, for her age,” he says grimly. “Childhood trauma, most likely. I give her another five years, tops.”

His tone is casual, but his meaning sinks in like a cold knife in my chest. “Wait. Are you saying in five years that girl will be catatonic, like the lady at the fair last night?” The openmouthed stare. Dead inside. A void.

“Oh, but she doesn’t know what’s coming,” he assures me. “They live in the moment. Probably better that way.”

I shake my head. If he’s trying to comfort me, he’s failing miserably. Her not knowing that she’s losing her mind makes it worse. If she knew, she could do something about it. Like leave town. If people knew what was going on here, they’d all leave and never come back. No one would ever set foot in the city limits if they knew . . . except that Joe did. And maybe my mother too. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the answer to a question I’m almost scared to ask. “Why exactly did my mother come to Summer Falls? What was she mixed up in here?”

Joe sighs. “I think Eva was trying to change this place. To end the cycle, redirect the magic somehow. Her notes would give us more information, but we know that her body was found near the—” He stops, hangs his head. “Sorry, Marshall. How insensitive I’ve become, living alone in this place . . .”

“No, go ahead. Where was she found?”

He nods. “In a small cavern. Just behind the waterfall, next to a natural pool.
I
believe—and we at the Institute believe—she was trying to perform a ritual of restoration, returning strength to the townspeople. After living here nine months and three days, I’ve been tempted to try it myself . . . but I’m not the genius that she was.”

I’m starting to get the feeling my mother was some kind of rock star in the world of occultists. Strange as it all is, I can’t help being a little proud of that.

Our waitress is crossing over to us with a check when an orange flare leaps into the edge of my vision. Fire. A grease fire’s just broken out in the fryer, and the fry cook’s staring at it with a puzzled expression.

I bolt from my chair and start scanning the walls for a fire extinguisher. “Joe, can’t you put it out with magic?”

Joe’s already jumped out of his own chair. “Pains me to say it, but I’m crap at magic. This is where we run.”

“We have to evacuate them!” I spot a red extinguisher behind glass in the far corner, but no one’s moving toward it. Nor are they mobbing the door. Everyone’s just gaping as if mesmerized by the bright flame. I don’t know how I remember this fact, but if you don’t put a grease fire out in the first few seconds, it’s too late. And water makes it worse.

I smash the glass and lug the heavy canister behind the counter. “Out of the way!” I yell to the fry cook.

“Okay, everybody, line up behind me and start moving outside!” Joe calls halfheartedly from the door. “They’re just staring. I’ve seen zombies smarter than these people. Really.”

I aim the extinguisher at the blaze, but only a thin dribble of foam spews out. And the second it makes contact with the fryer, a tower of flames shoots up. I hear screams from the tables behind me. What now? Keep spraying or run? If I give up, the fire will spread for sure. Take the risk or take the loss. I can’t afford the loss. I hold my finger on the can. Instantly, the column of flames dies down to silence. The fire’s out.

I let myself exhale.

Behind me I hear a
splat
and a
thump
, then another and another. I turn to see the whole restaurant full of people passing out into their ice-cream bowls and French fry baskets. Collective heatnap.

“Very impressive.” From across the sea of unconscious townspeople, owlish blue eyes meet mine. “Heroic, even.”

With my T-shirt I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. No one got hurt. Everyone’s safe—
everyone
.

“Sleepers.” Joe leans toward me conspiratorially. “That’s what my father used to call nonoccultists. I called him an insufferable snob at the time, but now . . .” He pushes up his glasses and sighs. “Now I rather see his point.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.” Since we’re the only ones not drooling on our plates, I’m guessing all occultists must have some kind of defense against heatnaps. I don’t see how that makes us better though. Just luckier.

“You’re clearly your mother’s son,” he says with a broad smile, and it occurs to me again that he seems to view my mother as some kind of deity among occultists. I can’t help but feel proud on two levels. He pulls a business card from his pocket. “Call my mobile anytime. Or just stop by. I’m renting a cabin just off the main trail near the waterfall. You can’t miss it . . . looks like it’s a hundred years old, but that’s what a teacher’s salary gets you out in the sticks. And it’s well-kept, like everything is here. Stop by for a cup of tea. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

His airy tone sounds strained, and it occurs to me why. He’s trying to hide how desperately lonely he is. This is probably his first assignment as an investigator. “You miss home, don’t you?” I ask. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I miss my home, and I don’t even remember it.”

“Sure, I miss London.” He smiles sadly. “But I wouldn’t fit in there anymore. Sometimes I wish I’d never taken this post, but even magic can’t change the past.”

He hunches his shoulders and walks out the door. As usual without paying.