Illuminate (43 page)

Ever since that night in my room, Lucian had kept his distance from me. Occasionally, I would catch him looking over from across the lobby as I passed by, or he might come into the gallery office to give us some bit of prom-related paperwork, but otherwise he kept off my radar. Though I would be lying if I said my ears didn’t still hone in on the sound of his voice—a reflex that would take some time to fully fade.

The biggest mystery, though, continued to be Dante. He hadn’t yet shown up at the latest induction, which was a relief, nor had he signaled he was ready to take that step by cutting his hair, but it seemed only a matter of time. His only attempt at interaction with me and Lance became the constant stream of food he left for us, three meals a day each, in the fridge in the Parlor kitchen. We would take turns taking out the plates, mashing up the food and making it look like we were eating (putting on a show for any sous-chefs working around us), and then eventually throwing it down the sink or burying it in the trash when they weren’t paying attention. We knew that this wasn’t our Dante trying to hurt us. It was a poisoned version, but our friend was still in there somewhere—we just had to find a way to pull him out.

I didn’t give up trying to talk to him. Once a day I attempted to get to him in the kitchen of Capone, and once a day, I got manhandled by his fellow chefs and thrown out. They never said a word to me. Etan would call over from his station, “He’s busy, come back later.” And then, with firm faces, the few of them would clutch my arms—which now were permanently bruised—to lift me up, my legs scissoring, and drag me away, so strong and swift that there wasn’t even time for me to make a real scene. If Dante had any idea this was going on, he didn’t show it. Whether I snuck into the back of the kitchen or brazenly marched in through the dining room and into the front, he never so much as looked in my direction. It was like he was in some sort of invisible sensory deprivation chamber, where all he did was cook brilliantly and perform for the crowd of diners. Lance and I didn’t know where he was spending the hours when he wasn’t in the kitchen, but we imagined it was with Etan.

So months went by in this fashion, exhausting months of us settling into our strange, eerie new normal. My book gave me nothing new in these months, no guidance, no warnings of what was to come. I called Joan weekly now, and I e-mailed too, trying to give her the impression that everything was fine, but sometimes it made it worse to hear her voice—it made the clock seem to tick louder and faster. I couldn’t help it. I lived teetering on a shrinking ledge knowing the date would come when I would be forced to fall.

Part Three

26. You’re a New Woman

It was a Saturday at the end of April, and the icy chill that had frozen the ground and air for months was beginning to thaw, ushering in spring and all the dread it promised, when I stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel waiting for Joan. She had been unbelievably patient since that harrowing surprise visit, and now, after I had put her off as long as I possibly could, I had to gird myself to handle all of her questions, all of those typical parental curiosities, in a manner that would somehow not arouse more suspicion. I had to seem completely at ease.

Lance waited with me outside, making small talk as I kept an eye out for that beloved beat-up Camry. Aurelia had granted me permission to have the afternoon off with a wary look even when I told her I would be spending the day with Joan. Lance, admitting that he didn’t like the idea of being trapped in the hotel all alone all day long, asked for the afternoon off to visit his mom too.

“Remind me to show you the latest e-mail from Courtney,” he said now, kicking at a rock on the sidewalk. “You won’t believe how many different, incorrect ways she spelled
hors d’oeuvres
within the span of a single paragraph.”

“She can’t spell my name either.” It was true. And sometimes she called me Holly. I was suddenly glad not to have been at school these past few months. Although, this was, quite literally, its own form of hell, wasn’t it?

“How did she get into honors English?”

“Couldn’t tell ya. I’m surprised she can read at all.”

“They’re just letting anyone in those classes these days.”

“There she is,” I said, almost to myself as Joan pulled up in front, waving furiously, happily. I waved back.

“So, back around eight, you think?” he asked, taking a few steps away. He adjusted his glasses, a giveaway that he was feeling anxious.

“Probably. You too?”

He nodded.

“Sure we can’t give you a ride to the L?”

“No, I’m good,” he said waving and then, because he was still polite even in his shyness, he leaned down, just enough to see inside the car when I opened the door, and put his hand up in greeting. “Hi there,” he said.

Joan began talking a mile a minute. “Why hello! You must be Lance, so nice to meet you. You’re welcome to join us. We’re just headed off to the mall.” I rolled my eyes: she always was overzealous when it came to me and friends. Lance just said a shy
thank you
and walked on, backwards a few steps and then in the direction of the train.

“See you later,” I said as he cast his eyes away, putting his hands in his pockets.

Joan threw her arms around me in a bear hug the second I shut the door.

“Come ’ere, you. Oh, how I’ve missed you!” She kissed me on the cheek. “So, Water Tower Place? I think there ought to be a lovely selection there.”

“Whatever you say.” I tried to sound excited. She had been hounding me for weeks about how we needed to go shopping for a prom dress before all the good ones were gone, and I had finally acquiesced because, well, why not? I might as well at least be wearing something I liked on that day. The questions came fast as we drove through the bustling sun-streaked streets.

“So tell me everything. How’s work? Are you eating? Are you sleeping? You look different. Oh, I feel like it’s been ages. I’ve been trying to give you your space, but there were so many times I almost hopped in the car to surprise you again—that spa treatment was just divine. I don’t like how you’ve been sounding, you know. You shouldn’t be that tired.”

“Oh, wow—” It was a lot to take in at once.

“So, how’s Dante?” And now the rush of queries stopped, leaving plenty of airtime for me to answer. Unfortunately.

“Um, he’s doing really well, I think. He’s getting a lot of attention for his work in the restaurant. He’s sort of a big deal,” I answered carefully. I didn’t want to lie but I couldn’t quite tell the truth. “We kind of have different schedules, and he has a bunch of new friends so I don’t see him as much these days. He’s working a lot.”

“Good for him.” Joan noticed my gloomy expression and said, “Oh, Haven, c’mon now. I know he loves you. Let him have his fun. Ruthie says he’s having such a blast. Be happy for him.”

“Oh, you talked to her?”

“Ran into her in the supermarket the other day,” she said as she pulled into a parking garage. “I hope we don’t have to go too far down like last time. Why are all these people up so early to—”

I cut her off. “What did she say? Ruthie?”

“Oh, yes, just that he was having a great time and meeting some wonderful people. He sounds very happy. Here we go!” She pulled into a spot.

I supposed it was reassuring that Dante was, at least, managing to call his mom, despite whatever was going on. But I still wished he was talking to me. We locked up the car and headed in. Joan threw an arm around me as we walked toward the elevator.

“I know, I know, you aren’t the least bit interested in this, but come on, it’ll be fun. Macy’s, here we come!”

“I really like this one, honey.” Joan sat beside the three-way mir- ror outside my fitting room. I looked at my reflection in the full-length fuchsia number but I just wasn’t convinced.

“I don’t think it’s me.”

“None of these are going to be you, dear, because you don’t wear dresses.”

“I wear a dress every day now, actually.”

“Oh, that’s right, your uniform! It’s just darling. I almost didn’t recognize you when I saw you in it that day!”

“It’s fine. Can I take this off?”

“It’s very va-va-voom,” she said as a compliment. “Look at this figure! I do believe you’ve got some curves.” She sounded impressed and squeezed my bicep. “Is there a gym there? Have you been lifting everyone’s luggage?”

“No.” I tugged at the dress. Every garment so far had been hitting me differently than I expected. I was filling them out in a way I wasn’t used to. I guess I hadn’t noticed the change so much because it had been so gradual to me. But where I had been soft or scrawny, I was now firm and strong, with taut, rounded little muscles. I almost didn’t look like me.

“Okay, okay,” Joan gave in. “I can tell you won’t be comfortable in it.”

She had taken one of everything off the racks—jewel tones, sexy black numbers, long dresses, short dresses—as I trailed her, giving vague, noncommittal answers to her questions about the color and shape of what I wanted. I was at a loss. I waded through the sea of gowns of every hue bursting off hooks in my fitting room. I’d already tried and vetoed nearly half of them.

“There’s got to be something you like in there,” Joan called in through the door.

I shimmied into another one and took a quick look before I emerged. Well, this wasn’t so bad. I opened the door and stepped out toward the big mirror.

“Yes, there’s my little angel!” Joan clasped her hands. “Gorgeous, dear, so perfect with your skin tone. I love this!”

I cocked my head to the side, considering it. Not the worst choice, even though I wouldn’t have expected to like it. I smoothed it out and discovered hidden pockets on the side. I slipped my hands inside and studied myself. An A-line dress in a shimmering metallic pearl shade, cinched in at the waist and hitting above the knee. Oh, and it was strapless, with a sweetheart neckline. This didn’t escape Joan’s notice. I could see her debating internally whether to mention it.

“It’s neat that it has pockets,” I said. “I sort of like this one.” Even with that scar in full view, nowhere to hide.

“You should, it’s stunning,” she said, wheels turning and then, gently: “Does the neckline bother you? I know how you feel about that . . .” She trailed off.

“No, actually.” I looked at myself again. For once, it didn’t seem to matter quite so much. I had so much worse to consider on May 27. The scar wasn’t my favorite thing about myself, and I sure didn’t love the two on my back either, but the dress looked pretty, and it was about time I stopped worrying about things that I couldn’t change. Let people look away if they’re bothered by it. I would never be perfect. I would never be a member of the Outfit. But I looked good. “I like it.”

Joan nodded, looking at me with eyes curious for an explanation but not wanting to rock the boat. “Good.” She stood up and kissed me on the top of the head. “Then we’ll take it.”

And we did, along with a pair of strappy, high-heeled Mary Janes, which Joan was impressed I could walk in. “Hav, you’re a new woman,” she marveled. “You’re in heels, you’re going to the prom, you’re still wearing that necklace I got you.” I touched it now. “This all must be the influence of that glamorous boss of yours or something. You’ll have to thank her for me.”

“Right, I will,” I said, barely believable.

We spent the rest of the day catching up over lunch—where Joan filled me in on all the gossip at the hospital—and then strolling Michigan Avenue, browsing and window-shopping until the sun went down and it was finally time for her to take me back to the Lexington. She helped me get my shopping bags from the trunk and gave me a hug, ordering me to take pictures at prom. I didn’t mention that I no longer had access to a camera. I said I was sure I’d see her again before then and that we’d talk, and then I gave her another hug, a strong one, not wanting to let go. I felt my eyes well up, but tried to push the tears back.

“You know, it’s perfectly okay to be homesick,” she said softly. “It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. I know you always think everything is a sign that you’re not perfect enough. But it’s okay.” She put her hands up in surrender. “There, that’s all. Gotta let the parent do her parenting sometimes.”

“I love you, Joan, thank you so much, for everything,” I managed without tears.

“I love you too, sweetie. Fun day. We’ll have more of ’em when you aren’t working so hard here. Summer is just around the corner. Beach days at the lake, get ready!”

I nodded, smiling and hoping. Hoping so much that I would be there.

I watched her drive away until the last traces of her taillights were out of sight, and stood out there on the sidewalk in the chilly evening air until I had convinced myself that May 27 was going to be okay because it had to be. I would survive it and I would prove that book wrong. I would do whatever I needed to, whoever I needed to fight, no matter what was required of me. This was a game that I was simply going to have to win.

When my hands and feet began to grow numb, I joined the masses pouring into the hotel for their dinners and their drinks and their evening excitement, but that was my prison. As I cut through the bustling lobby with its piped-in jazz music making me wish I could be transplanted to another time and forget all of this, I felt his eyes on me. I permitted myself a quick glance as I passed that hallway behind Capone, the one that I had floated out of after our dinner that one night. And there he was in the shadows, folders of some sort stacked in his hands, looking like he was going somewhere and had momentarily lost his way. He just stood there watching me; I averted my eyes, fast, picking up my pace toward the freight elevator. I missed the good Lucian, the one I went on those few dates with and flirted with, who made me feel special, even though it probably was just an act. The heart doesn’t make these distinctions. Mine only knew that it had felt a pull to him and then it had been so disappointed by who he was and by how false his feelings had been. When the elevator doors swallowed me up, I felt relieved.

And lonely.