Lost (19 page)

Gaia stared defiantly into Natasha's oddly vacant eyes. “No, I don't see,” she said. “I don't see why we're not—”

“A few calls, of course, I will make a few calls, Gaia. But what we need to do now is stay calm. What we
need to do now is
wait
. Wait for more information. Do you understand?”

Gaia turned her head toward the window with increasing frustration, watching as a tiny beam of light cut through the room like a laser beam—like the sun was trying to break in and light the carpet on fire.

She turned back to Natasha and examined her face, trying to sift through the condescending kindness, and the sage wisdom of an experienced agent, and the generic innocence of her big brown eyes. Gaia wanted to see some of the desperation that she was feeling. The desperation that came with loving someone so much that the thought of losing him actually damaged your sanity. That was half of what she'd come into this room for. Not just the help, but the empathy. The empathy that only a family member could feel . . .

But she couldn't find it. These simply were not a mother's eyes. And they weren't a wife's eyes, either. Gaia didn't even know what these eyes were.

Maybe Natasha was just an incredibly disciplined agent. Or maybe she was just nothing like Gaia. Maybe she handled the traumas of her life with total passivity. Gaia tended to handle her traumas with a well-placed kick to the groin area. They were just . . . different. That's all. That's what was going on here. Two different people coping in two very different ways. This “new family” thing was going to be a long road.

“No,” Gaia said finally. “No, I don't understand. If you need to wait it out, then you wait it out. But I'm not waiting for anything. I want to know what's going on. And I want to know now.”

“We need patience now, Gaia. Patience is the best way to—”

“Where's Tatiana?” Gaia interrupted. “I didn't see her in our room.”

Tatiana wouldn't be talking any of this “patience” bullshit. The more Gaia thought about it, the more she realized how much better she knew Tatiana than Natasha, anyway. She'd hardly spent any real time with Natasha, at least not without being in a completely delirious fever state. But Tatiana . . . Gaia and Tatiana had been to hell and back together. Tatiana didn't waste time. She didn't tiptoe around a problem waiting for “more information.” When Tatiana heard about Gaia's trip to the hospital, she'd sprout claws and fangs and go to work with Gaia on finding her father. Tatiana had guts. She must have gotten them from her father.

“She left early,” Natasha explained. “She said something about having coffee downtown before school. Gaia, please. Don't worry, okay? I will make a few calls, all right? I will try to find out what we really know. We have to believe that Tom is okay. We have to—”

“I have to go.” Gaia shot up from the bed and headed for the door.

“Gaia, come on, now, don't do that”

“Let me know how the waiting goes for you.”

Gaia was out the bedroom door before she could even hear a response.
Believe that Tom is okay? What a load of crap.
So much for her newfound faith in fake moms.

She shot over to her room, shoved a few random books into her bag out of habit, and slipped right back out and down the hall toward the front door. She needed to get downtown and find Tatiana. But first, there was one more door she needed to open in the house. One more emotionally baffling, still barely believable, highly complicated door.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Simon Pulse edition January 2003

Copyright © 2003 by Francine Pascal

Cover copyright © 2003 by 17th Street Productions, an Alloy, Inc. company.

SIMON PULSE

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division

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Produced by 17th Street Productions,

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All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

in whole or in part in any form.

For information address 17th Street Productions,

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Fearless™ is a trademark of Francine Pascal.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2002108666

ISBN: 0-689-85551-6

ISBN-13: 978-1-442-48940-0 (eBook)