Oblivion (17 page)

“No.”

“Actually, yes. It is possible. I used to spend a lot of time here.”

He adamantly refuses to consider my theory with a persistent shaking of his head. “No, no, no. A: if you were here, I would’ve seen you.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Yes, necessarily. A girl like you … I would’ve noticed you like I did on your first day at school. And B: if you overheard, you wouldn’t have had so many questions about the rosary. You would’ve known that I first thought it belonged to you because of your voice—you were singing that day in chapel, remember—and if you’d overheard, you’d have known long before I gave it to you that you have the missing stone.”

“What?”

“The missing stone. The one that belongs in the cross.”

It’s my turn for refusal. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Exactly. You still don’t know, and I’m not one hundred percent sure about this, either. But that tiny ring you wear on your necklace … the ruby … doesn’t it look like it’s supposed to fit into the center part of the cross?”

My fingers rake under the string of topaz and peridot until I find the ring.

“That ring.” He nods toward my chest. “The ruby in that ring …”

Frantically, I pull the rosary from my neck, unclasp the
chain I’ve been wearing since about birth. I fumble it and the ring spins on the table until John stills it with his palm.

With trembling fingers, I take it from his hand. I trace the concave in the crucifix, then touch the marquise ruby, like I’ve done a thousand times before. Feels like a fit. Maybe I would’ve caught on sooner, had I paid more attention. But it’s been fastened around my neck for as long as I can remember. I haven’t given it more than a quick acknowledgment, let alone a intense scrutiny, since my mother gave it to me.

When I look up at John, his eyes look bluer than ever.

“And the mystic told you I had this?”

“Yeah.”

I wonder why she never told me.

“She didn’t tell me it was you, as in ‘Calliope Knowles has the missing stone.’ She said I’d know you by your voice, that you’d sing, and I’d know.”

That sounds like something she’d say, all right. Cryptic, yet intriguing. Incredibly vague.

“She also said I’d have to keep you safe, that you were gone, and I had to help you come home. That the rosary should be placed with you, to protect you, to lead you home. She didn’t call you out by name—she was very careful about that—but …” His voice is soothing, calm. “If you ever wondered why I couldn’t stop looking at you at school, it’s because you look a lot like the mystic, just like she said you would. I’d been expecting a girl named
Lorraine … you know, because it’s carved on the back of the rosary. I’d done a few searches online for a
Lorraine Oh
, and even Lorraines with last names that begin with
O H
—it looks like maybe other letters were worn off—but I couldn’t find anything but Facebook pages, and not one of those girls replied when I wrote about the rosary. I searched missing girls named Lorraine, and I didn’t find anything there, either. It was a frustrating search. And then … then I heard you sing. That afternoon, I searched your name, found out you were missing once, and I stopped looking.”

“Given the chance”—I sip my cocoa—“would you want to talk to this mystic again?”

“Well, obviously, but she isn’t here anymore. And they don’t know where she went. I asked.”

“I know where to find her. She’s not always reliable, you know, but, John …” I engage him in a stare, as I look into his eyes. He knows a lot. My mother invited him into this mess long before I met him. I take a gamble: “She’s my mother.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I might have guessed that.”

I wonder how he’ll react when I reveal what’s next:

that my mother isn’t a mystic at all. She’s just a burnt-out soul with a lot of unexplained information, a deck of Tarot cards, and one hell of an imagination. The fact that she led him anywhere but on a wild goose chase is the only amazing element of his history with her.

“And how is it she drew a line between Hannah’s case and your cousin’s?”

“Well …” He unbuckles his watch and places it in my hand. I turn it over, see for myself the engraving I somehow knew I’d find on the back of it. “That watch,” he says. “It used to be my cousin’s.”

I
pull a pink feather boa from a tangle of arms and legs. Lindsey’s passed out, entwined on a bed on the
Ikal del Mar
with Marta and two other girls. “What a mess.”

“Always, after a night like this.” John’s heavy sigh is the only clue to his exhaustion. He sweeps beer can after beer can from the built-in bureaus and into the trash.

“I’ll help clean up tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” He lets go of the waste can and glances around the room before meeting my gaze. “Tomorrow will be an interesting day, won’t it?”

He’s right. Tomorrow, everything will be different.

The soft sounds of Marta’s iPod emanate from the next room, where the last two guests of the evening—John’s
teammates, the dates of the girls in bed with my sister—chew on unlit cigars and sip on Mr. Fogel’s bourbon.

Elijah’s gone. Probably left with that girl when the crowd started to thin out. The thought of it both debilitates me and relieves me. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing, the time I spent with John tonight is more than forgivable.

“Well”—John smiles—“let’s get you home.”

While I gather Lindsey’s dress, her shoes and mine, and her bowl and stash, John lifts her from the mattress and carries her out to his SUV.

I join him in the harbor parking lot and slide onto the front seat because Lindsey’s sprawled in the back.

He glances back at his date, then turns the key in the ignition and reaches over the center consul and places his hand on my thigh.

As much as I’m addicted to his touch, I’m uneasy. Any moment, Lindsey might open her eyes and witness the intimacy between us. As much as I want her to sleep until morning, if only to give myself an extra stay of execution, she has to wake up some time. I can’t carry her into the house on my own.

A few minutes later, in the Hutches’ driveway, which is barren of Elijah’s borrowed car, she won’t budge. John determines he’ll have to toss her over his shoulder to get her to bed. It’s late, but Lindsey’s parents aren’t yet home. This isn’t good news. They’re less of a threat whilst Ambiened to the gills.

But maybe it’s just early enough to deposit Lindsey into her bed and sneak John back out of the house before they return home from their night out.

I lead him up the back staircase, down the long hallway to Lindsey’s room. I kick aside the pair of DKNY jeans rumpled on the floor, and turn down her covers. He spills her onto the designer sheets and pecks me on the cheek, on his way toward the door, while I tuck her in.

But the sound of the garage door stills him before he sets foot in the hallway.

I nudge him, but he’s frozen, bolted to the floor. I finally yank him by the arm, and push him into my room.

“Wha—”

“Shh. Stay.” I close the door and dart across the hallway to Lindsey’s room, where I stick her iPod into the docking station, turn it on, and jump onto the bed. I’m lying with my back to the door, hopefully blocking any view of their drunken daughter, should the Hutches peek in.

Footsteps slow outside the door for a few measures, but then continue.

Just as I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, the door creaks open. A stream of dim light filters into the room.

“Whose car is that?”

Fuck. Didn’t think of that.

I look over my shoulder at Mr. Hutch, who is backlit by the dim hallway light, and hope he can’t see more than the shadows of our bodies. “Um, it’s John’s. Lindsey’s date’s.”

“Where’s he?” His gaze sweeps the room, I assume in search of an extra body.

I swallow hard. I’m going to have to lie. I’m not good at lying, due to lack of practice. Lying, particularly to the Hutches, is new territory for me. Usually, I let Lindsey handle questions from her parents, since she’s been getting away with murder for sixteen years. But seeing as she’s indisposed … I try out a few replies in my head—I borrowed the car to get us home on time, he left it here when the limo came—but eventually blurt out mostly the truth: “He’ll be back tomorrow to get it. Early.”

Mr. Hutch’s creased brow knits a degree further before his head bobs in acceptance. “Okay.”

Wow. Vague, but no further questions.

“Everything all right?” my foster father asks.

I rake through Lindsey’s hair and hope it appears as if I’m comforting her. “Just some … boy stuff.” I’m not just saying this only because I know Mr. Hutch is afraid of the topic, although that’s certainly a bonus, but because it’s true. Lindsey might not know it yet, but we have a huge boy conundrum ahead of us. And I don’t know if we’ll make it through.

“Oh.” Mr. Hutch takes a step back.

I hold his gaze.

“Well, get some rest.”

I nod. “We will.”

He closes the door.

I rest my head on a pillow and study Lindsey’s face—still made up and flawless. John Fogel is no more than a passing interest for her. If he’d responded the way he should’ve, the way she’d expected him to, they’d already be living the last chapters of their couplehood, and she’d be on to the next big thing. Homecoming would’ve been the pinnacle, and she would’ve been over him. But because her life has been so easy, she doesn’t know or understand this. In her mind, there’s always a chance at Happily Ever After—why wouldn’t there be?—and there’s always a prince ready to kiss her feet.

It isn’t Lindsey’s fault her scope of the world is so narrow. It’s enviable, actually. Charming. She lives under the illusion that life is like a cupcake—sweet, delicious, uncomplicated, and not a bite more than she can handle—because hers is anything but inconvenient, let alone difficult.

She certainly doesn’t deserve what’s coming—no one would—and I’ll receive the brunt of her anger, when the illusion begins to crumble.

We’ve never let a guy come between us before, primarily because I’ve always had Elijah, and I’ve never needed someone she wants. If this were solely about a guy, I’d send him packing. But this is bigger than John Fogel’s gorgeous blue eyes, his strong arms, his uncanny ability to kiss me into oblivion. This is beyond my control.

I sweep a few strands of hair from Lindsey’s forehead, kiss her cheek, and wish her sweet dreams. Tonight may
be the last night she falls asleep happy for a while. Tonight may be the last time I feel this close to her. I want to fall asleep with her breathing next to me, to hold on to this moment. She’ll always be my sister, but I don’t know if I’ll always be hers.

Can I live without Lindsey?

No. My heart aches with the thought of it.

But I can’t live the way I’ve been living, either.

This isn’t a matter of choosing between my best friend and a guy, between my head and my heart; this is about choosing between clarity and clouds. If I want to live in a cave for the rest of my life, with those thirty-six hours a blackout and the possibility of my father’s blood on my hands, or Hannah’s, I can turn my back on John Fogel, push him into Lindsey’s arms. But that cave might be the death of me.

John’s the key. My mother chose him to protect me, and I remember things when I’m with him. One day, these clues might finally put an end to my suffering. In exploring these mysteries with him, I might someday write the last of the words consuming my soul. What’s more, I might learn what happened to my father—and to Hannah.

After a while, when I’m certain my foster parents are asleep, I return to my room, where John Fogel is seated under the window, reading last week’s notebook by moonlight.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He looks up. “Everything okay?”

Tears rise, fruit of the battle raging inside my head. “I can’t believe we’re going to hurt her like this.”

“Do we have a choice?” He’s on his feet now and I lean into his embrace. “She could decide,” he says. “She doesn’t have to pursue me.”

“In her mind, she does.”

“But why? I gave her no indication—”

“That was before you turned into super-boyfriend at the parade.” I shake my head, rumpling my hair against his chest. “She was wearing your jersey, holding your hand! God, what kind of a sister am I?”

“I wouldn’t have taken her to homecoming, if it weren’t for you. Some might say you’re doing everything you can to make her happy.”

“Was. Now I’m hooking up with you in coat closets. Even though I have a boyfriend.”

“Had. You had a boyfriend, right? He was …” He trails off. I know he doesn’t want to say the words any more than I want to hear them.

I don’t have the energy to explain to John that Elijah’s indiscretions on the boat weren’t his first, and that his infidelity doesn’t make me love him any less. I don’t quite understand it myself. I voice the mantra repeating in my head: “Elijah might deserve this. Lindsey doesn’t.”

“Calliope, listen. We aren’t doing this to her. She’s taking part, too.”

“We set her up.”

“No. Well, sort of.”

“I wrote the notes that got you together! You know that!”

“From a certain point of view, I guess we did set her up. But look, I didn’t say this wasn’t complicated.” He lifts my chin with two fingers.