Pieces of Hope (17 page)

My eyes
narrowed. My breathing labored. Across the I room, I glared at Daniel through a
haze of crimson red. And those frenzied, racing thoughts kept coming—

Not my blood! Never was! Lies! All lies!

And
then, in a sudden twist of evil glee came a thought of another kind.

If I—if I only could—

I almost
laughed.
 

But then . . . I could. Couldn’t I? Who
would stop me?

I
debated an unknown, dreadful something for a speeding, pulsing instant.

It would be flawless. Just like before . . .
No one would ever know.

 
Once the tree of a man passed through me, my
legs refused to support my weight. My body seemed to liquefy, and I collapsed.
Creesie
was instantly at my side, catching me before I hit
the floor.

“Are you
all right?” she gasped, jerking her head toward the black-headed man at
Daniel’s bedside. “Who is that?”

Still
panting, I muttered in disbelief, “Daniel’s father, Sheriff John
Hartlein
.”

Grabbing
me beneath my arms,
Creesie
dragged me into the next
room to recover. As I lay motionless on the hard floor, noticing that I
couldn’t feel its slick surface beneath me, she dumped the massive contents of
her purse beside me, rummaged through it and shoved a piece of candy into my
mouth. At first, I couldn’t move. Anything. Not even an eyelid. This time was
more debilitating than the incident with Ethan. But as the chocolate began to
melt, I began to slowly regain my strength. When at last I blinked,
Creesie
sighed with relief.
 

“Sugar
is good for the soul,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Packs a wallop,
doesn’t it? Why do you think we eat so much of it?”
   

Several
minutes later, as we made our way to
Amora’s
room, I
worked at shaking off the last of the icky feeling, but it clung to my insides
like an oily slick. One disturbing question burned darkly in my thoughts. How
could Sheriff
Hartlein
despise his only son? No
wonder Daniel made dozens of excuses every time I tried to visit. No wonder my
parents had said that John
Hartlein
impressed them as
a man with lots of skeletons in his closet—too many to keep the door closed
forever. My parents aside, no one else seemed to notice.
Hartlein
had won every election by a landslide, and lately I’d heard that he was
planning to run for mayor. Several of his billboards were still plastered
around town, and knowing what I knew now, the slogan was beyond detestable.
Vote for John
Hartlein
—The
Sheriff With A Heart!

When we
were near Daniel’s room, I stole a furtive glance inside. John
Hartlein
was staring a dark hole into Daniel’s nearly
lifeless form. Though there wasn’t much I could do to protect him, I loathed
and all-out feared the idea of leaving him alone with that horrid, evil man.

“Don’t
fret,”
Creesie
cooed, gently ushering me away,
refusing to let me linger. “Nothing will happen to him here. We’ll find Daniel
before then.”

Despite
Creesie’s
unflappable calm, my feet dragged. “You’ve seen
it?” I asked, hoping that nothing altered to change that fact. With a sinking
heart, I remembered that Daniel was famous for changing his mind, and then
doing the opposite of what anyone expected him to do. What if he made things
worse for himself?

“Don’t
fret,” she repeated, pushing me along. “Must I remind you that patience is a
virtue? Besides, some things can’t be rushed. Daniel needs to come out of the
shadows on his own accord, and I believe he will soon. He just needs a little
more time.”
   

 
By the time we walked across the hall, I knew
it wasn’t merely her assurance, but the sight of
Amora
which caused my mood to brighten. She wore a long, dark wig on her head; there
was a rosy color in her cheeks, and her mischievous eyes sparkled. She was a
different little girl from the one I’d met the other day. I turned to mention
this to
Creesie
, but she was suddenly nowhere in
sight.

 
“Hope!”
Amora
cried,
her face lighting up. “You came to see me!”

“Did you
miss me already?” I asked, and
Amora
nodded briskly.
Yet again, I was overwhelmed by how easy it was to make friends this way. I
seemed far more fascinating without my body than with it.
 

Although
no one else was in the room, her rolling bedside table held two sodas. I could
hear the sound of them fizzing, and the ice melting in the Styrofoam cups.

“Is your
mom coming back soon?” I flopped sideways across her bed. Tiny as she was, I
was nowhere near her feet.

Amora
flushed, then mumbled, “She’s giving us a few
minutes.”

Knowing
she wasn’t referring to me, I was about to ask her who the “us” was, but her
flush intensified when a short, solid-looking little boy with black hair and
inquisitive eyes entered the room. In his hands, he carried two vanilla
puddings.

“Is that
Oliver?” I asked, happily surprised.

Amora
nodded only slightly as she turned her head toward
him.
 

“Does he
know about me?” The second I asked it, I realized how crazy that was. Of
course, she couldn’t tell Oliver about me.
 

Almost
imperceptibly, she shook her head.

I broke
into a wide grin, unable to stop myself from gushing, “He’s cute,
Amora
! I really like his spiky hair!”
 

I
watched as he handed her a pudding, politely asking if she needed her bed to be
more upright or wanted her pillow fluffed, then he yanked his chair closer
before digging in.
Amora
nibbled delicately at her
pudding, the smile never leaving her face.

“I guess
I’ll leave you two alone,” I whispered. Jumping from the bed, I muttered,
“Thanks for passing along my message to Ethan. He was very happy to hear it.”
And then a thought came to mind—more like a picture, really. “Hey, in case you
need a chaperone on your first date, I’m available for a minimum charge. But
you should warn Oliver that I know Tae Kwon Do.” I demonstrated some of my
worst moves.

“Hope,
you’re crazy!” she sputtered, bursting into a giggle. I didn’t turn to see the
surprised look on Oliver’s face, but I knew it was there.
   

Passing
by my room, I saw that everyone was still asleep—well, almost everyone. Claire
was staring glassily at my bed, eyes open but not really seeing, her torment
nearly etched into her skin. Before I forced myself to look away, I told her
that I’d visit soon. It wasn’t only for Claire’s benefit; I missed her nearly
as much as she missed me.
    

Near the
elevators, I spied
Creesie
. “Sure you’re ready for
this?” she asked. When she looked up at me from under a soft wave of bangs,
there was an extra little twinkle in her eyes. She looked every bit the
teenager she appeared to be.

“More
than ready.” This was one shortcut I would never forget.

She
pulled back the invisible curtain, granting me access to a spacious bedroom in
a muted blue shade. A low bed with a gray leather headboard squatted in front
of a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows. On the other side of the room, two
French doors opened onto a weathered wrought-iron balcony. Though the sun
hadn’t yet risen—watery pinks painted the horizon—the bed was empty. It was all
very neat and tidy, almost formal. Not at all what I’d expected. Then I spotted
the fly-rod propped lazily in one corner.

An
enormous smile spread across my face.

“I’ll
try to be good,” I told her, hoping I could keep that promise.

“Really?”
Creesie
snickered. “I probably wouldn’t.”
  

10
Ethan’s Room

After I
stepped into the room, I looked back twice to be sure
Creesie
had released the curtain, granting us some semblance of privacy. In truth,
there wasn’t much mischief I could get into since Ethan was awake and I was,
well,
not.
But my desire to see a
small part of his world won out over common sense, and even if he wouldn’t know
I was with him, I was thrilled to be here.
 

Faint
steam immersed with a woodsy scent hung in the air from an adjacent room,
encroaching on my senses. Forgetting that I didn’t have to be so utterly human,
I walked through the room’s open door rather than shimmying through the wall,
and heard water falling, and someone singing. With a smile, I realized I’d
found the one thing that Ethan wasn’t so great at. His musical inclinations
would have to remain at home or confined to random karaoke nights in places
far, far away. Even so, I beamed. He was singing an old rock tune at the top of
his lungs, and he sounded ridiculously happy.

I took a
long look around. His apartment ate up an entire floor, and this side was a
twin to its opposite half—neatly split down the middle. From the living room’s
balcony, I could see the last of the crimson leaves billowing in the breeze,
and many more littering the ground in the tree-filled courtyard below. We were
high in the treetops—the fourth or fifth floor—and from here, I could just make
out Spencer’s Butte,
a hangout of tourists and locals alike.

I knew
exactly where we were. Downtown Eugene
had several of these old brick buildings, but this one appeared to be recent
recently remodeled—a perfect mix between the old and the new—plenty of exposed
brick, dark wood floors, and modern furnishings. The main room was tasteful, if
not a bit on the stark side. Nothing covered the windows. On sunny days, I
imagined that the afternoon light would flood the expansive room from east to
west.

To the
left of the balcony sat a pair of squared-off armchairs. Behind them stood a
wall of built-in bookcases, stuffed from top to bottom, and fixed with a
rolling ladder for easier access to the highest shelves. Running my finger near
the books’ spines, I saw that some of them were leather bound, and many were
classics. I recalled a list:
100 Books To
Read Before You Die,
which my high school English teacher had force-fed us
during our Junior year (of which, I’d only read fifty-seven) and thought how
ironic it was that, in my bodiless state, I was thinking of that list. Then my
thoughts drifted again, and I wondered how many Ethan might have read. This was
one of several questions I was dying (though, not fatally) to ask him.
    

I
traipsed back into the huge bedroom, reclining on the silken linens and
propping my hands behind my head. I thought about removing my shoes, only for
the sake of being polite, but quickly dismissed that idea. It wasn’t like they
were going to leave a mark.

Dozens
of photographs of stunning scenery hung tastefully on the balcony wall—from his
travels, I assumed. But one picture on his dresser, the only one with people in
it, held my attention. In a silver frame, Ethan stood tall in a black robe with
a square cap on his head, a serious look of reflection on his flawless face.
His long arms embraced a man and a woman. His parents, I guessed. But if so, he
didn’t resemble them at all. They were shorter than Ethan, sort of attractive,
though not the god and goddess I’d envisioned. But they were proud of him, that
was evident. It shone on their faces, lighting them up from the inside out as
they each gazed adoringly in his direction.

Vigilant
with my task, I examined the items on his nightstand to see what secrets they revealed
about him, absently thinking of my old hand-me-down nightstand and what it
might say about me. If memory served, it was cluttered with one dirty sock
(which I’d never been able to find the mate to), a blue climbing harness, a
package of Twinkies, and beneath all that, a now seriously overdue library
book—
Zadie
Smith’s,
White Teeth
.

In
dust-free contrast, the nightstand on the right side of Ethan’s bed held a
modern
 
lamp (matching the one on the
left), his hospital ID badge (featuring an unsmiling Ethan), and a
classy-looking
Breitling
watch. My heart sank when I
looked at the time. Already it was past 6:30, and I would bet his shift would
be starting at the hospital soon. If so, that left us precious little time
together, something I would never get accustomed to.

He
walked through the doorway then, a towel cinched about his narrow waist, his
dark hair wet from the shower. For several heartbeats, I couldn’t breathe.
Abruptly, I sat up, turning away until the sensation lessened. It seemed so
unfair—lopsided, really. It wasn’t as if I affected
him
this way . . . extracted the air from
his
lungs, left
him
gasping for air. How could the sight of him still cause me to react with such
intensity? Though the idea of it seemed inescapable in his dreams—where the
standard rules of reality no longer applied—I assumed that, once we returned to
the living realm, and his human flaws came into focus, any effect he had on me
would be minimal.

But
evidently I’d underestimated Ethan.

Although
his pale glow was absent, everything else remained unchanged. I didn’t know
what surprised me more—that an earthly being could be so beautiful, or that
Ethan profoundly affected me body and soul. He seemed to defy the laws of
nature, but, with a smile, I realized there could be an explanation. Across the
top of his back, and written in Latin, a tattoo marked his golden skin.
Caelitus
mihi
vires
.