Silverlighters (3 page)

The bullet had torn through the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and his first finger.

“You need to go to the hospital,” I said.

He ignored me.

“You need to stop and bandage it at least.” I reached into the back and pulled a shirt out of my bag.

“Take the wheel,” he grunted, grabbing the shirt and twisting it around his hand.

I took the wheel as he used his teeth to tighten the makeshift bandage, his eyes darting up to look in the rear-view mirror.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” I looked out the back window – or what was left of it, but he didn’t answer.

We didn’t stop until we reached the edge of the city, and even then he only intended to stop long enough for gas.

I had other ideas.

I waited until he was filling the tank, then took the keys out of the ignition and went into the gas station. By the time he filled the tank the counter was loaded with a first aid kit, extra bandages, energy drinks, chocolate, pre-made sandwiches, and pain killers.

He glared at me as he paid for it, but took the bag I handed him into the restroom when I refused to hand over the keys.

It was either that or risk causing a scene.

I kept the chocolate. I needed it to steady my nerves.

I was in the driver’s seat when he returned.

“You don’t have your license,” he grunted, his face now a terrifying shade of gray.

I raised my eyebrows, the same way he did when I stated the obvious.“You
need
to see a doctor.”

“We
need
to get out of the city.”

3

Following my father’s highly detailed instructions – go north – I drove for hours while he slept.

At least, I thought he was asleep. He might have been trying to avoid my relentless onslaught of questions, none of which he would answer.

For a long time I was torn, wanting to go against his wishes and take him straight to the emergency department. But when his color started to return, I relaxed, poking him sharply in the shoulder every so often to make sure he wasn’t unconscious.

Most times I was lucky to get a grunt. But at least it meant he was still with me.

By then my eyes were getting heavy and I knew I couldn’t drive for much longer, so I poked him again.

“Would you quit doing that,” he said.

“I need to know you’re okay.”

“You’ll know I’m okay when I ground you.”

“Ground me from what?” I snorted. “The car?”

But really, I was that pleased it wasn’t funny at all.

I really thought I was going to lose him, too, as memories of my mother’s death taunted me. Especially when he refused to let me check him over. I knew nothing about bullet wounds – I just knew they were scary. I had no idea how much blood a person could lose before they didn’t have enough.

Or how many people you could lose before you could no longer go on.

I pushed the thought away – my overactive imagination had already outdone itself. I still worried he’d been shot more than once. I couldn’t help but notice the way he seemed to be favoring his right side.
 

I had no idea how right I was at the time.

He mumbled something under his breath, turning away from me.

I was wide awake again, the relief keeping me going. But it didn’t last long.

Sucking back an energy drink, I flicked through the radio channels to see if there were any more updates on the explosion.

Apparently, only two people died (my father and I) after an apparent gas leak.

Now I know why they use that word.

I yawned, one of those yawns that just wants to keep on going. The sort of yawn that makes your eyes water and the back of your throat seize up.

Blinking rapidly, I knew I’d have to pull over soon. But first there was something I had to do.

I glanced over at my father. “Dad?”

No answer.

I waited a bit longer. “Dad?”

Still no answer.

Slowing the car down, I carefully reached over to slip my hand in his pocket, pulling out the crumpled newspaper article he’d jammed in there.

Unfolding it with one hand, I tried to watch my father and the road at the same time.

In the end I had to pull over I was shaking so badly.

You see – the headline on the article had changed. And the date at the top belonged to tomorrow.

Father and daughter die in explosion

“So now you know,” my father’s voice was soft.

Apparently
he wasn’t asleep, after all.

“I don’t know anything,” I said. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“One day it will.”

“No. You tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

“I can’t.” His face was set in hard, determined lines as he got out of the car, coming round to the driver’s door. He was still favoring his right side.

“But – it – it’s just – I– it’s impossible.” I stared at the scrap of newspaper.

“When you get to my age you’ll realize nothing is impossible,” he said. “Shove over – I’ll drive.”

I scooted across to the passenger seat, wondering what he meant. “Like what?”

He acted as though I hadn’t spoken. I was used to this – my father has more self-control than anyone I know. I knew there was no point nagging at him, or goading him even. I’d tried all that in the past.

Still feeling shaky, I rested my head against the window, the dark shapes of the night rushing by.

It would be some time before I got the answers I wanted.

At first I thought it would drive me crazy, but the mind has a funny way of working, changing the irrational into the rational.

I had loads of theories.

None of them even came close to the truth.

By then I was so tired nothing was making sense anymore, and before I knew it the movement of the car lulled me to sleep, but the escape I was hoping for never came.

Instead, I had to relive my mother’s last day all over again.

I was wearing my favorite purple dress as I skipped into the kitchen.“I’m ready, let’s go.”

“Are you sure about that, angel?” My father scooped me up into his arms.

“Of course I’m sure. I want ice-cream,” I pouted. It
was
my birthday and he promised.

“No, no, no. That will never do,” my mother said as my father set me down.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re growing up now. You’re not a little girl anymore. I think something is missing.”

“Like what?”

She grabbed my hand, and we ran to her room, both of us giggling, her white cotton dress tickling my arm as it brushed against me.

“Sit.” She patted the stool in front of the wooden vanity dresser.

I watched her in the mirror as she reached around behind her neck, undoing the clasp of her necklace.

I was so excited I could hardly sit still as she bent down, her long golden hair spilling over me. I breathed in deeply, happily, the smell of her shampoo enveloping me.

“My mother gave me this when I was about your age,” she said. “And today is the first day I’ve ever taken it off.”

“It’s for me. Really?”

“Yes,” she smiled, but her smile was filled with sadness.

“Don’t cry, mommy,” I said, my heart breaking to see her look so sad. She never talked about her mother.

“I’m not crying. These are – these are happy tears. I’m just so – so proud of you, and how grown up you’re becoming. Here, close your eyes.”

When I closed my eyes, I felt something fluttering softly across the back of my eyelids.

“My mother never got to do this for me,” she whispered.

I opened my eyes again, watching her face in the mirror as she put lip gloss on me.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said.

I nodded eagerly.

“You’re already perfect just the way you are. But sometimes it’s fun to dress up and put makeup on.”

I nodded my head in agreement, staring at myself in the mirror.

I felt so grown up with my pretty purple eye shadow and lip gloss.

Then the dream took a nasty turn.

Suddenly we were at the park, and my mom was leaning over me, her hands gripping my shoulders. The expression on her face was fierce.

“I love you, angel. You have to remember that, no matter what happens.”

My ice-cream fell to the ground as she hurried off, her voice catching in her throat. “I have to pick something up from the post office.”

I started to cry.

“Here, let’s get another one,” my father said, wiping away my tears.

“A double scoop?” I asked hopefully.

“Sure. Double scoop it is.”

A few minutes later I heard the screams.

They were coming from the other side of the road.

I turned, and saw a group of people staring down at the ground with horror.

A strange sort of animal grunt came out of my father’s throat as he scooped me up, crushing my head against his chest.

But he wasn’t fast enough to protect me.

My mother was lying on the ground, and all those people, they just stood there. Doing nothing to help her.

She looked like she was sleeping. But I knew that she wasn’t. Her white cotton dress was stained with blood.

I squirmed in my father’s arms, wanting to go and help her. To shout at all those people to do something.

My father held me tighter.

I tried to hit him with my tiny fists.

“Jen,” my father said.

“No. Let me go.”

“Jen. Wake up.”

I opened my eyes, a sob still caught in my throat.

“Do you still miss her?” I asked.

He nodded, his voice hoarse. “Every minute of every day.”

I nearly came undone, right then and there.

I turned away, staring out the window so he wouldn’t see my tears.

After

4

 
“Name?” my father barked.

I rolled my eyes. “Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth what?”

“Do we really have to do this again?”

“Elizabeth what?”

“Elizabeth bloody Fitzpatrick,” I snapped.

His face hardened. “Jen – Elizabeth,” he scowled.

I chuckled. I couldn’t help myself.

“That’s the point,” he growled. “If I can slip up so easily so can you. You need to take this seriously. Your life depends on it. The minute you forget. The minute you let your guard down–”

“Geez, dad. I get it. Really. Do you want me to be late on my first day? Doesn’t really go with the whole keeping a low profile thing.”

He grunted. He knew I was right. But the worry in his eyes didn’t fade.

I took pity on him. “My name is Elizabeth Fitzpatrick. We moved here because you got transferred for work.”

I started ticking the rest off with my fingers as I went. “No photo’s. No contacting Bianca. Or anyone else from before. No drawing attention to myself. Or you. No trail. Nothing.”

No life, I thought quietly to myself.

“And tell me if you see anyone acting suspicious. Anyone who looks like they don’t belong,” he finished for me.

“How would I even know what to look for? You don’t tell me anything.”

“You’ll know.”

“Are we done?” I stood up. “I need to finish getting ready.”

He nodded, and I could feel his eyes follow me as I left the room.

As soon as I reached my bedroom I kicked the door closed. Then I threw myself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.

I wasn’t sure if I could go through with this.

We had moved before, but this time was different. This time I had a new name.

And this time I looked different.

I turned my head toward the mirror, my cheek resting on hair that was still strange and unfamiliar.

My honey-blonde hair was now a rich, chocolate brown.

Despite my assurances to my father, I was worried I would slip up. That I would get him killed.

I had no idea who was looking for him, or why, but I intended to find out one way or another.

Before the explosion, before we moved, he was just my dad. A regular guy doing regular things like any other dad.

It had never really crossed my mind that my father had a whole history, a whole other life, before he became a father. That he had his own before and after – one I knew nothing about.

And I couldn’t help but wonder if that was what got my mother killed.

A deep, burning anger rose so unexpectedly at this thought it threatened to consume me.

My body jerked into an upright position, my head spinning with the sudden movement. It felt like every cell in my body was shaking, but when I held my hands in front of me, they were steady.

My heart tightened, sending a blast of unfamiliar sensations tearing through me.

I had no idea what to do with them.

I leapt to my feet, breathing hard. Fast. Fists pumping at my sides. My teeth gritted.

I turned to face the stranger in the mirror, feeling a desperate need to escape.

To run.

To hide.

But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Not unless I accepted the stranger in the mirror. The one glaring back at me, her eyes far too blue for her pale face and dark hair.

“What are you looking at?” I spat, but she gave as good as she got.

I stepped closer. Looked deeper.

Who was I? Where did I belong?

What sort of future could I have living a lie?

It was the strangest sensation, just staring into those eyes, both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. But somehow it calmed me.

The truth was, I
was
a different person. Something had changed, deep inside me.

I stepped back from the mirror, wondering what others would see.

Were the changes inside me as obvious as the ones on the outside?

Somehow, I managed a
wavery
smile when my father knocked on the door.

“Everything okay?” he asked carefully when I opened the door.

“Yeah – just give me a minute,” I pushed the door closed again and stood in front of the mirror.

I was wearing dark blue jeans and a light blue sweater that made my eyes look even bluer.

The Friday before I made my father drive past the school so I could see what everyone else was wearing.

If he wanted me to fit in, I needed to look the part. And making him – that is his money – go shopping with me was kind of my version of payback.

Okay, maybe it was a little childish. But I didn’t care at the time. My father had ripped me away from my old life, with no explanations. Surely I was allowed a few concessions.

Jeans seemed to be the unofficial uniform; the tighter the better. My other option was black leggings. And heels ruled – the higher the better, in this case.

Despite everything else, I was just a regular teenager, and way more self-conscious than I let on.

The jeans were tighter than I would have liked. I was already too thin, and had lost even more weight in the last few weeks. But I had to admit (full disclosure here – I totally did the bum twist) the heels gave my legs more shape, even if they did make them look longer and thinner than they actually were. The jeans hugged me snugly, but they had pockets that at least gave the illusion I had hips. A trick Bianca had taught me.

I felt a lump tighten my throat as I wondered what she was going through, thinking I was dead.

I’m not normally much of a crier. Mostly I’m a sympathy crier. If someone I care about is hurting, it hurts me. And I knew Bianca would be hurting.

So many times I had wanted to call her. Let her know I was okay.

She was my person. The one I shared my fears and worries with. My hopes and dreams. Once I even picked up the phone, and told her everything. Except she was never really there; I was just venting to the dial tone.

“Elizabeth?” my father called as he came up the stairs.

I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. As I caught a whiff of my shampoo – the same one my mother had used – I felt momentarily comforted, stronger even. And for a moment I allowed myself to pretend she was right there with me, her ghost walking beside me, letting me lean on her a little as I opened the door for my father.

“You ready?” he asked.

I just looked at him. I was never going to be ready.

“Elizabeth?” his voice was softer now, worried.

I glanced back at the stranger in the mirror. “My name’s not Elizabeth.”

So many conflicting emotions flashed across his face at that moment that it was painful to watch. Anger, fear, frustration. Sadness and helplessness.

But that hadn’t been my intention.

I took a deep breath, and slung my bag over my shoulder.
 

It was time to focus on my new life.

One that didn’t include people coming after us, otherwise it might be my father I ended up crying about.

“My name’s Ellie,” I said, glancing at the girl in the mirror.

This time she smiled.

And from that moment on I became Ellie Fitzpatrick, because when it came down to it, I had no other choice.