The Gifting (29 page)

I will end up like her. My grandmother. Alone, locked in an asylum.

I wonder if Pete will be upset when we move again. Perhaps it’s for the best. Despite making friends with Wren and Jess, he doesn’t like it in Thornsdale. The move has turned him into a different kid. Even though I don’t want to be away from Luka, even though the thought of it whaps at my brittle heart, I know it would be for the best. I lay in bed, eyes wide open, begging sleep to take me. I want oblivion, but my eyes refuse to cooperate.

So I slip into my bathroom and take two sleeping pills—at seven thirty in the evening. I lie back down, counting time in the half hour segments between Luka’s phone calls.

*

I wake up on a familiar stretch of highway. The one I take every weekday to school. Only there is a pileup and greasy-haired men stand in the middle of the road, causing more and more cars to slam into one another. It’s as if they control the direction and speed of each vehicle with the movement of their hands. And a thought hits me, in this moment, like it’s the most obvious thing. My father is wrong. We are more than physical. These
men
, who aren’t really men at all, are proof.

I watch it all unfold—the crushing of metal, the car alarms and the screams—from the shoulder of the road, with the detachment of one watching a poorly-produced movie on TV. I look into the cars, seeing adults and children unconscious or desperate to escape, and I know I should care. But I don’t. I stand there, unaffected, while horns blare and sirens wail and people bleed and cry.

None of it matters.

Not even when the strange men start lighting cars on fire.

But then, in the distance, I see something that pings at my indifference. Somebody up the road is fighting the white-eyed men. Somebody is fighting like I used to fight before the medicine and I want to see who. Who is this person—this fighter? I shift and squint to get a better look, but more tires screech against pavement. Brakes squeal.

As if in slow motion, my attention moves toward the sound and my eyes go wide, because the car is mine and my brother is behind the wheel, his face twisted in panic as he tries to avoid the collision. A few paces to my left, a man aims his outstretched, spider-like hands at Pete in my car. I could fight him if I wanted, like that person up the road. He’s not too far away. But I don’t move. I stand there as my car smashes into the pile and my brother’s unbuckled body flies into the windshield and the glass bursts apart and he lies motionless on the pavement, a trickle of blood seeping from his mouth and I scream and scream and scream until it turns into a shrill ring and I bolt upright in bed.

There is motion in the hallway. I hear Mom’s frantic voice and Dad’s deep rumble, telling her to calm down, it will be okay. The door across the hall flings open.

I sit up straighter.

“He’s not in here.” Hysteria swallows my mother’s words. “He’s not here.”

I jump out of bed, groggy from the sleeping pills, and open my door wide. “What’s wrong?”

Mom’s face shines pale white in the dark. Her terror awakens my own. “It’s your brother,” she says, clutching her chest. “He snuck out. He took your car and there was an accident. A horrible, horrible accident.” Mom’s chest clutching turns into mouth clutching. “That was the hospital. He’s in the ICU.”

Dad takes Mom’s elbow. “It will be okay, Miranda. It will be okay.” He looks at me, his face every bit as white as Mom’s. “Get dressed, Tess. Quickly.”

I hurry into my room and grab a wrinkled sweatshirt from the floor. I glance at my clock. It is five fifteen in the morning.

Breakthrough

M
om and I drive home in silence. She didn’t want to leave the hospital, but after a full day of fretting in the waiting room, Dad insisted we go home. He will be there, right by Pete’s side and he promised to call if anything changes. We should try and get a good night sleep, he said. As if that could happen with Pete in critical condition in the ICU.

We don’t talk. I drive, because Mom’s nerves are too frayed, her mind too consumed, her body too close to collapse. On the contrary, I am eerily steady. Which makes me wonder if I’m in shock, if this numbness is a sign that the day’s events have yet to sink in. If that’s the case, I’m secretly hoping the shock remains indefinitely, because I don’t want to feel. I need the protection from feeling. I’m not sure I can handle any of it.

When we step inside our dark, empty foyer, Mom gives me a lifeless hug and says we should go to bed. She walks up the stairs and shuts herself in her room, but I’m not fooled. She isn’t sleeping. I sit on my bed and listen to her pace two bedrooms away—back and forth, back and forth, wearing out the floor. I kick off my shoes, wondering if my mother is praying. In a world where God does not exist, where science has done everything to systematically remove any sort of deity from society, does she turn to one anyway? Despite all its answers and logic, science offers no comfort, no hope. Not at times like these.

I stare blindly at my carpet, remembering that I didn’t take my medicine this morning. I look toward my bathroom, where the pill bottle sits in the medicine cabinet and I shrink back, as if whatever’s inside has sharp teeth and claws. My mind replays last night’s dream and the way I stood there and did nothing while those monster-men made the cars crash and lit them on fire. The way I stood there and did nothing while my brother flew through a windshield. Did the medicine steal my ability to care? To react? To fight?

I scratch my eczema. The pain is dull and distant, but there. I’m not dreaming. And the thought squeezes my muscles. I want to crawl outside of my skin. Never mind waking up, I don’t want to be me anymore. I’m afraid to go to sleep. I’m afraid to be awake. I’m afraid of taking my medicine. I’m afraid of
not
taking my medicine. I’m afraid of returning to school and I’m afraid of what will happen to Pete. I’m just afraid. And in the midst of my fear, I find myself wanting to pray too.

A light rap, rap, rap against glass brings my head up.

My bedroom window frames Luka’s face, and as much as I’ve resolved not to bring him down into this dark spiral I am spinning into, I hurry over and open the window. He climbs inside and does something I don’t expect. He pulls me into a fierce hug. The shock encasing my body splinters apart. I breathe in the scent of clean cotton and the feel of his warm, strong body and squeeze my eyes tight, unsure if I want to let myself feel what Luka is making me feel or hold onto the numbness for everything I’m worth.

“My parents are idiots. They don’t know what they’re talking about.” The warmth of his hand pressing against the small of my back splinters my shock further. “I was going to talk to you at school today, but you didn’t show. And then Principal Jolly announced what happened over the intercom. How’s your brother?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My emotions swell so close to the surface that if I open my mouth, I’m afraid they will burst out, shattering my numbness into fragmented bits.

Luka grips my arms and pulls me away from his chest, his face filled with so much concern that I have to bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

His eyes widen. “Is he …?”

I shake my head quickly. “No.”

At least not yet.

I want to banish that thought from existence. Pete will not die. My brother will live. He has to. I take a few steps back, sit on my bed, and stare at my chipped nail polish—a pale blue color Leela painted on a few days ago, when life was still good. “It’s my fault,” I whisper.

“How’s it your fault?”

“I dreamt about it. Last night. I watched everything happen. I could have stopped it. I could have fought. But I didn’t. I didn’t care.” I squeeze my eyes tight against the accumulating moisture, fighting to regain the comfortable numbness I had downstairs in the foyer. “And then I woke up and now Pete’s in the hospital.”

“He’s not in the hospital because of you.”

“Isn’t he?” I look up at him. “The other night, I had another dream. I was reading my grandma’s journal and I forgot to take my medicine. I dreamt about that drive-by shooting. And then the next morning, it was on the news.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you seemed to have other things on your mind and then we got to school, and well …” I let the explanation fall away. He knows what happened at school.

“Dreaming about something doesn’t make it your fault.”

“You don’t understand. I couldn’t stop those men from shooting their guns. I couldn’t move. That guy—the one with the scar—he was there. He said the medicine made me weak. But the next morning, I took the medicine anyway and then Pete was in my dream and I couldn’t save him. I didn’t even try.” A memory shifts through the mire. “But someone else was there. Someone else was fighting.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t make the person out, but whoever it was, they were fighting and I wasn’t.” I dig my face into my palms. “I wish I could turn all of this off.”

Luka sits beside me on the bed, his desperation this tangible thing. He wants to fix all the broken parts. I can tell. But he can’t. I’m not sure anybody can. “Tell me what to do.”

“I don’t want to be by myself.”

“Then you won’t be,” he says.

I look over at him, confused.

He scoots back and leans against my headboard. “I’ll stay here. With you.”

My stomach tightens. If my mom comes in to check on me and sees Luka, she will freak out. She doesn’t need anything else to freak out over. I listen for the sound of her pacing, but somewhere along the line of Luka climbing in my window, it has stopped. I wonder if she took some sleeping pills.

“I won’t leave you alone, Tess. Not tonight.”

His words crumble the last of my resolve. Even though it’s against the rules. Even though I promised to distance myself from Luka, I lock the door and slip into bed beside him. We don’t touch, but I can feel him as if he were trailing his fingers over my skin. His presence is strong and steady. Closing my eyes, I tell myself that once this is over, I will take back the resolution I made in the high school parking lot. I will stay away from Luka Williams. But right now, in this moment, his nearness makes me feel warm. It makes me feel safe.

*

I awake to the sound of seagulls and waves crashing against rock and a breathtaking sunset. Rubbing my eyes, I sit up.

Luka sits beside me, smiling. “I was wondering if you’d show up.”

I scratch my wrist and feel nothing. “Are we …?”

“Dreaming? Yes.”

It’s been so long since we shared a dream that it takes me a second to acclimate. “How long have you been waiting?”

“A while. I come here every night.”

“Why?”

“Hoping you’ll show up.” A blip of sadness flickers in his eyes, then disappears. “This is the first time since you started taking medicine.”

I wrap my arms around my knees and breathe in the peaceful surroundings. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

“Yeah, but it’s not real.”

A wave rolls up onto the shore. The water stops just short of my toes. “I don’t want to be crazy.”

“I don’t think you are.” He reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers with mine. “I never thought you were.”

“Then why did you let me take the medicine?”

“Because it made you happy and I like seeing you happy.”

I look down at our clasped hands and something tugs at my body. I can feel myself being dragged away. Only I don’t want to go anywhere. I’m not ready to leave Luka, not yet. So I squeeze his hand as tightly as I can. I will not let go, even as the pulling grows stronger and the beach disappears. White walls replace the sunset, beeping monitors replace the crashing waves, but Luka’s hand is still in mine. Somehow, I dragged him with me.

He stands by my side, in the middle of the hospital room, eyes wide with disbelief, then alarm. He nudges me and I look. My brother lies in the hospital bed, hooked to machines. Only he’s not alone. There’s a presence beside him—a presence with empty, white eyes. This one is short and burly. And by one of the machines, with his hand casually propped on top, is the man with the scar. He steps to Pete’s bedside, picks up his limp arm, and presses his finger against Pete’s wrist.