Torn (18 page)

“So what brought you out here?” Vera asked. “I wasn't expecting you again for a while.”

“No reason.” Cole shrugged, avoiding her gaze. Something about Vera's concern tugged at his heart.

“You miss her,” she said quietly. Cole nodded, tensing up. He did miss her. Every day, all the time. Not being able to talk to Davis was one of the great disappointments of his life just then. Not being able to see her, hear her voice, make her laugh. There was so much he wanted to say to her. “I miss her too,” Vera said. Her face was no longer manic, as it had been only moments before. Now she seemed to be herself again. “Part of me … I feel like there was so much time we wasted.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know.” She waved a hand. “We were so preoccupied with the Olympiads, and parties, and how we looked, and just …
winning.
But I'm more than that. And she definitely was. Is,” she corrected. “Looking back, I'm seeing all the things I never saw before. She was so
open
about things. Really accepting, in ways the rest of us weren't. I remember some of the conversations we had about Priors and Gens. She would speculate, ask why the segregation was necessary. What purpose it was achieving. And we all thought that kind of thing was so weird. And now I see the rest of us were just afraid, and she was the only one thinking for herself.”

“She's special,” Cole said softly, his throat tight. Vera reached out and put a hand on his.

“Yeah, she is,” she agreed. “She's lucky to have you. And we'll all be together again soon!” Cole blinked twice, trying not to let tears well in his eyes. Vera had no idea what he was feeling. She was trying to make the best of it by existing in a fantasyland.

“Vera,” he started, half afraid of what he was about to say. “It's been over three months now. I don't feel like I
do
have her.” He stopped, drawing in a breath, his throat tightening. “She thinks I'm dead. She'd have known that if I died, I'd want her to move on.” He looked away, swallowing hard. Vera pushed herself forward to touch his elbow.

“You're right,” she told him. “She'd have known that. But she wouldn't have been able to do it. Listen to me, Cole.” She put a hand to his face, forcing him to look at her. Her own chocolate-brown eyes were wide and earnest. “Davis never had a love like you. None of us did. When you came along, you changed her. Everything is different now. Davis is a good person, a loyal one. She's not someone who forgets. She's yours, Cole. She always was.”

Vera's words pushed him to tears. He pulled her close to him. Vera's words reminded him that what he and Davis had shared was bigger than anything time or distance could break. It was just what he'd needed to hear in his most vulnerable moment.

“Thank you,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He didn't even care anymore whether she saw him cry.

“Let's get you some tea,” she suggested, pushing back her blanket and standing up before he could stop her.

He moved to help her, but she shook him off. Still, she swayed a little on her feet. Cole frowned, worried.

She moved to a tiny pantry mounted on the wall, each step slow and deliberate.

“Vera,” he said. “Just let me get it.” He moved to help her, but she was already reaching for the jar of honey. She'd just closed her palm around it when she stumbled. Cole saw her eyes roll back in her head, and she fainted. Cole caught her just in time, but the jar crashed to the floor and shattered into a dozen sticky shards.

Cole lifted her back into bed with some effort, his heart racing. He wet a cloth and dabbed at her forehead, wondering where the hell Worsley was and why he wasn't there watching her, when clearly she needed it. What was really going on here? He wiped up the mess, careful to get every minute shard of glass off the floor, as she lay there.

Three or four minutes later, Vera's eyes fluttered open. Cole fed her sips of cold water, allowing her to get her bearings.

“How often does this happen?” he asked, his voice serious.

“It's nothing,” she said, her voice a little curt. “I told you, I'm a million times better. This is the first time I ever fainted. It's probably just because I'm lying down so much; I'm not used to standing. Is everything okay? Did I fall on my back or my stomach? The baby is kicking, but.…”

“I caught you,” Cole assured her. “There was no impact.” Still. What if he
hadn't
caught her? What if she'd gotten up to go to the bathroom or make her own tea—or anything, really—and no one was there to catch her? His blood boiled, and he was near panic. He'd never forgive himself if Davis's best friend was injured, and it was entirely preventable. But why wasn't she improving? She didn't seem better at all. All of a sudden, the feeling that had come over him at the pond—the one that had caused him to break down in front of Mari—was returning full throttle.

“Worsley should be back soon,” Vera told him, once again shifting, becoming more urgent, more manic. Her eyes wouldn't stay still. “Would you like to eat breakfast with us?” she asked. “He makes me eggs or pancakes every morning. It's so generous. He says eggs are difficult to get, but the baby needs protein.”

“Vera—” Cole started, but Vera cut him off.

“I'm so glad she found you,” she told him. “She's always deserved the best. And now she's found it.”

He leaned toward her, wrapping her in another quick hug.

As he pulled away, Vera broke into a series of hacking coughs.

“Good God,” Cole said.

She coughed harder, phlegmy and loud, and Cole went to get a rag from Worsley's supply of sterile equipment to wipe her mouth. When he returned, she was trembling all over, and there was blood covering the front of her tunic and splattered on her chin.

“Vera!” he gasped.

“I'm fine,” she insisted. “Really, Cole. It barely ever happens. You should just go.” But her eyes were rolled slightly back in her head and her words were slurred. She coughed again into the rag he held against her mouth, and sure enough, when he pulled it back it was dotted with blood.

“I'm just going to sleep, Cole,” she said, leaning her head back on the pillow. “I'm so tired. But I can't wait for everything. The party, the fun. We'll give it just a few more weeks. Just a few more weeks and it'll all be over.”

Cole didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't sure what she was anticipating—whether it was delirium or some foresight on her part that she had just a few more weeks left in her. When she fell asleep, he took her pulse. It was strong, but her breathing was shallow. He sat by her bedside, waiting for Worsley to return.

He tried to swallow back the terror in his throat, but found that it was impossible.

13

DAVIS

Davis beat at a rug with a large wooden broom, watching clouds of dust pour out of it. These were the rugs the people of the commune used in their homes—a far cry from the designer area rugs they'd had steam cleaned each week back in Columbus. Davis didn't mind the physical act of beating dust from the rugs, though. It was unfamiliar, and her arms ached, but it felt good to take out all her frustrations that way.

“Must be thinking of someone you wanna give it to pretty good,” said May, one of the older women at the commune. Davis smiled, wishing May knew even half the truth: how the feeling of powerlessness was eating away at her. They were still waiting to hear back from one of Mercer's contacts in Durham, and every hour that passed with no word was an hour lost, one that brought even greater uncertainty.

“You could say that,” was all she said. She was trying her hardest, but she was still lagging behind Kira, a girl of about fourteen.

“This is what you do,” Kira told her, repositioning the broom so the handled side—not the side with the bristles—made contact with the rug. “I know it seems weird, because you cover less space, but actually you get more oomph this way.”

“Thanks,” Davis told her gratefully. They had to get through a dozen rugs before the end of the day, because there was more work to be done tomorrow. Lots of it, Kira had informed her. Davis had never had to work hard in her life—at least at manual labor—and she knew it showed. Still, she knew how to work hard generally, like in ballet, and she could tell the others sensed it. Because of that, they were kind and patient. Or maybe they were just kind and patient overall, she realized.

Davis glanced over at Mercer, who had just finished building a fire and was now strumming a song on one of the Neithers' guitars. She smiled as a little girl with blonde pigtails, Madeleine, sidled up to him and nudged her way under his arm, his rich voice filling the space between them. He plucked a few chords, then guided the little girl's fingers on top of his own, allowing her to control the melody. She giggled loudly, tossing her head back. The gesture reminded Davis of Fia, and her chest tightened. Mercer looked down at the girl, laughing a little at her enthusiasm.

Seeing him with her ignited a wave of emotions that Davis had been fighting to suppress. She still felt tingly and light from their kiss. Over the course of the past day, it had wormed its way into her brain at random times; and now, as he sang to the little girl, rasping just a little and gently moving her smaller fingers along with his, Davis couldn't ignore the familiar fluttering in her heart. The kiss had been intense; gentle and somehow endless. It had taken her by surprise—Mercer was her
friend,
and all of a sudden, he was something more.

But he wasn't Cole. When she thought of Cole, the tenderness she felt for Mercer dissipated, giving way to guilt and confusion. Cole was dead, and she still hadn't found a way to tell his family how much he had meant to her. As far as they knew, Cole and Davis had never met, had never fallen in love. He was fading in her memories, and she felt wholly disconnected from everything they had shared.

Every time she looked Mercer's way and thought about their kiss, she felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal to Cole's memory. Davis resolved to push any romantic feelings aside—she needed to focus on their mission. Still, she couldn't help but take one quick glance at Mercer and the little girl. The little girl titled her head back, singing at full volume in duet with Mercer. It was a song Davis knew well, an old folk tune her father had sung to her as a child.

“Every day with you,” Davis sang, moving toward them. Mercer met her eyes and smiled. “Every day with you is like a freight train without its brakes.”

 

 

Three hours later, Davis heard a knock on the door to the laundry room, where she was working with two other women and a friendly man who painted watercolors. “I'd love to make you a miniature,” he was saying when Mercer walked in. Mercer had told the others at the commune that he and Davis were just passing by, hoping to relocate from Columbus to Durham. It was a lie, but a necessary one, and one the people hadn't questioned. They seemed comfortable with ambiguity here. Had Mercer and Davis admitted they'd escaped from TOR-N, however, it could have been a different story. They might have been afraid.

The painter smiled at Davis as he folded a stack of T-shirts. Mercer strode into the room, his face alight with excitement, and said a quick hello to the man before breaking into their conversation.

“What is it?” Davis asked.

“Come outside,” he whispered. He grabbed her hands, pulling her into the shadows of the commune. Davis glanced back at Hugh, the painter, who gave her a small wave good-bye.

It was past midnight, and most of the commune was already in bed. Just a few lights shone from within the modest cabin walls. “I sent a message out with Jefferson late yesterday,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “He's one of the most reliable sympathizers. He was heading to the border of Durham under the guise of meeting up with a guy who was passing him some supplies for the commune. His guy went to school with me, knows my friend Jan. Anyway, he went back again today, and Jan sent a message back.” Mercer was so excited, she could barely understand him. “I told you coming here would work. I told you they could get a message across.”

“What did she say? What did your message say?” Davis had to stop herself from biting her nails.

“Jan's dad has connections in Durham,” Mercer explained. “He's the most powerful person I can think of to help us. I just wanted to run it by Jan rather than showing up and expecting it. But she just sent over the okay. We can leave tonight and be there by morning.” He seemed charged; he was pacing back and forth. It was infectious. Davis felt an overwhelming contradiction of emotions—the eager anticipation she used to feel the night before her birthday as a kid, mixed with the dread she'd felt while lining up for the Physical Aptitudes.

“Okay,” she said, taking a huge breath. “Let's do it.”

Five minutes later they were gathering their things and saying their good-byes. Davis stooped to hug Madeleine, who handed Mercer a picture she'd drawn of him playing his guitar, with her in stick-figure form next to him. Mercer smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Stay in touch,” said Madeleine's father. “This one's become awfully fond of you.”

“We'll be back,” Davis promised, belatedly surprised at her own use of
we.
She and Mercer weren't a “we.” Were they? Every little admission to her feelings for Mercer shook her up. His voice. The way he kissed little Madeleine. His way of soothing Davis when she felt panicked, simply by placing a hand on her forearm, as he did now.

 

 

By the time they reached the outskirts of Durham—walking much of the way and hopping aboard a train illegally for a full day, stowing away with the luggage—Davis's legs burned with exertion and her hair was stringy and filthy. She barely felt it, though, when Mercer reached down for her from the top of a craggy drop-off, hoisting her over its jagged edge to the top of a hill overlooking a valley city. Before them spread Durham, startling Davis with its beauty.