Transcendent (23 page)

“I have no clue what the right decision is here. That's the answer, Zane. If I go, if I actually meet any of these families, then I'm outing myself completely. It's me proclaiming to the country—to the
world
even—that I
am
special. That I am some kind of miracle—and that because of it I have some kind of power that other people don't have.”

I laid my head down on the pillow, my face turned toward the wall, so that Zane's stare felt at least slightly less piercing. “If I do this, if I start making these kinds of visits, there's no going back. It would change
everything
. For good.”

“I hate to be the one to say this,” he said. “But your life is already going to be different, no matter what you do right now. You can't hide forever; you know that. And if you decide to do nothing, to walk away—people might not be so happy. They might . . . I don't know, they might be pretty angry. Angry that you ignored them when they needed you.”

I heard the sound of paper, rustling pages, and jerked my head up. Zane had thrown a newspaper between us on the bed. I didn't want to look, not right now. But . . .

Curiosity won. I grabbed at the newspaper and stared. My body processed instantly—pounding heart, twisting
stomach, sweat tingling along my spine—but my mind . . . my mind took longer.

There was a nearly full-page photograph of our brownstone—at least, I assumed it was our brownstone. I could see our sunny gold front door. But it was hard to be completely certain at first because of the massive signs posted along the sidewalk, the flowers and the photos hanging from the wrought-iron front gate, the messy, colorful lines of graffiti scrawled across the beautiful stone walls:
IRIS SPERO IS OUR
SAVIOR. SAVE OUR CHIL
DREN. SAVE US ALL.

The biggest, grandest display was a banner being held high by strangers, two middle-aged women I'd never seen before in my life, standing just in front of our gate. The banner was me—a larger-than-life
me
, my yearbook photo blown up to showcase every last minuscule detail of my face. If you stood close enough, you could probably count each freckle and each pore. There was more, too: gems and glitter and streamers covering every square inch around my face, shining and glimmering in the sunlight beaming down on our house.

My house had become a memorial.

My house had become a
shrine
.

“Okay.” I tossed the paper down, letting the pages scatter to the floor. Zane looked at me, eyebrows raised, as I pushed myself up from the bed to stand. “I'll go.
It's completely, mind-blowingly insane, but I'll go. I'll meet with this group. Even if I have no clue what I'm doing right now, doing anything at all seems better than doing nothing. If I fail . . . then at least I tried.”

“You'll go,” he repeated, staring at me with a dazed look that I couldn't entirely read, surprise and fear and doubt and maybe some admiration, too. I wanted him to admire me, more than I'd ever needed to be admired before, maybe—but not for this. Not for a cause that I didn't at all deserve. Heat flared through my cheeks and I looked away.

“Yes,” I said, “I'll go.”

Zane didn't say anything in response. Instead he walked over and pulled me into his arms. But his embrace felt too light, loose and cautious, so I pressed my face hard against his chest, burrowing in deep. I needed him close, needed his solid, sturdy weight anchoring me to the dingy motel room floor.

“I don't get you two. At
all
. But I still kind of like it.”

I jumped back from Zane's arms and turned to see Zoey, standing just outside the bathroom door. Hands on her hips, head cocked to the side, a twisty, mischievous grin on her lips.

“There's nothing to get,” Zane said from behind me, his tone too brisk and clipped. The words sliced through me, deeper than I would have liked, but I kept my face
straight, my eyes on Zoey. I moved closer to her, breathing in the strong scent of fruity pink soap that wafted from her coils of dark wet braids, filling up the entire bedroom. It smelled like childhood and happiness, cherry ChapStick and Froot Loops and berry Pop-Tarts. It smelled like easier and simpler times.

It made me realize exactly what we had to do next.
We
.

I took another slow breath and steeled myself. “I decided to go visit some of the other kids,” I said to Zoey. “Some of the other families who were down at Disney.”

She smiled up at me, and if I still had my doubts, in that instant they fell away.

“But before I do any of that, we have something else to do first. Somewhere else to go.”

“Where?” Zane asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Home,” I said. “We're going
home
.”

Z
ANE TOOK MORE
convincing than Zoey.

“I'm not leaving Iris,” she insisted, locking her hand around mine.

“I can't keep running,” I said. “You're right, Zane. It's pointless. Running away hasn't made anything better. And I need my family, I do. My parents lied to me, yeah, but . . . I can't hold a grudge forever. They don't deserve that. I just have to convince them to let me stay here, in Brooklyn, while we sort out the rest. But I'm not leaving you guys to stay with another Anthony. We have a spare room in our basement you can use. Give yourself some time to figure it out. Okay?”

“Please, Z?” Zoey begged, her big eyes pleading.

“Fine. Just for a few nights, tops. I'll find something else by then, okay?”

That was the easy part.

I considered calling my parents first, warning them.
But I didn't want to give them a chance to refuse Zane and Zoey. My hope was that they'd be so relieved to see me, they wouldn't even think to turn them away.

Our cab ride home felt painfully long. Zoey held my hand, asking about my parents, my brother. I tried to give her the basics, but I couldn't keep my eyes off Zane—his rigid profile as he stared unblinking out the window, a tiny muscle flexing along the side of his scarred jaw.

I could see the shrine as soon as we pulled onto Park Place. It was every bit as big and bright and ridiculous as it had looked in the photo. No, more so, now that I was seeing it up close. Twenty people? Thirty? My stomach burned, but I swallowed back the fear. So yes, they would know I was there, in my home. But wasn't it better than people thinking I was on the run?

“You can stop here,” I said, a few brownstones ahead of my own. I grabbed my keys, squeezed them tight in my palm, and shoved my twenty-dollar bill into the cabdriver's waiting hand. We lingered for a moment in the backseat, looking up through the small crowd toward our golden door.

“So this is home,” I said, suddenly embarrassed by the grandness of our three-story brownstone. “Let's just run through the people waiting out there, okay? Ignore them. Don't say anything.”

Zoey nodded, her already round eyes even wider than usual. “Which floor are you?”

“All of them,” I said quietly.

Zane stepped outside first, circling around the cab to open Zoey's door. “Hold my hand, Zo.”

She latched on to him and pulled me outside along with her, the three of us moving forward in one solid chain. With Zane at the lead, people didn't pay attention to us until we were through the gates, nearly at the bottom of the stoop.

“Iris!” a voice shouted. “Iris! Iris!” Others joined in.

“Keep moving,” Zane said, but I couldn't help turning back toward them, the blur of faces yelling my name.

There was only one thing I could see, one sign. One message.

Big, bright red caps:
PR
OVE YOURSELF NOW, OR
WE'LL BRING BACK THE
CRUCIFIX.

Zane tugged at my hand and I stumbled up the last step. There was a sign posted on our front door, very large and official looking, warning people that they were forbidden from crossing the gate. Any trespassers would be prosecuted. A sticker just below that advertised a brand-new state-of-the-art security system. I jammed my keys in the door and swung it open, the three of us nearly toppling to the foyer floor. I kicked the door shut behind us.

“I'm home!” I yelled, but my voice sounded tiny. “Mom? Dad?”

An alarm was wailing from somewhere in the kitchen,
and I could hear the sound of fumbling feet and shifting furniture in the living room.

My mom and Aunt Hannah appeared side by side in the entryway to the foyer, their faces drawn and pale but still so wonderfully familiar. The alarm shut off. And then from behind them—“Aunt Izzy!” I squealed, shocked to see her there, in Brooklyn, especially since Aunt Hannah had said she was overwhelmed with work during football season. I was so happy she was there, I almost forgot about everything else, the sign, the people, my last few days on the run. Always solid, reliable Aunt Izzy, with her pin-straight dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and a baggy San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt hanging down over black spandex leggings. So strong and so gorgeous, despite not having even a touch of mascara on her face.

This happy relief at seeing her, though, was immediately flooded over by a crushing wave of guilt—because clearly she hadn't come from across the country for a good, positive reason. She was here for my mom, to be a rock through all the torment my parents were going through. Torment I'd made infinitely worse by running away.

But then I was swallowed up by six arms, dragged into a blur of cheeks and hair and tears—my tears, their tears, all one messy, beautiful puddle. “I'm sorry for not coming home sooner, I'm so sorry,” I choked out, over and over again, my mom hushing me, a hand patting my
hair, tucking the tear-damp strands behind my ears.

I slowly pulled myself back. “I'm so glad to be home,” I said, smiling at my mom. She smiled back, a genuine smile that made her eyes shine, like sunlight hitting ocean.

“And what about us?” Aunt Izzy asked, clapping a hand down over my shoulder. “I come all the way to New York City for you, you silly girl, and I don't even get a big ‘so glad to see my favorite aunt in the whole wide world' when I get here? Ungrateful little brat!”

“Favorite my ass,” Aunt Hannah said, swatting at Aunt Izzy's arm. I laughed as they pretended to glare at each other. But watching the two of them with my mother made me miss Ari and Ethan and Delia so much that my heart seemed to physically burn in my chest.

“And you are . . . ?” my mom asked. I followed her gaze, shaken with the realization that Zane and Zoey were still there, too—had been there in the background watching our over-the-top emotional display the entire time. I felt a stab of sadness for them, sadness that no one missed them like this. No one felt like their whole world was totally upside down without the two of them there to keep it steady and grounded.

“Zane Davis,” he responded, edging up to stand next to me, so close our shoulders brushed. “I go to school with your daughter, ma'am. And I've been with her these last
few days—with my little sister, Zoey, too,” he quickly interjected, motioning for Zoey to join us.

“Mom,” I started, willing myself to say the words before I could lose my nerve. “Zane and Zoey . . . I told them they can use the room in the basement for a little while. Okay?”

Her eyebrows shot up as she turned from Zane back to me.

“Stay here? Sweetie, there's so much going on right now, so much to sort—”

“That's part of it,” I said, taking a step closer to her. “They've actually helped me start figuring some of this out. Yesterday I . . . yesterday I went to see a little girl, Abigail, who'd been hurt at Disney. Zane and Zoey know her, and they thought that it might help her—might help
me
—to see her. To at least try. I had my doubts going in, and I still have my doubts, but they were right. It did help. A little. I felt like I was doing something. And right now, something feels a lot less scary than nothing.”

PROVE YOURSELF NOW, OR . . .

I looked down at my beat-up old Converse sneakers to avoid their eyes, to avoid showing them my panic.

“You should be proud of what your daughter's done,” Zane said, his calm voice digging deep into my tangled nerves. “What she's going to be doing with other kids like
Abby. I don't know how or why I got pulled into this, but—but I'm glad I did.”

I'd never heard Zane sound so formal before, so polite and respectful. It was a new side to him—one of many sides, it seemed.

“My grandmother,” he continued, “she was a big believer in you. She always told me and Zoey that it was a shame how people treated you. That they should have just accepted that maybe something good had actually happened. She's not with us anymore, but . . . I know she'd be happy right now, if she knew.”

I looked up as my mom stepped toward him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For taking care of my baby. For everything you just said to me. Thank you.”

She pulled away from him, turning all her attention back to me. “You have a lot to catch me up on, it seems. But for now, Zane and Zoey are welcome to stay. Izzy and Hannah, why don't you show them downstairs?”

“All right,” Aunt Izzy said, winking at me. “Will do. Because that's about all the lovely emotion I can handle in one sitting, anyway.” She rested her hands on both Zane's and Zoey's shoulders, steering them toward the basement steps. Zane glanced over at me before disappearing, and that moment, our silent exchange, gave me a new burst of courage.

“She's home.”
I turned back to my mom, now with her cell phone clamped tight to her ear. She moved toward the living room, and I followed close behind. “Honey, Iris is home. She's safe.” She paused, and I could hear my dad exclaiming at the other end. “We'll talk when you guys get here. Okay? I love you.”

She dropped the phone onto the coffee table and collapsed on the sofa. “Sit,” she said, patting the cushion next to her. I obeyed, settling in close at her side.

“Where were you, Iris? Where were you
really
?”

“At a shelter,” I said softly, my eyes fixed on my knees, my dirty jeans that were greatly in need of changing. My mom gasped, but I kept talking. “For two nights, anyway. I went with a friend . . . a friend from the park. But I knew Zane and his sister went there sometimes—I'd overheard them saying it at the soup kitchen the other week.”

“I take it they weren't volunteering there, too?”

“No,” I said, too exhausted to explain the finer details. “But I had to go, Mom—everything here, it was all just too much. I was angry and I was hurt. Scared. Nothing felt normal anymore. Nothing felt right. And I certainly wasn't ready to deal with the reporters. I'm still not ready for them. And Kyle Bennett . . .” I trailed off, the familiar fear swallowing me whole.

“I know, sweetie.” She sighed. “I get it. I don't like that you ran, but I get it. Of course I do. And I shouldn't
have tried to make you leave against your will. I still think it's the right thing, but—but it's not just my decision. It's yours, too.”

She paused. I felt her cool, smooth fingers on my chin, tilting my face until our eyes met.

“Is it true, then?” she asked. “What Zane said? About you visiting a little girl from Disney . . . ?”

I nodded. I could feel my chin trembling, my lips, but I bit down hard, refusing to cry. “It was terrifying. Abby, she's blind now, and has all kinds of burns . . . I didn't think I did anything, just said a few stupid clichés and cried with her for a little while, but I guess today she was doing a little better. Not physically, or anything. But she got out of bed. She wanted to be up and moving around at least.”

“I see,” my mom said. Now it was her turn to look away.

“Sweetie,” she started, her voice breaking. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Do you remember, in my book, how I described my dreams the night after Iris came?”

There had been so many facts, so many details. I spilled them all out in my mind, searching for the right answer. “Colors,” I said, the image flashing back to me. “You saw lots of amazing colors.”

“That was part of it,” she said, “but it was more specific than that. I wrote: ‘That night I dreamed in bursts of light and explosions of colors like magical fireworks that would
put even Disney World's most spectacular displays to complete shame.' That was the exact line. That was my dream.”

“What are you . . . ?” The question fell away. Colors. Fireworks.
Disney
.

She'd written those words seventeen years ago.

Seventeen years before the Judges had come.

“Maybe you're right,” my mom said. “Maybe you shouldn't run. Because maybe . . .” Her breath hitched, her entire body shuddering against mine. She paused for a moment as she turned to face me. “Maybe
this
 . . . this is exactly why you're here.”

•   •   •

Before I had time to dwell on my mom's terrifying premonition, the front door banged open and my dad and Caleb came running into the living room.

“Iris!” my dad called out, his gap-toothed grin like a flashlight blazing through a pitch-black room. “I am so glad you're back.
So
glad.”

He leaned in to wrap me in his arms, squeezing so tight I had to fight for breath.

“I'm glad, too,” I said, the words coming out in a wheeze. I
was
glad—glad to see my dad, glad to see all of them. We weren't perfect, but we were family.

My dad let go, smiling and misty-eyed as he perched on the sofa arm next to my mom. She leaned back against
him, closing her eyes as his arms circled her thin shoulders. I looked over at Caleb, who was standing a few feet off still, watching us.