Where Silence Gathers (16 page)

I lie in bed with my arm crooked above me, listening. Andrew is long gone, and Angus didn't attempt to reach me through his knocks. His parents are shouting about bills. Saul and Missy, of course, are shouting about me. He brings up discipline and consequences while she keeps insisting on patience and time. This is what I've brought them to. When I imagined myself on that road, I never thought I would drag them with me.

With each barbed word the ceiling looms closer, white and smooth. It feels like it's on top of me, and suddenly it's hard to breathe. I sit up, pressing a hand to my chest. I have to end it soon. We can't keep going like this.

“Alex.”

His voice doesn't startle me; I'd been picturing him, hoping he would come and harden my resolve again. I turn and he's standing there beside my bed, ethereal in the moonlight. There's a gleam in his eyes I recognize, one that emanates from my own: a need to move, a frantic desire for action. “Come with me,” Revenge whispers.

Wordlessly, I throw the covers aside and stand. The floor is cold on my bare feet. I crack my door open and peer out cautiously. They must have left the kitchen and gone into their room; I can hear the furious rumble of my uncle's voice behind that thin barrier. Revenge doesn't linger to watch me avoid the spots on the floor that will creak and give me away. It takes a few minutes to navigate through the dim apartment and out to the steps.

My best friend leans against the railing as I close the front door behind me. “The bridge?” I ask the moment the latch clicks. It's a good thing the air is warmer tonight, since I'm only wearing boxers and a T-shirt.

He shakes his head. “The lake.”

Flip-flops were the first pair of shoes I found in the hallway, and they make a slight sound with each step I take. I cringe and hurry the rest of the way down the stairs. Since the sound of my car starting would doubtless alert Saul and Missy, I get on my bike. Revenge runs alongside me on the road, his shirt a splash of red in a world made of black and white. We don't talk. Before Nate Foster's release, we talked about anything and everything. Georgie's latest scheme, Briana's future, Saul's maps. I miss that ease. Yet there's something delicious about the silence between us now.

We get to the lake and the surface is eerily, beautifully still. I stop next to the charred remains of the bonfire and push the kickstand. “So, what's—”

Without comment or hesitation, Revenge sprints to the dock. The boards don't shudder beneath his weight like they would for everyone else. Then he jumps. He hits the water and disappears for a moment. When he resurfaces, he whoops.

“Are you crazy?” I hiss, huddling on the shore. “It's still freezing!”

Revenge smirks. “Coward!” He tosses his head, hair flying. Glittering droplets fly through the air and ripples reach for my toes. I watch him bob and float for a few seconds, twisting my lips in indecision. Then Revenge makes chicken sounds. This propels me forward, onto the dock, and toward him. I don't pause to test the waters. I just leap.

The cold is shocking. For a few seconds I'm only aware of the freezing rush, the jolt of pain. But I squeeze my eyes shut and stay submerged. The discomfort subsides until I'm used to it, or maybe just numb. I absorb the sensation of a place without sound. The water is black and unending. Is this what death feels like? Just … peaceful?

My lungs start to tingle. Then they ache. After that, more pain. I kick my legs and reach the surface.

The moment I emerge, Revenge splashes water in my face. “Hey!” I sputter, kicking my legs to stay afloat. “Do you mind?”

“You know, you didn't used to be so boring,” he says.

My eyes narrow. “Oh, really? I'm boring now?” As
an answer, he floats on his back and stares up at the moon. Though I can't shove him beneath the surface as I long to, I still manage to surprise him when I scoop water in my hands and push it over his mouth and nose. He jerks upright, coughing, and I laugh. We keep tormenting each other until my cheeks hurt from smiling. It's wonderful-strange how light I feel, like someone has blown up a balloon inside me and it's lifting me up, up. The usual sense of guilt I feel at being happy—even so briefly—when they aren't alive to feel anything doesn't come. There is only this—me and him and the sky.

No, that's not right. There's someone else nearby. “Look,” I murmur. Relenting, Revenge follows my gaze.

There's a light on the opposite side of the lake, and I know from the location that it has to be old man Holland's house. Usually, when the sun sinks, he turns every light off. But for some reason, tonight he's left a single window still shining with yellow light. It feels like a silent announcement, as if to say,
Hello. Yes, it's true. I'm real. I'm here.

Feeling Revenge's eyes on me, I face him again. “I should go home,” I say. Reluctance materializes and complains about the water.

We both ignore her. “It's not that late,” Revenge protests. He cuts through the waves as if to stop me from leaving.

“But Saul and Missy might check on me. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” Shivering, I swim back to shore. My clothes drip and stick to me as I get on the bike. With my luck I'll get sick. I don't regret it, though. This is one thing I will never regret.

Revenge doesn't accompany me to the road, and I turn back. He's still there, floating by the end of the dock. From this distance he looks like something entirely mystical, a merman or a spirit. Lovely. Untouchable. He lifts his hand and waves. I wave back, then make myself pedal away.

The apartment is quiet when I creep inside. Saul and Missy aren't fighting anymore and the stream of light beneath their bedroom door is gone. I get into dry pajamas and clean up my wet tracks on the floor. Then I climb into bed and curl on my side, closing my eyes and seeing Revenge. Hearing his voice say for the hundredth time,
I will never give up on you.
Feel the heat of him even with air and water and indecision separating us.

When I finally fall asleep, the dream is different from all the others. There's still twisted metal and shattering glass, moans and pale skin and scarlet rivers. But amongst all those images is Dad, silent and staring. He doesn't speak, but I hear him in my head, whispering,
Hello. Yes, it's true. I'm real. I'm here.

Nineteen

“How are you doing up here?” Missy's head appears through the square door in the center of the attic floor. It's early, and dawn spills through the window. The past few days have been like that light, so swift and serene. I know it won't last.

“Fine.” Smiling in greeting, I set a basket of yarn and knitting needles next to the rocking chair. I hope Missy doesn't notice the lines beneath my eyes, just as she probably hopes I don't notice hers.

My aunt climbs up the rest of the way and sits on the edge of the opening. She glances around with raised brows. “This turned out really good, Alex. Wow. I forgot what the floor looked like up here.”

“Thanks. Hey, did I hear Saul leaving this morning?” I'm relieved that she still doesn't ask about Andrew or why I'm avoiding him.

“Yeah, he has another job. The drive is longer than most, so he'll probably stay at a motel on the way back.” Missy's smile is strained now, and I wonder if she's telling me the entire truth. Then again, I'm hardly one to judge. Truth is as rare and difficult to find as coal in the mines.

“ … making breakfast,” Missy is saying. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” I lie.

“Good. Come down in a little bit, then.” The ladder creaks and groans as she descends. Soon the top of her graying head is gone. I sit in the rocking chair, unsettling more dust. Something in the chair's frame must be loose, because it wobbles precariously. I push my toe against the floor and keep swaying. After a few seconds of this I close my eyes … and an image comes to me. My mother. Sitting in this same chair. She's not in the attic, though. She's in our old living room, looking out the window with a worried look in her eyes. The memory comes in pieces, like most things.

“Mom, what's wrong?” I stand next to her in my pajamas. Rain lashes against the window and makes the room quiver in silvery shadows.

She stops rocking and blinks, as though she'd forgotten where she was. “Nothing, honey. I'm just tired,” she tells me. Her smile is tremulous and she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Wow, it's getting long,” she says suddenly. “We should probably cut it.” She tilts her head and purses her lips, studying me. “But it's so pretty. It would be a shame. Maybe we'll just start braiding it, huh?”

“Okay.” I shuffle closer and she hauls me up, sets me on her lap even though we both know I'm too big for it. We gaze out at the storm together. “When is Dad coming home?” I murmur.

Her expression darkens again, and instantly I wish I hadn't asked. Someone appears in front of me, kneeling so he's at my level. He clutches the tip of my bare foot between his thumb and forefinger. I'm used to my invisible friends popping into the room, but I don't recognize this one. I almost open my mouth to ask him who he is, remembering just in time that Mom doesn't like it when I talk to them. The man answers the question anyway. “I'm Regret,” he says, his voice raspy, like he smokes too many cigarettes or says too many words. “And I have a feeling you'll bring me back to this dying place again.”

There's no chance to ask him what he means, because the brightness of headlights sweeps through the room. Dad is home. I feel Mom's heart quicken, too, and she hastily puts me down. She grips my shoulders and turns me to face her. Her eyes are so wide that I feel like I'm falling into the mines where Dad used to work. “Alex, I want you to go to bed and stay there, all right? Promise me. Honey, look at me and promise.”

I tear my attention away from all the invisible people hovering around her chair, touching my mother with their hands. “I promise,” I say, uncertain, wondering why she's afraid of Dad. Her eyes flicker—she must hear the waver in the words—but the sound of a door slamming outside is more important. She sends me to my room with another stern instruction to stay in bed. Stay, stay, stay. She stresses that so much that it becomes trapped in my head, fluttering like a bird in a cage.

Before I move to obey, I pause in the hallway and watch her. She's standing now, twisting her hands together as she waits. That's when I realize there are suitcases against the wall. Are we going on a trip? The front door opens, and I forget the suitcases as I scurry into the safety of my room. Like most nights, I press my ear to the door and listen. Worry squats next to me, using my shoulder for balance. He smells like sweat.

“ … had enough. I'm taking the kids,” Mom says, her voice as hard as cement. “We're going to stay at my sister's for a while.”

“She lives hours away! You can't take them that far.”

“Will—”

“No. Listen, something happened today, and I was already planning to stop. I won't do it anymore. Just don't leave. Don't take them. Okay?” A brief silence falls. Then Mom sighs. Hurriedly Dad continues, “They can sleep over at Saul and Missy's tonight, just to get them out of here while it passes from my system.”

Suddenly Mom gasps. “Is that … blood on your shirt? Will, what happened?” The rain answers. Dad doesn't. When the wordlessness goes on too long Mom finally says, her voice strangled, “If we're really going to do this, then I want them to go to Andrew's. That way they won't hear anything or try to come over.”

“Yes, fine, okay. Let's go.”

I blink, and I'm back in the attic again. More alone and confused than ever. To escape the hollow feeling inside me, I lurch from the rocking chair and climb down the ladder.

Smoke fills the apartment. Following the sound of the smoke detector, I stop in the kitchen doorway. “Shit!” Missy is fumbling for the dials that control the stove. There's a book in her other hand. She was trying to read and cook again.

“Let me do it,” I say, coughing and rushing to her side. The pan is steaming—bordering on catching fire—and she gets out of the way just in time for me to remove it from the burner. There's no saving the bacon, so I seize the spatula lying on the countertop and stir the ruin of eggs. They look like scorched rubber. Missy stands there with a defeated slump to her shoulders while I grab the broom and wave the end of it at the shrieking detector. The moment it goes silent I open every window in the apartment.

When I return to the stove, Missy still hasn't moved. With watery eyes I scrape the eggs onto two plates, dig the bag of grated cheese out of the fridge, and sprinkle it over the mess. Two forks, and we have breakfast. “See? Some things can be saved.” I bump Missy's hip with mine.

It's as if her strength has burned away instead of the bacon. “We should just move to a town where we can order pizza,” she mutters.

I'm about to respond when a familiar noise drifts through the open window: a trash can crashing to the ground. Missy doesn't react, but I don't want my stray to be discovered. Animals aren't exactly pampered or sacred around these parts. “Do you mind if I eat outside?” I say quickly. “It's nice out, and I could use some fresh air after being in that attic for so long.”

As an answer, she hands me one of the plates. I falter, wishing for the millionth time that there was a magical combination of words that could fix us. Since there are none, I kiss her cheek. Missy jumps. Before she can comment, I leave.

This time, the dog is actually waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. Her tail is tucked between her legs, an obvious sign of fear, but her hunger must be stronger. I slow down, taking the steps more cautiously. She watches every movement. When I get too close, she retreats a little. Eventually I settle on the bottom step and put the hot plate on my lap. Glancing up at the living room window to make sure Missy isn't watching, I scoop some of the yellow-brown scrambled eggs onto my fork and offer it to the starving creature.

It takes her thirteen seconds to approach. After she's gulped down the food, she instantly backs away again. “You like eggs, huh?” I smile, appraising her. Trying to imagine what she would look like with a plump belly and a shining coat. “Well, you'll probably eat anything. But at least these aren't completely burnt for once, right?” She cocks her head, hoping for more. I oblige, and she's not so quick to step back. “I think I'll call you Eggs,” I decide, giving her the whole plate. She eats with such force that I have to tighten my grip on the edges. “Everyone needs a name, and that one's as good as any. What do you think?”

Suddenly her eyes go wide, and she runs.

Frowning, I start to call after her. But then Angus is sitting beside me, holding a jar in his hands. Somehow I hadn't heard him coming down the steps. I put the empty plate by my feet and angle my body so I'm facing him. A tuft of hair sticks up at the back of his head, and his freckles are stark in the morning light. His bones make me think of a bird's: delicate and breakable. He's wearing a dirty striped shirt and his shoelaces are untied. He doesn't speak, and that should be normal, but there's something different about this silence.

“Sorry I've been such a brat lately,” I say, meaning it. He doesn't respond. It would be better if he hated me. It would. Yet I find myself squinting at the sun and telling him, “You know, when I was a kid my dad used to tell me that the mountain is alive. He said it's a lady made of stone and trees, and she can hear and see us.” I smile. “He also said that they were friends, and she would let him know if I wasn't telling the truth about something.” Using the fork, I move a straggling piece of egg across the plate. “Sometimes I'd lie in bed at night and talk to her.”

There's a long, long pause. Angus looks down at his jar and spreads his fingers over the glass sides. “Did she talk back?” he asks finally. He's too young for his voice to sound like rust and dust. But it does.

“Not that I could tell.” I focus on him again. “But I bet mountains speak a different language than us. It was just … nice, feeling like someone was listening.”

Quiet prevails once more. This one is kinder, not so fraught with the unspoken. The town clock echoes in the distance. I gradually become aware of the air around us growing warmer, and then Forgiveness is squatting in front of Angus. He looks at him intently. My little friend doesn't blink, doesn't speak, doesn't reveal that anything has changed, yet Forgiveness wouldn't be here unless Angus was thinking of him.

The Choice's azure eyes meet mine. I pull my legs to my chest and turn away to watch the end of the sunrise. The brightness, the illumination, is like yellow ribbons draping over the entire mountain, tangling together until it becomes something familiar. We sit in a row on that last step, me and Angus and Forgiveness. The light hits the glass of his jar, and it's smudged with fingerprints. Noticing this the same instant I do, Angus begins to clean it with the bottom of his shirt. The movement draws my attention to his arm, where Forgiveness's hand rests. A jolt goes through me.

So that's how it works?
I want to ask him, unable to take my eyes off the touch.
It's that easy?

“No,” Forgiveness answers, as if he can hear my thoughts. “It's the hardest choice anyone can make.”

The words unsettle me more than anything else he's said. “Mind if I help with that?” I ask Angus, tearing away from the evidence of his choice. He's still wiping the jar off. After a breath of hesitation—just a breath—my little friend gives me the jar.

And I know I really am forgiven.

I spend most of the day in the attic, and though I'm probably grounded, Georgie visits for a while and ends up helping. She talks about Billy and graduation but doesn't mention L.A. Once she's gone, I go up to my room. Instead of doing research on Dad, Dr. Stern, Andrew, and all the rest of it, I pull out
To Kill a Mockingbird
. My phone blinks with ignored texts. I read until my eyes hurt, then realize the sunlight is gone; night arrived without the courtesy of notifying me. There isn't a single star, only clouds. There will probably be a storm later.

Putting the book down, I get up and clutch the curtain with one hand. In the other I now hold my cell phone, with the image of Nate Foster and his mystery woman on the screen.

The scent of chocolate wafts on the air, and I turn, smiling. Revenge stands next to the computer desk where my open laptop glows. His expression is hidden in shadow. “What've you been up to?” I ask. He doesn't answer, and I go to the switch by the door to flick it on. Light floods the room. I turn to gauge Revenge's expression. His grin is missing, and though there's a glint in his eye, it's not anything good. My heart sinks. “What's wrong?”

“I saw you with him. Earlier.”

“Forgiveness?” I clarify, trying to ignore the strange sensation in my chest, like my heart has become a rope in a game of tug-of-war. “Revenge, he wasn't even there for me. He was there for my—”

“I have never met anyone so blind.” Revenge finally meets my eyes, and I almost flinch. In all the time I've known him, he hasn't looked at me that way before.

“What are you—”

He utters a short laugh, a humorless sound. We're directly under the bulb, and it casts blocky shadows over his features. “You have no idea what you've done to me, do you? You have no idea. I'm
Revenge
, Alex. I'm supposed to thirst for blood and pain and destruction. But even when I distance myself from you, even when I'm on the other side of the world, all I can think about are your lips. What they would feel like. What they would taste like. Do you understand now? Do you see how wrong this is?”

Surprise and Disbelief are the first to arrive. One laces his fingers through mine while the other wraps her arm around my waist. My mouth opens and closes like a fish that's been yanked out of the water and struggles for air. “I-I didn't … ”