Where Silence Gathers (17 page)

“There's a reason humans aren't supposed to see us,” Revenge snaps, cutting me off. He swings away as though the sight of me is abhorrent. “To prevent things like
this
from happening.” He runs a hand through his wild hair. No gel. “I shouldn't feel guilt over doing what comes naturally to me,” he adds, gripping the edge of the closet door with white
fingers.

The Emotions are still here, still touching me, and it takes a moment for his words register. “Wait, guilt? For what?” I shrug them off and reach for Revenge's shoulder without thinking.

He steps back, and my hand limply falls to my side. “Never mind,” he says through his teeth. His fists keep clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching. He concentrates on a picture on the wall—a framed image of a horse that Mom gave me—as if it holds some deeper meaning for him.

Maybe it does. Remembering the phone, I glance down at it. The grainy face of the woman, frozen in passion, stares back. “If … if this is about the picture, I'm going to do something with it. Really. I just haven't had—”

“This isn't about the damn picture, Alex.”

Before I can ask anything else, Disbelief speaks, startling both of us. “You can't really be jealous,” she states. She raises her golden brows at Revenge. “Not you. Not with this … ” The Emotion trails off, examining me skeptically like there must be something she missed.

“Don't you dare insult her.”

“But—”

Revenge says something else that I don't hear; I'm still mulling over what he first spat at me.
You have no idea what you've done to me, do you? All I can think about are your lips. Do you see how wrong this is?
It's what I've been hoping for. It's what I've been wanting. But it wasn't supposed to happen like this. The moment wasn't meant to be marred by anger or resistance. I may not be a girl who daydreams about getting flowers or some happily-ever-after … but I did imagine it being more.

Still, he feels the same way. He's here. Even if he'll be gone soon, that doesn't mean—

My room is empty.

Revenge, Surprise, Disbelief, they're all gone. I look at the place where he stood for what feels like hours. Angus shatters the stillness with a knock. I blink, and suddenly the need to
move
consumes me again. My first instinct is to go to Briana's, as it usually is when something happens that doesn't make sense or I can't carry the weight of it on my own. I knock a sloppy good night back to Angus and hurry to pull on a hoodie. Missy is watching TV in the living room and I can hear Saul down in the shop.

“Mind if I go to Briana's?” I ask in a rush, the words tripping over each other to get out of my mouth. Missy presses mute on the remote, hesitating. We both know I don't deserve to go anywhere. “Please,” I whisper.

My aunt must see something off in my expression, because she nods. Grabbing my keys off the hook by the door, I run down the stairs to my wrecked car. I blink, and suddenly I'm already at Briana's house.

The outside lightbulb hasn't been replaced in months, so it takes a few seconds in the darkness for me to discern that her father's and brother's cars are gone. It's just Briana and Francis. I get out, not bothering to take the keys with me, and go up to the door. Slam the side of my fist into the screen.
Bam-bam-bam
. There's the faint sound of voices within. As I listen, they get louder. Then the door flies open and Briana comes out, her appearance oddly haphazard. “Alex, it's not a good time,” she says, trying to walk me back to the car. Her palm is clammy against my elbow. “I'll call you later, okay?”

“What's going on?” Worry walks with us. I crane my neck to look back.

She waves a hand dismissively, the gesture forced. There's a bead of sweat sliding down the side of her neck. “Nothing. Mom's just having an episode. I can handle it.”

From the house I hear Francis thunder,
“Where are my cigarettes?”
A moment later she appears, wearing a frayed robe and no shoes as she stomps outside. Her eyes are red-rimmed and it's obvious she's been drinking. Briana hurries to her side, murmuring soothing nothings, and Francis swings at her. Briana ducks just in time.

Jolting into motion, I cross the yard again. Suddenly Francis's shouts turn into wails. It's a sound so desolate, so piercing that I feel it in my chest. Briana manages to catch hold of her mother's right hand, and I come up to take her left. My friend looks at me and we pull Francis to the house in silent agreement. She fights us, but barely, as though she knows there's no point but she has to try anyway.

Once we reach the threshold I pause, wondering if Briana still wants me to go. A mosquito hums past my ear. Briana guides Francis into the living room. She's still mumbling about cigarettes.

“We don't have any,” Briana says gently, helping lower her to the chair. She kneels and adjusts the blanket so it's over Francis's boney knees. “You quit when I was born, remember? You told me the story, about how—”

“I don't care about some damn story,” Francis mutters. Abruptly, she stands and wrenches free. She runs to the china hutch along the far wall and yanks a drawer open. The contents inside rattle. “I want my fucking cigarettes!” She swears again, her fingers trembling. She keeps opening drawers and cupboards.

Briana follows but doesn't try to stop her this time. “Why don't you sit down, and I'll run to the store?” she suggests, helpless. “Maybe I can get Ian to unlock the door.” Francis responds with more words that are hot and foul. Greasy hair falls into her eyes as she searches for something that she won't find. But I know she won't stop, give up, acknowledge the futility of it. This is what it is to want something that's wrong or impossible.

So we trail Francis from room to room, watching her tear them apart. Throwing clothes to the floor and upheaving furniture and shattering anything that's made of glass. All the while Briana pleads and coaxes, mentioning rest or a new flower or talking to Bill. But it isn't until Francis shoves the garbage bin over and a potted plant falls out that she finally shatters. She drops to the tiles, her skin making a slapping sound on the cool surface, and crawls to it. Touches it with the tip of her finger. The leaves are withered and brown. She doesn't cry, doesn't sob, doesn't speak. She just looks down at the dead flower.

Slowly, Briana kneels next to her mother. “Let's get you into bed,” she says. Francis doesn't argue, and she lets Briana pull her up. Together they walk down the hallway and into the bedroom at the very end. I can hear my friend singing to her, as if Francis is the child and Briana is the one with the responsibility. We should be consumed with things like college applications and growing up, yet here we are, tucking mothers in and holding guns. Life isn't fair. If I've learned anything, it's this.

To pass the time until Briana comes out, I tidy up the living room. There are plates with crusted food on the coffee table, a broken picture frame on the floor, a sticky substance dripping down the glowing television screen. I get a washcloth and the trash bin from the kitchen and fix what I can. The sounds of a
Jeopardy
rerun drown out the noise of my thoughts. Minutes pass, or maybe an hour, I don't know.

Eventually, feeling eyes on me, I straighten. Briana stands in the doorway, watching me with a fathomless expression. There are no Emotions around her to give away what she's feeling, but I can guess.

“What happened?” I ask quietly, pausing with the trash in my hands. Something clinks.

This seems to pull her out of her reverie. Briana folds her arms and hunches her shoulders, moving to sit on the couch. I put the trash bag down and settle on the cushion closest to her. “We fought,” she mumbles. “When I came home, she was already upset about that stupid flower. I just exploded, Alex. I told her she was a shitty mother and that she cared more about her plants than me. She didn't say anything. So, wanting to hurt Mom just as badly as she'd hurt me, I blurted out the truth that she's always pretended not to see. Even then, she wouldn't speak. I told her I hated her and stomped off. By the time I came back out, she was like this. Mom doesn't do well with confrontation or change.”

There's a shocked pause as I take this in. All these years, Briana has never told her parents? Georgie and I thought they knew. We thought everyone knew. Suddenly, all the strain and resentment between Briana and her mother makes sense. How could I have missed it?

“Why tonight?” I finally whisper, brushing a strand of hair away from her face
.

“Because I'm leaving.” A bitter smile curves her lips. “Because I was running out of time, and I wanted to be heard.” I've never seen her smile like that, not once in our entire lives. It frightens me.

At a loss of what to say, I wrap my arm around her. She's stiff at first, but then she relaxes into my side. “Where's your dad?” I ask next, putting my temple against hers.

“On his way.”

Silence. We both look at the TV but don't really see it. Briana sniffs. I hold her close, wishing the world were simpler. More seconds pass us by, making me feel like we're two kids stranded on the highway with all these cars whizzing past and refusing to stop. Now Love and Sorrow haunt Briana, beautiful specters that linger longer than most. Some might think it strange, these two Emotions coming together, but I've seen it so many times in the course of my life. Sorrow accompanies Love just as often as Joy does. That's the thing about love; it may be permanent, but it's never the same. One day it brings light and smiles, and the next it becomes pain and shadow. Yet we still risk it, letting love into our lives. Because that light is worth facing the darkness.

Suddenly Briana sobs. I hold her even tighter and kiss her cheek. My friend tastes like salt and anguish. She shakes. And finally, after so many years of being silent and enduring, she cries. I stay there and keep my arms around her, as if that's the only thing keeping her together. Every sob makes me wince, and Revenge's words are lyrics to the music of Briana's pain. Pain I never realized the depths of until now.

I have never met anyone so blind.

And here I thought I saw everything, even what no one else could. Turns out, Revenge was right.

He was right about everything.

Twenty

The beam of my headlights sweeps across the shop and the stairs. Near them, a pair of eyes glows in the dim. At first I think it's a raccoon. Then the animal wags a tail, and I know. Eggs. I cut the engine and get out, approaching deliberately. She pins her ears to her head, but she doesn't run. I squat. When she remains sitting, I run my hands over her. My palms brush her protruding ribs, mindless of the brambles in her fur. She makes a sound of pleasure deep in her throat. I realize that I'm smiling through a sheen of tears. “Come on,” I murmur, flattening my palms against my thighs to stand. It feels like I've gained a thousand pounds in the last twenty minutes.

But Eggs won't follow, no matter how much I coax her. Hoping she'll stay, I slip into the apartment and open the fridge. Find a plate of roast beef covered in tin foil that was probably meant for me. I ease back down the stairs and pinch a piece of meat between my fingers. Eggs cocks her head, interest in her wide gaze. I wave it beneath her nose. She tries to snatch it from me, but I retreat, one step at a time. She creeps up the stairs in pursuit. “That's it. Good girl,” I whisper.

The doorway gives us the most trouble. Eggs stops and peers inside, fearful, as if monsters might be lurking in the shadows. I know the feeling. “There's nothing there,” I say soothingly, scratching one floppy ear. She leans into the touch and catches the scent of the meat again. “That's it.” I ease into the entryway. After another hesitation, Eggs follows. I give her the meat and move around her to shut the door. She scarfs it down so quickly she probably doesn't even taste it. Praying that Saul and Missy don't hear something and get out of bed to investigate, I now herd Eggs toward the bathroom. Whatever reservations she had must have been abandoned at the door, because she doesn't struggle. I shut this door, too, and twist the faucet on the bathtub. The pipes shudder and groan in the wall. “Please don't wake up, please don't wake up … ” I mutter, testing the temperature of the water with my hand. Once it's warm, I shove the plug into the drain and turn to Eggs.

She's already figured out my intentions and is pressed in the corner, whimpering. I croon empty words meant to comfort. Eggs resists, and I end up dragging her across the floor and lifting her into the tub. Immediately the front of my shirt is soaked. Eggs tries to jump out every five seconds. I keep one hand firmly on her neck while the other manages to get my shampoo off the ledge, open it, and apply it everywhere. I can feel tiny bumps burrowed into her skin—wood ticks. Some are just knots. Those will have to be taken care of later.

Someone clears their throat.

I jump and turn around with a sinking feeling in my chest. Eggs seizes the opportunity and leaps out of the water. Puddles form on the floor as Missy and I stare at each other. The dog makes it worse by shaking herself off and completely spraying us, the mirror, the walls. Though there's no possible way to cover this up, I still try to come up with something, but all that leaves my mouth is a strange croak.

Missy ends the silence by rubbing her eye with the heel of her hand. She's never looked more exhausted. “Alex, what is that?” she asks me groggily. There's a hint of resignation in the question.

“Uh … ” I clear my throat. “It's a dog.”

“I see that. What is it doing in the apartment?”

I look from Eggs's timid eyes to Missy's tired ones. Though I know it's wrong to put another burden on my aunt's shoulders, I can't help it. “She needs us,” I say simply. Behind me, the faucet leaks.
Drip. Drip. Drip
. Missy doesn't reply. She looks long and hard at Eggs, who cowers into my side. Petting her head, I don't say what I'm really thinking: that we need her, too.

“We'll talk about this in the morning,” Missy finally mutters. She shuffles back to bed.

Telling Eggs to stay, despite the fact that she probably doesn't know any commands, I quickly clean up the mess with a towel and drain the water. It gurgles. Then I step into the hallway, and Eggs eagerly accompanies me. After we get to my room, I dig some scissors out of the desk drawer. Once again I pin the dog into place while I attempt to get rid of the forest tangled in her coat. Chunks of brown-black hair fall onto the rug. She looks vaguely ridiculous when we're done, like she lost a battle with a drunk barber, but she's probably cleaner than she's ever been in her life.

It's even later by the time I take a shower of my own, brush my teeth, and get into some sweats. I fall into bed, willing Dream to stay away.

Eggs paces for a few minutes, her claws clicking against the floor. She keeps looking at the door, me, the window. I lie on my side and wait. My patience is rewarded when the dog finally dares to jump up on the bed—the springs creak—and settles onto her stomach, heaving a sigh. The scent of my tropical shampoo surrounds us, seeps into the sheets. Eggs closes her eyes, and I've never seen an expression so content.

Envy and a sense of satisfaction stab my heart, like someone is curling their finger around it and digging their nail into the tender, beating flesh of it. Pretending not to see the Emotion sitting next to me, I enjoy the sight of Eggs for a moment, then close my eyes too. I put my hands under my pillow.

Something crinkles. Frowning, I pull it out. A piece of paper? It's too dark to see, so I lean over and switch the lamp on. When I see what it really is, my breathing becomes ragged and my pulse ricochets; Fear is already sitting beside me, studying it with curiosity.

It's a picture … of me. I'm swimming in the lake, and the image was captured mid-laugh. The camera wasn't able to see Revenge, so I'm completely alone in the water.

On the back someone has scribbled the words,
I LIKE TO TAKE PICTURES TOO
.

The painkillers Dr. Norris prescribed for my head do keep Dream away. Still, I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning until the blankets are twisted around me. It's one of those nights you're trapped halfway between slumber and reality, semi-aware of each realm. Random images flicker through my mind like one of those old black-and-white movies. A footprint in the mud. The branches of a tree. A silhouette in the entrance to the mines. All the while some distant part of me is aware of a solid weight on top of my left foot, the glow of moonlight across my bedroom floor, the bottle of pills on the nightstand.

Something pulls me completely awake, though. A familiar voice.

Alexandra.

My eyes fly open, and I sit upright, blinking rapidly.
Alexandra
, he whispers again. The room is empty and the window is closed, yet I can still
feel
him nearby. No, this can't be happening again. I clutch my head and focus on breathing. “You're not real, you're not real.”

The clock reads 2:42 a.m. Eggs is still at the end of the bed, wide awake. She looks at me and whines. I peel the covers aside—they're damp with my sweat—and rub my eyes. Maybe I'm not really awake yet. I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. Something squishes. Frowning, I glance down. What … ? Dumb horror clouds my mind. I gag, and it's so violent it hurts. Oh, God. Oh, God.

My legs are covered in mud. All the way up to the edges of my shorts. Leaves cling to the brown cake on my skin, some twigs as well. And there's a wood tick on my foot. There are probably dozens more, their heads buried in me. Sucking, sucking. Is that a leech on my knee? Tears spring to my eyes again. I stumble to the bathroom, mindless of Saul or Missy seeing this. All I can think is,
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

Somehow I manage to twist the knobs in the shower. The water shoots free of the spout, freezing. I don't care. My fist wraps in the shower curtain as I haul myself under the steady stream. Needles of cold stab every part of me that the water touches. Oh, God. Oh, God. Sobbing, I scrub at the mud, at the mess of ticks and leeches and horror. It comes off in chunks. Plops to the porcelain floor. I gag again and again.

The drain is clogged now. The filthy water is up to my ankles. I don't care. It needs to come off, it needs to come off. I don't count how many wood ticks I rip free. I can see my skin finally, stained but visible. My frenzy only increases. In my desperation I slip on my heel and I'm not quick enough grabbing the curtain. I slam down. Pain spurts through my hip. I just keep scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. Sitting there in that dirty water.

Years go by, and eventually I drag myself out of the tub and collapse on the rug, a broken heap of flesh and searing shock. Eggs is huddled next to me. How long has she been there? But I lose track of time again. I don't know how long I stay in that tiny ball. And I don't wonder how I got all that mud on me, not yet. I have to keep concentrating on pulling and pushing air through my lungs.

Outside, it's still night. Through the tiny window, the moon observes my pain without sympathy. That pale, round face inexplicably makes my mind flash back to that moment on the road, when the man in the ski mask laughed at my fear. His teeth had glinted as brightly as that moon. The thought revives me, renews the ever-present urge to move and escape. Somehow I push myself up, clean the bathroom for a second time that day, and go back into my room. Eggs clicks after me. The sight of the sheets is almost my undoing again. But I force my insides to transform into something hard and unfeeling. I bundle the sheets up and put them in the laundry hamper. Then, adjusting my legs so Eggs has room, I curl into a clean blanket. I can't bring myself to turn the light off.

And I swallow three more pills.

On Sunday morning, it rains.

Saul is at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee. It's been days since I've really seen him, and I wince when his eyes narrow at Eggs. Missy is curiously absent. Sitting in my usual chair, I fidget and mentally prepare for another argument. Which is why Surprise pops into existence when my uncle just sets his cup down and leans sideways to get closer to Eggs. “Hey, old girl.” He bends and scratches the spot beneath her chin. Her foot taps in ecstasy. “Are you the one who's been going through the trash?”

Neither of us answers. The town clock erupts into the silence. “I'm going to take her for a walk,” I say. Then I hastily add, “I mean, if that's all right with you.”

He's still looking at Eggs. “It's fine. Later you might want to go to Ian's and pick up some dog food.”

A lump swells in my throat. Surprise grins at me. He's a nondescript Emotion except for his hair, which resembles an especially eccentric Albert Einstein; it sticks out in every direction. As I watch, he runs his fingers through the strands. It doesn't help.

“Well, have a good day,” I say to Saul, sliding out of the chair and standing. Saul mumbles something unintelligible. His forgiveness won't be so easily earned. Only this time, I don't think I want it.

Eggs looks reluctant to leave, but she bolts when I open the front door. We leave Saul to his coffee, and a gust of wind slams into me the instant I step into the open. It has teeth that sink into my bones. I reach back to grab my jacket off the hook. Eggs thunders down the stairs as I shrug it on and reach to firmly shut the door. When I turn back, our new dog is vanishing into the trees.

“Eggs, wait—” I call. Too late. She's so excited that I can hear her crashing through the woods, until the sounds fade completely.

She'll come back
, I tell myself. She'll get hungry. But doubt blooms in the back of my head like some poisonous flower. Experience has taught me that most things don't come back. And Eggs doesn't belong to me, not after one bath and one night. She belongs to the mountain.

For a few minutes I stand at the edge of the brush, hands shoved in my jacket pockets. Unable to let go of hope. An empty soup can rolls over the ground and touches the side of my shoe. I glance down at it … and my stomach drops. There's a clear imprint of a bare foot in the dirt.
My
foot, obvious in how the second toe is longer than the first. Suddenly last night makes sense—waking up with the forest caked to my legs. Those sleepy images that I thought were random, all the times I wondered why my bedroom window was open … I must have been sleepwalking. But where did I go?

The answer comes to me even before I've finished asking myself the question.

Birds sing to the morning and the sky writhes, but there's no sign of a dog with a bad haircut. Finally, giving the soup can a violent kick, I walk away. I hear it
clink
as it lands. Since Saul has given me permission to leave, I get into my car and go. The engine barely starts, hacking and coughing and wheezing like Loretta Roan after she's had too many cigarettes. It does start, though, and I tear down the slope, taking the twists and curves at a dangerous speed. Fear hooks his arm around my neck, putting his other arm out the window and grinning. Memories of the accident pound at me. I just go faster.

In the face of all that's happened—the attacks, the picture, Revenge—all I can think about now is my father and how even in sleep he haunts me. So I head back to the mines. I have to know. Was it real, or am I really going insane?

The mountain is vibrant, bright hues of green and brown everywhere I look. The instant I see that chain stretching over the road I squeal to a stop and get out, leaving the engine idling. I duck beneath it and run toward that looming mouth. He's nowhere in sight.

Like last time, I don't let that deter me. “Daddy?” I whisper, venturing into the darkness. It's dry in here, and dust stirs with each step. “Daddy, are you here?” Hope and Sorrow and Confusion follow me, their touches all gentle. My calls echo and the cavern swallows them whole. I turn around and around, trying to catch a glimpse, just a glimpse, of
something
. His voice had been so tangible, every single time. And I couldn't have just imagined seeing him. Now Frustration and Resentment are here, shoving me and squeezing my arms so tightly my blood stops. “Dad,
answer
me, goddamn it!” I scream, halting.