Who is Mackie Spence? (14 page)

“Okay, I know about the human genome and how everyone is related, but will you ask your mom and dad specifically if any of your ancestors came from Greece or Italy?”

“If they did, so what? It doesn't prove anything,” she replies with a shrug.

“It could be a clue,” I return, unwilling to give up. This is the first break we've had, and we should follow it through. It feels like she's not telling me everything.

“Jeremy,” she grins suddenly. “If I'm a goddess, you have to obey me.”

I roll my eyes at her.

“Right.” I snort. “You already pretty much get whatever you want.”

“Oh, but I could ask for so much more,” she says, mischief all over her face now. I reach over, run my hands through her hair, and pretend-wrestle her in a hug.

Laughing, she hugs me back then sits up.

“Really, Mackie. You'd tell me if this means something, right? You know I won't talk about this with anyone else. It's cool if you're a goddess,” I tease her.

Her laughing eyes become serious.

“I'll ask whether we have any relatives from the Mediterranean,” she says and stands. “Do you still want to walk to the shelter together?”

“If I say no, you might turn me into dust!”

She giggles, her eyes closing down to slits, and then she leaves, walking quickly up the driveway and out of sight.

I climb the stairs back to my room, holding tight to my notebook, and try to read my history assignment and review for our chemistry test. My attention isn't good. I'll be lucky if I remember half of the words in front of me. Images from the last twenty-four hours keep popping up in my brain.

Mackie couldn't give me a direct response to my question about whether any of her ancestors came from Greece or Italy. They could represent a genetic linkage. But there are other reasons why I have trouble focusing on my homework. I think about how soft and smooth Mackie's hair is, and how it felt to hold her when we danced last night. And today, when I hugged her on the couch.

A month ago, I'd never spend this much time thinking about any girl. But Mackie isn't just any girl. She trusts me, confides in me, and I'll protect whatever her secret is. Because I know she has a secret. It definitely has to do with her ability to heal animals, and maybe something to do with her gene pool.

My phone buzzes with a new text. Wes:

Our group likes Cisco's, an all-ages club in Seattle eight blocks from the ferry dock. We went there for the first time two years ago, when an island band, Low Hanging Fruit, played in a contest. Wes knew the bassist, Lars, and Lars was cool. The band didn't win, but we had a great time.

Since then we'd gone to Cisco's every few months. At first it was just the guys, but as of last summer the girls had come with us, too.

I speed downstairs and outside to ask Dad if I can go. As I enter the garage, I listen for sounds from his office loft. Dad always plays background music when he works. Electronic keyboard sounds fill the building, so I know he is upstairs.

“Dad,” I call out. “Can I ask you a question?”

No response. I climb the stairs. Justin and Dad sit opposite each other, facing into their screens, deep in computer space. Dad's working, while Justin gestures at his screen like he always does when playing a game by himself.

“Hello?” I say to the air.

Still no response. I walk further in, to the side of Dad's desk.

“Jeremy. What's up?” Dad asks when he catches sight of me.

“Wes, Ty, Jon, and Erica are going to Cisco's tonight. Okay if I go, too?”

“It's fine with me. But Mom will be home soon. You'll have to check with her. I think we may take Justin to see a movie tonight. Something about King Arthur. If you don't go to Seattle, you're welcome to come with us.”

“Uh, okay. Thanks. I'll wait for Mom,” I say, and retreat down the stairs.

Back in the house, I head for the kitchen. I didn't have much for breakfast and yogurt sounds good. Mom will be home soon, but on Saturdays she doesn't make lunch for us. Any animal will eat based on ease of access. I'm no different; I'll eat anything in the refrigerator. After a cup of yogurt, I microwave a hot dog. I'm just finishing when Mom opens the back porch door and enters the kitchen. She dumps an armload of stuff from school on the chair nearest the door.

“Oh, Jeremy, whatever you're having smells so good. A hot dog? Would you please put one in for me? I haven't had anything since I left this morning. Thank you, dear,” she says. Mom is a fine, opportunistic animal. Just like me.

“How was the dance?” she asks as she moves her laptop and a plastic bag of school stuff to the table.

“Great! Mackie knew how to do some of the steps, so that helped. Then we went to her house and played cards. Oh, yeah, she really liked the flower a lot. She put it in her hair.” I hope the description is enough to satisfy Mom. It isn't.

“C'mon, I want details. What did the gym look like? What were the girls wearing? Do you remember any of the songs?” she asks.

We sit at the kitchen table as she eats, and I recount, as best as I can, how everything looked. I tell her about the overhead Japanese umbrellas and the toy cars on the tables.

“The Dance Club's costumes were awful. Almost as bad as Sadie Two last year. I thought bellbottoms were ugly, but pictures of poodle dogs on skirts are just weird. Did people really think those were cool back then?”

Mom chuckles. “Probably. Be careful. Someday, kids might say the same thing about what you're wearing.”

“No!”

But she looks happy, like she can see the entire dance. Of course, I've left out the parts about Brody's weirdness and our Ouija board results.

“Honey, dances are only going to get better for you,” Mom says.

“Hey,” I say, “is it okay if I go to Cisco's tonight with the guys? Erica's coming with us. Maybe Mackie. Dad says it's fine with him.”

“How are you getting to the ferry?”

“Wes.”

“Wes is just driving to the ferry, not in Seattle, right? You're going on as walk-ons? And you'll be back by eleven thirty?”

“Yeah, sure. The first set's at eight so we'll make the ten forty-five boat home. I might be a few minutes late if we drop Ty and Mackie off first,” I say.

Mom adds mustard and relish to her hot dog. “Who's playing tonight?”

“Don't know. Some band Wes likes.”

“What are Justin and Dad doing?”

“The usual,” I say. Mom and I have had this conversation so many Saturdays that she knows what I mean.

“What time are we eating tonight?” I asked.

“Early, around five o'clock. We're taking Justin to a movie that starts at six-fifteen, so we'll leave before six. What time will Wes pick you up?”

“Don't know. I think we need to be on the seven-ten boat.”

I retreat to the refrigerator to find an apple, and add, “Ah, you know I'm going to the shelter today. Mackie and I are walking in together.”

Mom looks up. “Is this getting serious?” she asks. She sounds kind of thrilled.

“Don't know,” I say. “I like spending time with her.”

Clutching my apple, I flee from the kitchen. Talking about relationship stuff with Mom just seems too dangerous. I don't even know what Mackie and I have going on. And anything I say to my mom could get back to Mackie's mom. Well, that will happen anyway. I run upstairs, find my cell phone, and text Mackie:

Her reply comes within a few minutes:

I return to my notebook, trying to recall everything I know about Greek mythology. We studied Greek and Roman myths in sixth-grade social studies, and I read more from Edith Hamilton's
Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes
in my sophomore world history class.

I know that myths are man-made stories created to help people understand their lives and what happens around them. Mythical gods gave order and reason to earthquakes, volcanoes, sickness, war, life, and death. Of course, it hasn't escaped me that the gods were mostly sculpted in the image of humans, even if they did throw an occasional lightning bolt or have a horse's body. Creating gods that looked human made it easier for man to feel close to the controllers of his destiny.

I can understand why Mackie might think my interest in Akeso is a long shot. But almost every religious mythology also establishes a direct link between animals and gods. Among the twelve major Greek gods, most were connected with specific animals. As the supreme god, Zeus' sacred animals were the eagle and the bull. Athena, the goddess of reason and war strategy, claimed the snowy owl. Poseidon, who rules the seas, was connected with horses and dolphins. Aphrodite, goddess of love, was represented by a dove, and Artemis, goddess of the hunt, often appeared with a deer. What if Mackie's ancestors actually had some special healing abilities with animals, and she'd inherited their genetic code?

At one thirty, I jog up our driveway to wait for Mackie. She waves from a distance, and I feel a now familiar rush of happiness inside me.

“Hi,” Mackie says, and gives me a quick hug. I hold out my hand. She takes it as we walk along the quiet road.

“So, any news?” I ask.

“My parents have no records of our family coming from the Mediterranean region. Sorry.”

“I'm just looking for whatever might explain what's going on. I guess it was pretty out there,” I reply, trying hard to keep impatience out of my voice.

Mackie squeezes my hand. “I understand if you think all of this is too weird. If someone told me that they could heal animals just by showing up, I'd think they were either making it up or weird.”

“I know you're not lying about the animals, because I've seen them at the shelter when you're around. I was there with you and the orca. It's not weird. It's wonderful. I wish I could do what you do.”

“Okay, but what if there isn't an explanation? Maybe I've just grown into this and we're not going to understand it.”

I consider that one for a few seconds. “Could be. Maybe it's part of evolution. The strong survive. Maybe that's you and the animals. You've evolved to help them,” I say, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.

Mackie lowers her eyes and shakes her head.

I don't want to let go of her hand. If only we had more time to walk together.

When we arrive at the shelter, we sit on top of an old wooden picnic table located on the side lawn. A chill in the air draws us together, though we don't say much. I want to be with her for a long time.

“Who's playing tonight?” Mackie asks.

“Some group Wes thinks we should hear. I feel like getting off the island, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Seattle can be fun.”

“Brody hasn't given you any crap since the dance, has he?” I ask.

“No. Maybe he got the message.”

“Yeah, well, Brody can be stubborn. I've seen him get territorial over stuff that no one else cares about. Especially if he thinks someone's messing with him,” I say.

“I think this is about him not winning. Like he thinks I'm some kind of prize. Somehow I've made him really upset.” Mackie sounds far more understanding than I feel.

“Tough. He can't have something just because he wants it.”

“I wonder if Jilly knows what she's getting into.”

“She will soon enough,” I say and stand up. I don't want to waste any more time on Brody, and we need to suit up.

Entering the shelter through the front door, I look for Beth Williams. Beth graduated from Soltrice High seven years before us and is in grad school at the University of Washington, majoring in biology. She wants to go into research. Beth's tall and very thin with long blonde hair. I've known her for the last two years of Saturdays since she and I were assigned the two to six o'clock shift. Our third always rotates in and out, and sometimes I need a substitute if my sports schedule conflicts.

Is it by chance that Mackie has been scheduled, or has Olivia picked up on Mackie and me liking each other? Or did Mackie ask to work with me? Maybe that's how we came to be working together. I'm about to question Mackie as we walk away from the lockers after putting on our coveralls.

“Hi,” Beth says suddenly, looking up at us from the corner of the office where coffee and beverages are kept. “We have a new eagle, Number 27.”

“Yeah, Mackie was here when he came in. She went with Gabe to get him,” I say.

“Let's have a look,” Beth urges. “He's in the Small Flight Cage.”

We put on our hats and gloves and follow Beth to the back door. Moving as quietly as possible, we approach the cage. Number 27 is huddled, asleep, on a blanket shaped into a nest near the feed station. Even camouflaged in the folds of the fabric, I can tell he isn't big enough to be fully grown. His talons and head have been wrapped in soft cloth. Since the cloth hasn't been ripped off, and our presence isn't alarming him, I assume he is sedated. The bandages and drugs will likely continue for several days.

In the Large Flight Cage, Number 26 has heard us and unfurls her wings on one of the upper perches. Her head held high, she looks awesome, like a queen ready to halt her subjects should they dare cross her path uninvited. When she locks her eyes on Mackie, all her queenliness relaxes. She pulls her wings in and looks down. I almost expect a curtsy to follow. Mackie, meanwhile, directs her gaze at Number 27, concentrating on him.

Beth motions for us to return to the office, but I know Mackie wants more time outside.

She turns to Beth and asks in a whisper, “Could I have a few more minutes? Just to observe him while he's sleeping? I won't be long.”