Becca pictured the little yellow globe radio perched on the railing of a witness stand and had to smile through her stupor. Xena’s closing theme was fading in the living room, and the voices of Marty and Khadijah murmured below. Becca glanced over her shoulder and caught Jo’s gaze, and nodded reassurance.
She just needed a few minutes alone. The warm company of her friends was wonderful, but Becca was worn out. She trudged into the bedroom her parents had shared for six years and sat carefully on the side of the wide bed.
She and Jo would sleep in the living room again tonight, after their clan left. The presence of her friends was infusing that space with a protective vibe, Becca could feel it. And she and Jo both knew that room was the true center of the house, the holder of whatever strange energy opened to the other side. She would bring down the Spiricom and the globe radio and let Jo set them up again.
She picked up the little yellow ball and held it in her hands. A mild hissing issued from it, empty air.
“Maddie,” Becca whispered to the globe. “Mom?”
Nothing but static.
“I feel a little like Hamlet, talking to poor Yorick’s skull,” Becca murmured to her mother. “Are you there?”
Static.
“It took us hours to sweep up the glass in that office today. Jo could have hired a crew to do it, but I know cleaning her space herself was important to her.” Becca examined a shallow cut at the base of her thumb. “I’m glad you like Jo. That you like Jo and me.”
Becca didn’t like the small smudge of blood near her palm. She wiped her hand on her knee uneasily and stared at the radio. “What gift held blood, Mom?”
She waited, but Madelyn Healy was especially far away tonight. Becca repeated the question, slowly and clearly, and waited again. Not even a faint crackle in the soft burr of sound.
“We’re doing everything we can imagine to do to find an answer. I’m sure you realize this. I just hope I don’t let you down. It’s the only thing you’ve ever asked me to do, solving this puzzle. Short of learning to tie my shoes and whatnot. I’d like to come through for you if I can. Wish us luck.”
Khadijah’s laugh pealed below her, and Becca smiled. “I wish you could have known my friends, Mom. I think you would have handpicked these guys for me. You know what, you might have been sick, but you must have done so much that was right. I have good friends, good work. Maybe even a chance at love now. I spent my first five years with you, the most crucial years in anyone’s life, and you gave me a strong start.”
Jo, who said she didn’t do people, was right. Becca held feelings for her mother beyond the anger, the grief; more gentle feelings. She was talking to her now as if deep cups of cocoa and all the time in the world lay before them.
“I had dinner with Rachel tonight. She’s in bad shape, Mom. Scary weak. I know the two of you were friends. You cared about her. Look after her if you can, wherever you are.” Becca lowered the ball radio to her lap. “I guess that’s it. Good night.”
It was time she got back downstairs. She knew Jo was worried. She lifted herself to her feet and picked up the Spiricom, cradling it and the radio in her arms. Becca looked around, trying to remember what else she had brought up here.
She slid open the drawer to the bedside table to retrieve her bottle of lotion, and instead found a bottle of Scotch.
The scant sliver of a moon was shielded by tattered streams of clouds, the late-night air mild and cool on Jo’s face.
She sat out on the front steps feeling guilty about this brief escape from the house, but enjoying it nonetheless. It wasn’t a heinous desertion. Their company had left hours ago, and Becca had been curled on the sofa, sleeping peacefully when she slipped out. She drew smoke deeply into her lungs, feeling mildly guilty about this indulgence too, but—
“You smoke?” Becca’s low voice behind her was incredulous.
Jo clenched her eyes shut and sighed out a white plume. “I guess there would be no point in denying it at this time. In my own defense, this is my first cigarette in two years. I found an old pack in my bag.” With real regret, she rubbed the glowing tip against the stone step.
“Well, cripes, don’t kill it!” Becca padded quickly closer on her bare feet and sat on the step next to Jo. The soft white of her T-shirt glowed against her skin, even in the meager moonlight. She held out two fingers expectantly.
Jo passed her the still-smoldering tube, surprised.
“You know we’re both going to hell for this.” Becca drew shortly and closed her eyes in pleasure. She stuttered out her next words to keep the smoke in. “We’re the only two people left in Seattle who smoke.”
Jo nodded gravely. “In some circles, it’s a greater social stigma now than drug abuse.”
“In lesbian circles, smoking is second only to being single, as proof of a character disorder. This is written down somewhere.” Becca exhaled a cheerful gust of smoke. “I think eating too much chocolate and fainting at the sight of dolls made the list, too.”
“I’m fairly certain you’ll find wealth and long-term virginity on the same list.” Jo was proud of herself for this light-hearted reference, and gratified when Becca laughed, but something nudged at her. “I’m kind of surprised you’re tempting fate, Becca. Khadijah mentioned complete abstinence is how you’ve stayed clean and sober, and nicotine is certainly a dr—”
“Yeah, well, I may not be as much of a die-hard junkie as some people think.” Becca pulled in smoke again, her eyes suddenly hard. “I’ve beaten that.”
Jo wished for better light. Becca’s features underwent a fascinating change, angry and almost feral for an instant. Then she was Becca again.
“In my own defense, this smoke is my first in six years. I don’t think either of us want to puff like chimneys again, Jo. But tonight, it’s nice.”
Jo accepted the cigarette back, willing to agree. They finished it in companionable silence.
“I tried to reach my mother earlier.” Becca snugged her T-shirt down around her knees. “While I was upstairs. The lady ain’t talking.”
“We know so little about windows.” Jo scrubbed the glowing butt thoughtfully against the step, then slipped it into the crumpled cigarette pack. “Those brief periods of time when voices are able to come through. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to your mother’s timing.”
“Becca. Not true.” Becca tapped two fingers. “Her first message, and I heard it twice.”
Jo understood where she was going, and remembered Madelyn Healy’s second message. “Becca, run.”
“He wanted me.”
“The gift held blood.”
They sat in brooding silence. At least Jo wasn’t alone in her frustration; Becca shared her impatience to make sense of all this. She saw Becca’s hands lying loose in her lap and lifted one. She touched the small, neat Band-Aid at the base of her palm. “Did you wash this out? It’s a wonder we’re not both slashed to ribbons after sweeping up that lake of glass today.”
Becca nodded, but she was staring at her hand, and Jo could feel her trembling.
“Becca?”
“It’s fine. It’s just a scratch.”
Jo closed her fingers gently over Becca’s wrist and felt the rapid patter of her pulse. Becca looked up at her, and gradually, her trembling quieted, and the thrumming beneath Jo’s fingers slowed to a steady beat. Becca’s features changed, the anxiety draining away, replaced by an already familiar expression of friendly invitation.
“I’m listening,” Becca said.
“I’ve never courted anyone,” Jo whispered. “I’m not sure how to do it. Especially given our tendency to encounter life-threatening emergencies every time we…”