I pull my attention away from the pictures and examine the room. A woman has her head half-inside a refrigerator. As the boy circles her and approaches the table I see that she’s sniffing milk. “You’re going to be late,” the boy says.
The woman sets the milk down in front of him, telling him, “I’ll be fine. Oh, and I did pick up an extra shift, so I’m going to be little late tonight. Make sure you tell your sister, okay?” Of course she’s his mother; the knowledge is there in the way she brushes his bangs back, the way she moves around the kitchen with such purpose. This is her purpose. He is her purpose. It must be so fulfilling, to have a design.
The boy pops the mouth of the milk carton and tilts it. The sound of the milk streaming into a glass is the only sound for a second. It’s strange for me, the silence. There are no ticking clocks or thudding boots coming into the house.
“Where is she?” the boy asks his mom after a moment. I lift my head at this—it’s the same thing he asked me in that clearing. Before the churning skies and bloodthirsty swarms.
This time he receives an answer. The dark-haired woman sighs. “She went out to the woods again. She didn’t hear me when I tried to call her back.”
He watches her. “Don’t worry. She’ll be back. She always comes back.”
It doesn’t soothe her, but she hides her expression. When she turns back to her son, she raises her brows. “Are you sure you want her to? You wouldn’t have to share that damn bathroom anymore.”
He smiles faintly, holding his fork tight. She smiles too, a sad curve of the lips. They’re entwined together through loyalty, not obligation. This is what family is supposed to be.
The boy bends his head again, back to his food, and hair falls into his eyes. Just like Joshua. I lift my hand to push it out of his—
Suddenly the scene is rushing away. Cold air and streaks of black and blue shoot by. A dizzying sensation makes my head swim, and I lower to my knees to maintain balance.
Everything goes still again. It’s not gradual. One moment I’m on a speeding, burning train, and the next I’m at a stop, and the whistle announcing my arrival is an abrupt silence. I lift my head … and see.
He lies there. He’s just a foot away, so close I could reach out and touch him. Where any other person would recoil or cover her mouth in horror, I just stay right there on my hands and knees, gazing down at him. My wall of nothingness twitches a little.
This time the girl is nowhere to be seen. There’s no cradling, no screaming. Just the absoluteness of death. The moon gazes down at us with its white face. It’s chilly. Dew coats the grass and soaks through my dress. I hardly notice. Blood seeps into the earth. I study the scene for a long, long time. No matter what other theories I’ve had up until this point, I now know one thing for certain: this was no accident.
The isolation wraps itself around me. Briefly I wonder why there are no crickets. I continue to sit there by the body, trapped in this place. For some reason, I seem unable to tear away from the sight.
“You did this,” his voice whispers in my ear. The boy himself doesn’t open his eyes or move. But it’s true. I feel it to the marrow in my bones. Because of me, somehow, someway, all of this is ended. No more breakfasts, no more laughter, no more studying. Never again will that beautiful boy turn the page of a book or squint at a sentence. Never again will he share a joke with his mother or wait for his sister to return.
I should care. This dream, this memory, whatever the correct term for it is, clearly is meant to serve a purpose of its own. To help me remember? To cause an Emotion, any Emotion? Or maybe the intent is something far more basic. Maybe this is just a dream, a random story tucked away in the back of my mind like all those paintings.
Do you really believe that? an inner voice asks me.
It would be easier if I did. It would be beneficial. The truth is looking less and less appealing as this winding path brings me deeper into dark wilderness.
But I might be more human than Fear or I thought, because I can’t sink into oblivion. This boy means something to me. He’s part of my past. And he’s not just some random story.
He’s my story.
Twelve
Friday morning Joshua is back in class. He looks normal but tired. Worry touches his shoulder. Sophia’s sister and my penchant for bruises aren’t the only subjects Edson High has to talk about. There’s been some speculation about the Hayes farm, about how their crops have been failing the past few years. Is that why he missed school yesterday? To help his dad?
When the bell rings, I approach Joshua slowly, treating him like I would a hurting animal. He looks up, sees me. Kids shuffle past us—Sophia slams by, and I stumble a bit—but Joshua and I stay where we are, two unmoving stones in a wild tide. His eyes narrow at Sophia as she passes and she falters, her cheeks heating. She regains her composure, however, and whisks through the door as if she doesn’t care what he thinks of her.
“How are you?” Joshua asks, shifting his gaze to me. All that hair hangs in his eyes.
He really is odd; his weariness and anxiety are evident, and he’s asking about me. “I’m fine,” I answer. “What are you doing after school?”
Joshua blinks, taken aback. “Uh … nothing.”
I nod, brisk, because I believe it’s what he needs: someone to take control, someone to offer him a distraction. Why are you doing this? that voice in the back of my head asks. Courage said I would need him, logic points out.
What is your excuse for indulging Fear? it asks next.
I ignore this.
“Come over to my house,” I say. “There’s something I need help with.”
He’s curious. “What?”
“You’ll see.” I hug my books against my chest and pivot on my heel, walking to the door.
He says my name, softly, uncertainly. “Elizabeth?” I turn. Standing up, Joshua clears his throat. He blushes a little and tries to cover it up by sounding confident, casual. “Why would you want to hang out with me?”
Teasing him, keeping up the pretense, I raise a brow. “It’s just a project, Joshua.”
He straightens, grinning. “Yeah, but you’re a girl, and you’re you.”
I study him some more, taking in the plaid shirt that hugs his thin torso, the stained jeans, the old work boots that I suspect belong to his father; they’re too big. “Because I think I should get to know you,” I answer honestly. You will need that boy in the end.
“Why?” he asks again.
We’re going to be late, and I still need to take a trip to my locker. I turn my back to his questions. “Meet me on the front steps after the last bell. You can follow me home.”
Before he has a chance to open his mouth and ask anything more, I vanish through the door, throwing myself into the sea of kids. My senses are consumed by their chatter, the sound of sneakers on the floor, laughter. These people are always in motion, always full of a life I lack, no matter how much I pretend.
There’s little danger in bringing Joshua home; Tim is asleep upstairs, under the heavy spell of alcohol and pain killers. He hasn’t moved for two days.