Gifted (Awakening Book 2)

by Jacqueline Brown

  “And still evil finds us,” he said as he inched the jeep forward.

  “At least we aren’t alone,” I said.

  He clicked the button for the garage. “No, we’re not alone,” he said stoically.

  Nineteen

  My room was dark. I tapped my phone—1:05. Had I slept at all? If I had, it hadn’t been for long or very deeply. The children haunted me with their terrified eyes. I pulled my blanket around me and pushed my face against the pillow. I wanted their images gone from my mind. I wanted them to disappear. No, I wanted to go back in time, to have never entered the attic at that restaurant. I wanted to have never set foot in that place. Then I would’ve never witnessed the fake torment of fake children.

  I sat up, pushing the hair away from my face. Why? Of all the restaurants we could’ve gone to, why did it have to be that one? Why did Luca have to choose that one? He hadn’t seen their hollow expressions and yet he was more frightened by them than I was. Why was that? I wasn’t the only one who saw images of the made-up past. Who was the other person? Why was it so awful? He saw dead people and they didn’t scare him, but for some reason, this did. Part of me wanted to call him a hypocrite, but that wasn’t Luca. He was truthful in all he did and thought, perhaps to a fault. But he had changed the subject, instead telling me of how his mother was a psychic visited by demons. This had nothing to do with me. I was not a psychic and I did not mistakenly believe I was being visited by angels.

  I pushed hard against my head. I couldn’t get them out. Couldn’t escape. Is this how Luca felt? No, the visions he saw … the ghosts didn’t scare him. This was not the same. The children, the bloody arm, these images were not happening now; what he saw was. Somehow that made a difference.

  I couldn’t lie in bed any longer. I got up, wrapped my robe around me, and shivered.

  “It’s freezing,” I said to myself as I stepped into my slippers and shuffled to the radiator. The air didn’t feel warmer when I neared it. I reached out my fingers, tapping it quickly so I wouldn’t be burned. I didn’t need to worry. The metal was cold. I stooped to adjust the dial on the side of the undulating metal tubing.

  I expected to hear a sound or feel warmth … nothing happened. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. The radiator had always worked.

  I could start a fire, but what if the problem wasn’t my radiator? What if it was our boiler? If that was the issue, my sisters’ rooms would be ice-cold.

  I went to my door and opened it. I hoped the hall would be warmer. Nope. A faint light seeped from my dad’s room. I went toward it, stopping at his open door.

  “Dad,” I whispered.

  There was no answer. I took a few steps into his room. The paisley duvet cover my mom had picked out was pulled back and the bed was empty. I glanced around. She no longer occupied the room, but he’d left her things hanging in the closet and stored in the drawers. On her nightstand lay the book she’d been reading. He dusted around her things, but otherwise left them as they were.

  “Dad,” I called quietly toward the bathroom.

  I went to the radiator in his room. It was as cold as mine.

  It wasn’t the radiators—it was the boiler. The boiler that had worked perfectly every day since my grandparents first installed it.

  I left his room and went soundlessly toward the dark stairs. I’d wait to turn a light on once I was downstairs; I didn’t want to risk waking up the others.

  My name was whispered as a hand touched my shoulder from behind.

  I jumped partially out of fright, mostly out of reflex.

  “What’re you doing?” Luca whispered.

  “You scared me,” I said, my hand clasping the collar of my robe.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “The heat isn’t working. I was trying to find my dad to tell him. He’s probably already in the basement, working on the boiler. Did the cold wake you?”

  “Not exactly,” he said as he followed me downstairs.

  Of course the cold didn’t wake him. He kept his room at sauna temperature. Even after hours of sleep, there were probably still hot coals in his fireplace. There always were. Plus, Gigi got him an electric space heater a week or so after he moved in.

  “I was looking for you,” he said.

  “Why?”

  I clicked the kitchen light on, dimming it as low as it would go so it wouldn’t light up the second-floor through the stairwell.

  “I ah, I felt you move from your room. I decided to check on you,” he said in an apologetic tone.

  I wanted to be mad at him, but it was impossible. Even in the dim light, I could see the kindness in his eyes. It wasn’t his fault he could sense me, any more than seeing the terror-stricken children was my fault.

  “Come on, let’s find Dad. Maybe we can help him get the heat working so we don’t freeze.”

  His expression changed to one of relief when I didn’t chastise him for following me.

  We went down the hallway that led to the basement stairs as well as my dad’s office. To my surprise, the basement door was closed. Firelight was flickering from the office door that had been left ajar.

  I stopped. I hadn’t expected this.

  “I thought he’d be in the basement working on the boiler.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t realize it’s out.”

  I sidled to the door and peered through the opening. I straightened my body and cocked my head, then pushed the door open. It swung open with a squeak. My dad was there, asleep on the couch. The fire was burning brightly. On the end table was a bottle of brown liquid, half empty.

  I went in, not trying to be quiet, internal heat burning my cheeks. He was asleep. Our house was freezing, and he was asleep.

  “Bourbon,” Luca said, reading the bottle’s label.

  “He doesn’t drink,” I stated.

  Luca bent toward him. My dad’s sleeves were pushed up, his left hand resting on his chest, wedding ring in the same place it had been for the last nineteen years. His right hand hung loosely, grazing the floor.

  Luca stood up with a startled expression. He blinked rapidly and said, “He reeks of it. Either he poured it all over himself or he drank a ton of it.”

  I stormed away, not bothering to go quietly from the room. In the hallway I flung open the basement door and pounded down the stairs, flipping the light on as I went.

  “Are you mad?” Luca asked as we reached the dusty wood floor of the basement.

  “He’s passed out! My sisters and grandmother are upstairs freezing and he’s passed out. He doesn’t even drink,” I said, my voice loud. It didn’t matter; no one on the second floor could hear me and neither would my father.

  “This hasn’t been an easy time for him,” Luca said.

  I rounded on him. “Don’t! Don’t make excuses for him. We’ve all had to figure out how to live with the guilt—and being hated. He doesn’t get a pass because his life is hard. All our lives are hard.”

  “His guilt is greater,” Luca said calmly, hands in his pockets.

  I stormed toward the ancient boiler that was making loud noises every few seconds.

  “Thomas was my friend. He was here because of me,” I said, staring at the thick iron cylinder with multiple protruding pipes.

  Luca said, “I saw something when we were in your dad’s office, something on his arm.”

  “What, a fresh tattoo or track marks from all the drugs he’s been shooting up?” I said, eyes burning.

  “He’s hurting, more than you realize.”

  I turned away, staring at the hunk of iron in front of me. An orange glow escaped. The fire was still burning.

  “How long has he had that scar?”

  “What scar?” I fumed as I kept my focus on the boiler.

  “The one that crosses the width of his arm,” Luca responded. He edged to the back of the boiler and examined it.

  “He fell into a thorn bush or against a rock or something. I don’t remember exactly.” Though I did remember the scar. As a young
kid, I would trace it when he held me. The memory softened the anger.

  Luca glanced at me doubtfully.

  “Have you got that thing working yet? It’s freezing,” Jason called from the stairs.

  I slumped onto a wooden chair that used to be part of our kitchen set.

  “At least it’s warm down here,” Sam said, trudging along behind Jason, her naturally wavy blonde hair sticking out in a variety of angles.

  “Is it supposed to be making that thumping noise?” Luca said. “We don’t have things like this in Florida.”

  Jason teased, “I don’t suppose ya do. Let me have a go.”

  Luca stepped away as Jason carefully edged around the hot metal.

  “This must be as old as the house,” Sam said, appraising the impenetrable iron.

  Luca sat on a chair next to mine. He never even glanced at me. Instead, he watched every move his aunt and uncle made.

  He was trying not to look at me, not to talk to me.

  “You don’t think that’s how he got that scar?” I said, forcing him to pay attention to me.

  Luca’s shoulders slumped slightly before he pulled them back. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you think.”

  “How could a thorn bush or a rock do that?” he said in a low tone.

  “I don’t know. Thorns are sharp. So are some rocks. They can cut you like any other sharp thing.”

  “They don’t usually go from one end of your arm to the other unless you make them. Seems like a weird thing for a kid to do—if that’s how it happened,” Luca said matter-of-factly.

  “What’re you two talking about?” Sam asked.

  “The scar on Paul’s arm,” Luca answered.

  “Aah,” Jason said as he tinkered with the boiler.

  Sam tilted her head at him. “Do you know something about it?” she asked her husband.

  “He was picking blueberries. Fell against a rock. There, I think I got it working,” he said, wiping a greasy hand on the bottom of his shirt. “Time for bed. Your rooms’ll be gettin’ warmer as we speak.”

  Jason didn’t wait for us to follow. As he went toward the stairs, Sam glanced at Luca and me. It was a telling glance; she knew her husband wasn’t being wholly truthful, but tonight wasn’t the time to find out more.

  Luca and I were alone in the basement. The boiler was quiet compared to the thudding it had been making.

  “We should go up,” he said.

  I rose from the chair. My legs felt heavy. I followed Luca, the two of us moving in silence. When I reached the top of the basement stairs, I turned off the lights and shut the door—the faint glow from my dad’s open office door falling onto the floor in front of us.

  “Come on,” Luca said, placing the tips of his fingers against the small of my back. “There’s nothing you can do for him tonight.”

  “How long has he been like this?” I asked, eyes beginning to sting as I blinked away tears.

  “Not tonight,” Luca whispered. “You need to rest. You’ve had a long day.”

  He was right. I was exhausted. No clear thoughts came in the middle of the night, especially when that night followed the type of day I’d had.

  I allowed Luca to guide me up the stairs, turning off the lights as we went.

  Twenty

  The remainder of my night was restless; I dreamt of my father, intermixed with the children. The morning was cold, though warmer than the night had been. After all, it took time to heat our giant castle.

  I pulled a sweatshirt on over the long-sleeved shirt I’d slept in. The cuffs of the long flannel pajama bottoms covered the tops of the fuzzy slippers, that protected my feet from the cold bathroom floor. I brushed my hair, the ends flying up from the dry static. I wanted to check on the rest of my family, so I went downstairs. The smell of cooking food met me in the stairwell.

  From halfway down the stairs, I could hear my dad’s cheerful whistling.

  “Good morning,” he said as I entered the kitchen.

  He was acting like nothing was wrong, as if he hadn’t drunk himself to the point of passing out the night before. Gigi and my sisters were at the table. Avi was eating French toast while Gigi drank tea. Lisieux held her fork containing a piece of French toast and a book in front of her face. How many times had she been told not to read at the table? None, in the last several weeks, I realized. Not because she hadn’t been reading at the table, but because no one cared about it.

  “Were you aware the heat went out last night?” I asked, eyeing my father while wondering if any of them realized it.

  “The heat went out?” Gigi said with disbelief.

  Dad held a spatula in his hand. “The heat has never gone out,” he said with equal doubt.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Lisieux said, lowering her book and taking a bite of the French toast.

  Gigi said, “How did it go out?”

  “I don’t know how, only that it did.” I took a mug from the cabinet and filled it with water.

  “Did you fix it?” Gigi asked.

  “Jason did,” I answered, putting the mug of water into the microwave.

  “How did I sleep through that?” Gigi asked in wonder. “Why didn’t you wake us?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be able to fix it,” I said to her. “And Dad was sleeping so soundly in his office, I didn’t want to disturb him,” I said, mildly attempting to hide the anger I felt.

  He turned away and flipped a piece of French toast in the pan.

  “You slept in your office?” Gigi asked with a hint of concern.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Dad said in a cheery tone. “I was trying to get some work done, but must’ve passed out on the couch. I had a fire going in the office. That must be why I didn’t wake up from the cold.”

  I literally bit my tongue to keep from speaking. How easily he lied. I plopped a tea bag into the steaming water while glancing toward the table. Lisieux and Avi were watching me. I turned away, holding the hot mug.

  “Did you wake up Jason and Sam?” Gigi asked with concern.

  I shook my head. “They found us in the basement.”

  “Us?” Lisieux said.

  “Luca met me on the stairs,” I answered.

  “Poor boy must have been a popsicle,” Gigi said. “How did Jason fix it?”

  “I’m not sure. The boiler was making an awful thudding noise. He did something, the sound stopped, and heat started to go up to the radiators again,” I said.

  “Sounds like air in the lines,” Gigi said.

  Dad said, “I’ll talk with him today and ask if I need to get someone out here to do some maintenance. Want some French toast?” He held a plate out for me.

  “No, thanks,” I said, and sipped the tea.

  Gigi placed her mug on the table and said, “Avila and I would like some more, and yes, we need to be sure and speak to Jason today. I was wondering why he and Samantha hadn’t come down yet. They must be sleeping in after being awake in the middle of the night. Thank goodness they were here, or we might have some missing toes this morning.”

  “It wasn’t that cold last night,” Dad said. He set the rest of the French toast on the table.

  “Cold enough for an old woman,” Gigi said, cutting a slice in half for her and Avi.

  Lisieux had stopped watching the interactions, her book held up in front of her again.

  Dad took her empty plate to the sink and started the dishes.

  The scar on his left arm was visible with his sleeves rolled up. Why hadn’t Jason wanted to talk about it?

  Gigi and Avi ate quickly.

  “Come on, Avila. You and I need to attend to the chickens,” Gigi said, standing and taking the rest of the empty plates to the sink.

  “You’re going to help me?” Avi asked with relief.

  “Yes, I feel like getting outside a bit. Might as well be productive while I do. Besides, today is a nice day. Cold, but sunny with no wind. The best we can ask for this time of
year.”

  The two of them started layering on their snow clothes.

  Lisieux closed her book, though she hadn’t finished it, and rose from the table. “I’m going back to bed,” she said as she started toward the stairs.

  “Oh, to be fourteen again and be able to sleep the day away,” Dad mused aloud.

  I wanted to tell him she was depressed. That was why she was sleeping more and interacting with us even less than usual. But I kept it to myself.

  “It used to drive your father crazy when you did that,” Gigi said to Dad before she, Avi, and Jackson left the house.

  “I remember,” Dad called to her lightheartedly, a broad smile plastered across his face.

  Only the two of us were left in the kitchen. He turned to the dishes. He appeared so normal, like he had every morning of my life. Did he drink himself to sleep every night? Did he take something every morning to wake up? No, not when I was young. When I was young, it was rare for there to be a night when one of us didn’t go to him with a nightmare in the middle of the night. He was never drunk. I never even saw him drink a glass of wine. Until last night I would’ve sworn there was no alcohol in our house. Until last night I would have acknowledged that my father was seriously struggling, but not struggling like that. Drinking to pass out, using something in the morning. Was there ever a time of day he was not on something? How had he become that person? These thoughts were too much for me.

  Leaving my tea on the counter, I quickly turned to make my way toward the stairs. At the first step, I stopped.

  “How long?” I said, my voice shaking with too many emotions to feel any of them clearly.

  The silence was so long I thought he hadn’t heard me. It was for the best, I decided, as I took a step. Best not to ask a question when you didn’t really want the answer.

  “Too long,” he said, his hands resting on the edge of the white sink. He didn’t turn to face me—it was better that way. I fled up the stairs, away from the stranger in my kitchen.

  I hesitated when I reached the second-floor landing. I could go to my room. I could hide there, alone and protected. I could focus on schoolwork. I’d become good at pretending I was okay. I could continue to do that.