Visible (Ripple)

by Cidney Swanson

  Sir Walter? I say. I can hear you, too?

  Evidently you can, replies Sir Walter. Fascinating. Chrétien, my son, was it difficult to establish contact with Mademoiselle’s mind?

  No, indeed, replies Chrétien.

  Most fascinating, says Sir Walter. We must speak of this when we are less … occupied.

  Chrétien and I follow Sir Walter through the open door and then through each room, one by one. Sir Walter and Chrétien have switched to English, so I don’t feel left out, I assume. I just listen and … cling. Or whatever this is.

  At one point, Chrétien slides through a wall instead of stepping out into the hallway. Which is just … freakazoidal. While we are inside the wall, I can’t see anything for a second, and I feel like I’m getting tickled, and then we push through into a room, and I can see again.

  A little warning, next time, maybe? I ask.

  I beg pardon, Mademoiselle. I am accustomed to considering only my own wishes whilst incorporeal. I shall not pass through walls if Mademoiselle would prefer.

  Um, yeah, Mademoiselle would definitely prefer.

  From somewhere, outside maybe, I catch a thumping noise. It sounds like someone’s getting their backside handed to them on a platter.

  Chrétien? That sound?

  Chrétien zips us through the exterior wall of the farmhouse—Ew!—to where the sound is coming from.

  My jaw would drop right now if I had one. The ‘beating’ sound we heard is a very old, very thin woman thwapping a hanging rug for all she’s worth.

  I hear Chrétien’s sigh of relief. The housekeeper, he says to me. He calls to his dad, relaying the good news. A second later, Sir Walter, now solid, comes from around the front of the house and greets the old woman in something not quite French. Spanish, maybe?

  Chrétien walks us back around the building, taking into consideration my preference for avoiding rippling through solid walls. Then he seems to hesitate.

  What’s wrong? I ask.

  I am merely ascertaining no part of your body is currently within any solid object.

  Oh. Right. Sam gave me a play by play of a couple of her misadventures in that area. I don’t want to experience it firsthand.

  Rejoining the land of solid objects means I have to let go of Gorgeous. Which I manage, in spite of how he smells like exotic spices and warm chocolate chip cookies.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle, for allowing me to shield you,” says Chrétien.

  His voice sounds funny coming from outside of me. Disappointing. Or like that moment where you wake up with your blanket on the floor and you’re all cold and miserable.

  “No, really, it was my pleasure,” I say. Even though I shouldn’t say things like that. This boy is a fever I have got to get over.

  I wonder if anyone has considered inventing a Tylenol of the heart?

  I turn and crunch through powdery gravel to rejoin Ma and the others. Of course, they are invisible at the moment, and I have to admit I feel pretty stupid when I speak to an empty car.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say. “It’s someone who comes to clean for Sir Walter once a month.”

  Will zips back solid with my mom holding his hand. She shakes her head several times, looking about as happy as a wet cat. Beside them, Sam reappears, smiling at the farmhouse like it’s full of good memories. I guess it is—this was where she and Will declared their undying love or something equally depressing.

  I sigh and head back to the house, my body solid this time.

  Behind me, Ma’s cell jingles and she answers it, remaining outside. She’s been taking calls all day, about where to find stuff in the bakery, mostly. Apparently the aunties think she should have stuck to the organizational system they had in LA. Ma switches from Cantonese dialect to Mandarin. I know a little Cantonese from growing up around it at home, but I know almost no Mandarin, apart from a few swear words, so Ma and her sisters speak Mandarin when they want to hide stuff from me.

  I cross the threshold. In my pocket, my cell vibes, too. It’s a text. José from cross country.

  When are you coming back? AP Biology is bogus without your jokes.

  I smile. Someone appreciates my jokes. Unfortunately, the someone in this case appreciates my everything. This would be great if I felt even a little bit of a spark between us. Sadly, I don’t.

  “Who is it?” asks Sam, dumping her bag on the farmhouse table in the kitchen.

  “José,” I reply.

  “Someone misses you,” she says.

  I groan.

  “Someone thinks you’re hot,” says Will to me.

  “I know,” I say, miserably.

  My cell buzzes again.

  You still owe me a date.

  Sam reads the text over my shoulder and grins. “Looks like Will is right on that score.”

  “It’s all my fault. I might have flirted with José a few times last fall. And maybe this winter. When I was between boy-flings.”

  “Answer him,” says Sam.

  I groan again.

  Will grabs his bag and Sam’s bag and hobbles with them to some other part of the building. I hear him chuckling as he moves down the hall away from us.

  “Are you going to ignore José?” asks Sam.

  “Is that an option?” I reply.

  “No. That would be rude.”

  “I’m a rude human being,” I say. “Ask my mom.”

  Sam shakes her head at me, sighing.

  I sink into a chair at the table and bury my face in my hands.

  “It’s my fault,” I mumble into my hands. “I might have led him on at your Ground Hog’s Eve party. To get Chrétien’s attention.”

  “Gwyneth Li!”

  “I’m a horrible person. It’s true. I am. José has liked me since I first moved back to Las Abs, and I let him think there was a chance when there’s not.”

  “You’re going to text him back right now and tell him you are sorry if you led him to believe you were interested,” says Sam.

  “Will you text him for me?”

  “Gwyn!”

  I sit up. Dutifully, I type in more or less what Sam said. And I apologize. This is something new for me—apologizing to a boy for flirting.

  “Doesn’t that feel better?” asks Sam.

  “It feels worse. I feel like a total … heel. Is that the word I’m looking for?”

  “It will do,” says Sam. She sits down beside me and puts an arm around me. “Just, you should think a little more before you flip on the high beams, okay? Guys don’t stand a chance against you once you turn on the razzle-dazzle.” She pauses for a second. “That’s why I keep getting in your face about not flirting with Chrétien. He’s … fragile. And I don’t want to see anything happening to him.”

  “Sir Walter told me this morning about how he lost everything. I mean, everyone.”

  “Okay. So long as you know to go easy on him.”

  I laugh a short harsh laugh. “Trust me, he’s not interested.”

  Sam shrugs.

  And, in any case, how I feel about Chrétien is different. I don’t know how to explain this to Sam. I’ve never felt half this strongly about any other guy I’ve set my sights on. Figures. The one I could actually be serious about isn’t available.

  José texts me. It is a long text. And rather full of phrases like “heartbreaker” and “leading someone on” and “you should” and “you shouldn’t.” It’s all pretty good advice, actually, but as depressing as discovering you left your window down and it rained all over the driver’s seat. I show Sam and she hugs me.

  I text back another apology. And then José must have decided I learned my lesson. He types, We’re cool. I mean, let me know if you ever change your mind, obviously.

  I type okay.

  Sam gives me another hug.

  José sends one last text.

  Hey, you might want to tell your mom her sisters are making people crazy at the bakery. They keep trying to sell burned cookies and charge for coffee refills and stu
ff. In case your mom cares.

  I sigh. Ma will be so happy to hear this. When Death Valley floods and freezes over. Just then, my mom walks inside the farmhouse, looking it over with her very critical eye.

  “Small,” she says.

  “Ma,” I say, rolling my eyes. “A little gratitude?”

  Sir Walter must have finished up with his housekeeper outside. He strolls into the house, welcoming us, Chrétien following him inside.

  “It is not large or grand,” Sir Walter says, “but it has the virtue of being quite secret.”

  “It’s … lovely,” says my mom.

  I scrape my jaw off the floor. My mother. Exhibiting gratitude. It’s a red letter day for the Li women.

  “Wait ‘til you see how cozy it is at night, with a fire roaring,” says Sam. She clearly thinks this is the last word in vacation homes.

  “Yeah,” I say. “And no one was drugged or murdered or anything here, right Sir Walter?”

  Sam punches my arm, glaring at me. She’s right of course. I am a horrible daughter.

  I walk over to Ma, apologize in Chinese, and hug her. It takes a second, but she hugs me back.

  And then she shakes her head, saying, half to herself, “What am I going to do about the cats?” She sinks into the couch in the main room.

  “What’s with the cats?” I ask, determined to devote myself to being a good daughter from now on.

  “They’re not eating. Woody Allen won’t even come out from inside the scratching post hidey-hole.”

  That’s not good. “Woody Allen is claustrophobic,” I say. “Maybe the aunties got him confused with someone else?”

  “Gwyn, how many albino cats do we have?”

  Ma’s right. It would be hard to get Woody Allen confused with any of the other fourteen cats at our place.

  “And Jet Li is fighting with the other boys,” Ma adds.

  “That’s hardly a surprise,” I say.

  Ma shrugs.

  “Who’s not eating?” I ask.

  “My sisters aren’t sure. Most of the kennels have leftover kibble each morning.”

  “They miss us,” I say.

  Ma bunches her hands into tight fists.

  “It’ll be okay,” I say. “They’ll survive.” But then I remember José’s text. “Oh. There’s something I should probably pass on to you.” Quickly, I list the complaints José told me about.

  Which occasions a round of swearing in Mandarin.

  “I know those words, Ma.”

  She puts a hand to her mouth.

  I don’t know which words mean which body parts and actions, precisely, but Ma doesn’t need to know that.

  “This is terrible,” she says. “I’ve got to go home.”

  I frown. “It’s just a few more days.”

  “We don’t know that,” says my mom. “You heard Sir Walter. We could be stuck here for weeks.” She starts to tear up. I hate when Ma cries.

  But she’s right. France isn’t going to stop being France anytime soon. We could be stuck here awhile.

  “You could go without me, you know,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It would be okay.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” she says, shaking her head through her tears. “Someone’s got to take care of you.”

  “Ma, don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not being silly,” she insists. “I let my guard down for ten minutes back home and look what almost happened.” She dries her eyes as a few more tears sneak out.

  “Ma,” I say. “You listen to me. That wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again. Those guys are all … out of the picture.” In consideration for my mom, I don’t say “dead.” And I don’t mention Fritz.

  “Bridget,” says Sam, kneeling in front of us and taking one of Ma’s hands, “Gwyn would be just fine here, if you felt you should go home. All of us can take care of her.”

  “Sam’s right, Ma,” I say. “I have my own personal army of super heroes here.”

  Ten minutes later, we have convinced Ma that No One Will Kidnap Her Daughter if she goes home, and an hour later, Sir Walter is taking her to an airport, having booked her a first class seat, non-stop to San Francisco.

  Ma and I hug, and I even kiss her on both cheeks, French style. And then Sir Walter’s car pulls out of the driveway, crunching over the gravel, and my mom’s on her way home.

  I sigh and sit down at the kitchen table. And suddenly I am completely exhausted. Like, I just ran a ten-k exhausted.

  “I’m calling it a night,” I say.

  “We have not yet dined,” says Chrétien.

  “Not hungry,” I say. “Just—” A yawn cuts off my words. “Tired. See you all in the morning.”

  Dragging my tired self back to the bedroom, I crawl in under the covers and I swear I fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.

  The next thing I know, morning light is streaming through my window, and Sam is shaking me awake and saying something about how awful it is and poor Chrétien!

  Chapter Ten

  OVER MY COLD AND DECEASED FLESH

  Now, if Ma had the inside scoop on Yours Truly, she would invent an alarm app that said things about “poor Chrétien” in order to get me out of bed in the morning. Sam’s got my attention and I sit up.

  “What?” I say. At this point I realize I have glued my hair to the side of my face with my own drool. “Gross,” I mumble, tugging black strands back behind my ears. “What’s wrong with Chrétien? What happened?”

  Sam’s face is all squinchy and she’s doing this thing, almost flapping her hands.

  “Sam!” I snap. “What?”

  “It’s his diary,” Sam tells me.

  “Chrétien has a diary?”

  “No. His wife’s diary. The one who died.”

  Yeah, I was pretty clear which wife we were talking about.

  “What happened to his wife’s diary?”

  “Fritz has it.”

  “Fritz? Brother of The Hans and Franz Show Fritz?”

  Sam nods. “Apparently, after we left, Fritz went back to the château. I mean, he must have, because he took Chrétien’s wife’s journal from there.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Fritz wants the diary of Chrétien’s dead wife?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. It sounds like he thought he was getting Helmann’s journal. And now he says he wants to do a trade.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I say. “Is it?”

  “No,” agrees Sam. “Which is what makes it so awful for Chrétien. He’ll never see his wife’s diary again.”

  I’m out of bed and down the hall. I don’t need to change since I crashed in my clothes anyway. Which reminds me I’m going to need more clothes soon.

  As Sam and I walk out to the main room, I discover a roaring blaze going in the fireplace again. Must be the handiwork of Sir Walter; dude’s like, a full on pyromaniac. This is probably a good thing because we didn’t have room to pack up the space heaters.

  I head for the couch, and I see Chrétien’s already there, alone in the room. His body is folded over on itself; his head’s resting in his hands, elbows on his knees. He may not be crying, but he’s bummed. And something inside me flares like a struck match.

  How dare someone steal the last connection Chrétien had with the woman he loved?

  “Chrétien?” Sam’s voice is low, cautious. “Is it okay if we show Gwyn the video?”

  Chrétien doesn’t respond at first. Then he rises, sighing heavily, and murmurs he has conceived a desire for fresh air, or something like that. I want to go after him, but he didn’t say he had conceived a desire for Gwyn. Sadly.

  Sam sits down at Will’s computer and brings up a frozen image of our friend Fritz. He’s wearing a very self-satisfied smile.

  I shiver and grab the cloak Chrétien sewed from that fire department blanket another lifetime ago in California.

  Sam starts the video.

  Greetings, my cousins. You have something of my fa
ther’s and I would like it back. I have something which I imagine you would like to have back as well.

  Here Fritz pauses and flips through the pages of a brown leather journal. It’s pretty classy looking. Like, if I kept a journal, I would want one like that. Fritz continues.

  At first, I was in expectation I had discovered my father’s book. Unfortunately, I seem to have mistaken this … lady’s diary for what I desire.

  Here Fritz’s lips pull back. I think he’s trying to grin, but all I see are bared teeth and eyes that look like steel. My stomach growls loudly.

  Shall we make a trade? What I have for what I want? You may contact me by return email. I will wait. Let me see … shall we say forty-eight hours? After that, well … I like burning things quite as much as did my late brother Hans.

  The not-grin slips off his face like soap down the drain.

  Oh, and if we cannot reach an agreement with what I have already obtained, I assure you that I have no qualms obtaining other … things … you value more highly.

  The video ends.

  An empty stomach is now the least of my concerns.

  “Is he threatening another kidnapping?” I ask, my voice husky.

  “Sir Walter thought so,” replies Sam. “Although Will was thinking Fritz’s use of the word ‘things’ instead of the word ‘people’ was encouraging.”

  I use one of the swear words Ma grounds me for. Sam, who hates colorful language, doesn’t bat an eye.

  “Where are they right now?” I ask. “Will and Sir Walter?”

  “They went to secure the journal Sir Walter has and then tell Mick and Pfeffer to keep an extra close eye on the journal they have.”

  “We have … two?”

  “Yes. One of them has the recordings of all the awful things Helmann did in World War Two. That’s with Mick and Pfeffer. So they can explain the truth to the Angel Corps member—the sleepers—they’re working with right now. The other is a journal Will and I stole from Helga’s office at UC Merced. It has the …” Here she leans in so she can whisper. “It has the pass phrase that wakes the sleepers up from their hypnotized state.”

  “Oh,” I whisper back. “So, no way Fritz is getting his hands on either one of those, right?”