Limerence: Book Three of The Cure (Omnibus Edition)

by Charlotte McConaghy

  I feel sad for Will, that he doesn’t have anyone to return to. I don’t think he’ll be straying too far from Pace and Eric, though.

  “What are we going to do about your paintings?” I ask him. “How can we leave them down there?”

  “I’ll do you some new ones,” he offers with a smile. Then blurts, “Me and Hen are together.”

  My eyes widen. “For real?”

  He nods. “She came round in the end. Said it’d always been me, she just wasn’t ready to admit it.”

  “You charming devil, you.”

  “That’s me. Winning hearts left, right and center. Do you think it’s my collection of moth wings or my love of poetry that gets ’em?”

  We laugh.

  “You never read me any poetry,” I point out.

  “I’m not a complete loser.”

  “Hey, I like poetry! I used to read it to Luke all the time, until I caught him snoring in the middle of one.”

  “Philistine.”

  “Tell me about it. What’s your favorite?”

  He shrugs and rubs the back of his neck.

  “Go on, dork. Quote me something.”

  “I do like this one by Mary Oliver. She’s my favorite. But just one line, that’s all I can stand to say out loud.”

  “Okay.”

  Will smiles. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

  *

  April 15th, 2068

  Josephine

  I wake this morning to the sound of a baby crying. Groggily I roll over and sit up a little, peering at the unhappy child in Pace’s arms.

  “Poor little man.”

  Pace looks at me with arched eyebrows. “Poor Mom, more like. He’s teething, apparently.” Her expression narrows in on my face. “I was about to announce that Sleeping Beauty has awoken, but right now it looks more like Frankenstein’s monster has risen from the dead.”

  “How kind.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You cracked every single rib, punctured your lung, broke both collarbones, fractured your sternum and dislocated your hip.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, but the upside is that apparently medicine has progressed beyond the Middle Ages and the world forgot to inform the tunnels. You’ll be right as rain. Bones are all set and healing. Plastic surgeon even had a go at that mess on your neck, so the Frankenstein stitches are a little less dramatic. Only – fair warning – they did have to intubate your trachea to get you breathing again, and it damaged your vocal chords even more than they already were, which is why you sound like a chainsaw. That’s permanent. I wanted to be the one to tell you.” She sounds suspiciously pleased.

  “You’re a sociopath.”

  “I just find it amusing how badly you manage to scrape yourself up, like, over and over again. Will and I have made a game out of guessing what you’ll injure next.”

  I can’t help laughing. It sounds brittle and ugly. “Glad it’s amusing to you, at least.”

  “Yeah. Just so you know, I wouldn’t mind not playing that one anymore. In fact I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop now, Dual. Give my nerves a rest.”

  I nod and meet her blue, blue eyes. “That’s the plan.”

  She nods and we share a brief, true moment.

  “So I guess you’re dying for an update, huh?” She goes on to explain about how the resistance have been brought safely out of hiding and moved temporarily into the enormously oversized mansions of the Gates, which has rather amusingly horrified its original occupants. She tells me stories of the filthy sewer people playing pranks on the prim and proper families of the ministers and I laugh so much my eyes water. The wall around the Gates is already being pulled down – that was one of the first things Luke ordered, after the chaos had subsided. He hasn’t tackled the actual wall around the city yet, obviously, but he’s sent people to block off the tunnels until we work out what to do about the Furies and the poor Blood agents sent down there to be slaughtered. He’s now also writing up a motion to abolish the administering of the cure to all sixteen-year-olds. It’s a huge start.

  “I can’t believe I’ve slept through it all.”

  “Yes, it’s extremely lazy of you.”

  Hal’s fallen quiet and is simply looking around tranquilly.

  “Can I have a cuddle?”

  As Pace hands her son to me and I cradle him on the bed, she asks, “Was it all … all that stuff underground, was it part of your plan? I mean, were you just acting all distant?”

  I should lie, but find that I can’t.

  She sees the truth in my eyes and can’t help a fleeting expression of pain. “You’ll be okay now, though. It’s all over. You’ll get back to normal.”

  I nod, but my eyes are drawn to the window.

  “What will you do now?” I ask Pace.

  “God knows. All I’ve ever done is training and chores, when you think about it.”

  “Pace, you’ve been working in Dodge’s lab for years. Your understanding of chemical science is amazing.”

  “Yeah, but I dunno if I want to do that. I only helped out because it was necessary, you know?”

  “So don’t. Don’t ever do anything you don’t want to do, and never compromise on that. Find the things you love and hold onto them. Let the rest fall away.”

  “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?”

  I answer without sound. Because I am.

  *

  Being in hospital is a bit like being in prison, I’ve discovered. You get visitor after visitor trailing in to see if you’re okay and neither you nor they really want to be there. It’s the pits.

  As Pace and Hal are leaving there is a bit of a commotion in the hallway. I hear her chatting to someone, hear several voices in response and then I see a flock of bodies press themselves into my room.

  At their head is tiny little Sienn. Which means behind her are the rest of her gargantuan family, all seven of them including grandma.

  “Hello,” the father, Guillaume says, leaning on his crutches.

  “Bonjour,” Sienn says brightly.

  So they are French. I thought I caught Shadow chatting away to them in another language. Intriguing.

  “Hi.”

  All seven of their faces beam happily at me.

  “How are you guys?” I ask awkwardly.

  “Oh, we’re fine, we’ve been trying to find you for aaaaaaages but every time we see you in the tunnels you vanish and we never ever get to talk to you!” This has come out of Sienn’s mouth in the space of about half a second.

  “Sorry about that.” I look down at Guillaume’s missing foot and grimace. “I’m sorry about that, too.”

  “You’re mad!” the mother exclaims. “A foot for seven lives – bon métier!”

  The children all laugh.

  “Okay, yeah,” I chuckle.

  “There are no words,” Guillaume says. “We can never hope to repay what you’ve done, not with one thousand lifetimes. But any need or any wish – until the day even our youngest has passed – is our duty to provide you with.”

  “Cela est une dette de sang,” the grandmother says.

  “This is a blood debt,” Guillaume translates, nodding.

  This seems to hang heavy in the air. I’m not sure what to say, so I just say, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “And if you need anyone to do any chores for you or whatever I could come over to your house in the daytime and do stuff for you, just like to help you out with whatever you need, I can do whatever,” Sienn breathes, breaking the spell and making everyone laugh.

  “She’s angling for you to teach her how to fight like you do,” one of the older kids says.

  I meet Sienn’s eyes. This bright light of a child who drew a tiny knife to face hundreds of monsters so that I wouldn’t have to face them alone. If anything, I owe her the debt. My throat almost closes. “More tha
n anything, Sienn, I hope you’ll never need to.”

  *

  One of my doctors arrives to check on me this evening. She’s one I haven’t met yet. She has bitchin’ red hair and an astonishingly large overbite.

  “I’m Liz Taylor, your—”

  “Really?”

  She flushes. “Yes, I know, it’s silly.”

  “It’s great. Sorry, continue.”

  “I’m the general surgeon who oversaw your surgeries and treatment. Firstly, I just wanted to say what an honor it’s been to serve you.”

  Serve me?

  “I mean, not serve you, sorry. Treat you.”

  I can’t help smiling – she’s really struggling here.

  “Because of what you’ve done,” she presses awkwardly.

  My smile goes. What I’ve done is cause the deaths of four hundred people. Not to mention the rest of it …

  “You had several other key physicians working on you – your orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Landry, is the top in the city, and he says your bones are all healing beautifully.”

  I wait patiently for her to get to the point.

  “But I wanted to come in and talk to you more generally about your health and the condition of your body.”

  “I’m aware of what’s wrong with me. Dual chemicals battling it out, holding me at a precarious balance, etc., etc.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been discussing your case with several biochemical scientists and stem cell doctors who all agree there might be a way to stabilize what’s going on at your cellular levels.”

  “I don’t want to put any more shit in my body,” I tell her calmly. “I don’t want injections, pills, treatments, experiments. I just want to be left alone.”

  “But Josephine—”

  “There’s literally nothing you can say. I don’t want to hear anything else.”

  “But there’s something—”

  “Nope! Uh-uh! Shh!”

  She gives up and leaves me alone. I enjoy a moment of satisfaction as I reach for my book. I don’t allow my eyes to go to the door, as they have been doing every ten seconds for the last two days, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to come. I don’t allow them, but they go there anyway.

  *

  April 18th, 2068

  Josephine

  I think remaining in bed for ten days is well and truly enough. I’m still bandaged up and I make sure to take a hefty dose of pain meds before I attempt to get dressed. It’s not too bad. Huh. Hooray for real doctors. Bending over to tie my boots is the worst bit, but I manage it by counting loudly.

  I check myself out “against all your doctor’s strong advisements” and stride out into the sunshine.

  It’s so bright I don’t see him at first. I just hear his voice. “Hey.”

  Blink blink blink, wait for him to materialize in the glare.

  “Hi. Were you on your way in?” I flinch inwardly at the sound of my voice.

  “Nah.”

  I see him now. He’s sitting on a bench in the sunshine, looking up at a nearby tree.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “’Bout an hour.”

  I sit beside him. There’s a stretch of lawn before us, lined with flower gardens. “Why didn’t you come in?”

  Luke shrugs.

  We sit in silence for about half an hour. I know because I count the seconds.

  “It’s strange, being out here like this,” I point out eventually. “Legally.”

  “Thanks to you.” He gestures at the world. “This is all thanks to you.”

  I shake my head. It was just a plan, and it was lucky to work.

  “You look better,” he says.

  I haven’t looked in a mirror in months. Literally. All I have to go on are the never-ending Frankenstein jokes, so I’m not inclined to believe him.

  There’s a persistent ache in me. There are hundreds, actually. Even my aches have aches. And they’re all for him. For what he’s lost. For what I did to him and the impossibility of time travel.

  “If I’d just confronted him instead of trying to sniff him out then maybe—”

  “No,” Luke says softly. “I can’t go near the if onlys and the shoulds and the what ifs. They’ll be the end of me.”

  After a while he adds, “You were right.”

  “I wish I wasn’t.” God, how empty. Words are worth so little. “How are your parents?”

  “I dunno. Battling on, I guess. I don’t know how they find the energy to bother.”

  “How are you?”

  He doesn’t answer that one. I sneak a peek at his face and see how tired he looks.

  “I heard what you’ve been doing. For everyone.”

  “You wanted me to lead, right?” There’s bitterness there. He shakes his head to get rid of it. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What if I fuck up?”

  “You’ll be forgiven.”

  “What if I make the wrong choices?”

  “You won’t.”

  “What about the Furies?”

  “I trust you to know what to do. You understand better than anyone about the preciousness of life.”

  He clears his throat and then asks, “When are you leaving?”

  I look at him, mouth opening. “You know?”

  “Of course.”

  Abruptly the needle in my lung is back, piercing me with every breath. “I just can’t stay inside the wall …”

  “I know, Jose. You don’t have to explain. You don’t belong here. I understand.”

  I swallow but there are tears swimming in my eyes. “Let me … I need to …” Frustrated, I dash them from my cheeks. “I lied, when I told you I didn’t love you anymore. I didn’t know I was lying but I was, very much. I came back for you, only you. This was all for you.”

  Our hands are resting on the bench between us, his with a cast around it. He moves his bruised fingers so they can entwine with mine and we sit this way for a while.

  “I wish I could have helped you,” he admits.

  “No force can help this.” There’s no penance in the world that would be enough for what I’ve done. Turns out there is a line. It’s a big one, and when you cross it you can never get back. All that’s left is retreat.

  Luke laughs a little. “This is weird, but I brought …” Out of his backpack he sheepishly pulls a hairbrush.

  I laugh and wipe my tears again, nodding.

  “I thought it’d be getting pretty bad,” he explains as I crawl onto the ground between his legs so he can start untangling the mess of knots on my scalp. It’s so generous of him that I sit here crying silently the whole time.

  When he’s finished he tucks it behind my ears and lets his fingers linger on the burns. Next he touches my throat.

  “My voice,” I say shakily, almost like a question.

  He turns my chin toward him and runs his thumb over my lips. A silent goodbye.

  When the moment becomes too unbearable to keep, he says, “There.”

  I climb back onto the seat, not knowing what else to say but not wanting this to end.

  An ocean tide drags me away. The quiet calls.

  Luke says, “I’ve lost my center.” He holds his cast up. “My whole life feels like this. Like that poem you read me once. And when you go I won’t be able to bear it.”

  “Lifeache.”

  “I can never remember the end of that poem. How do you survive it?”

  I take his hand and lead him onto the grass. We lie flat on our backs and tilt our faces to the speckled canopy above. “With trees, and grass, and the sky.”

  He squeezes my hand and soon the only sound is the rustle of the breeze through the leaves and the undetectable path of his tears into the ground.

  *

  April 25th, 2068

  Josephine

  The pack feels heavy on my back. I’ve crammed it full of all sorts of things. Warm layers, for starters. Water canteens, packets of seedlings, dry food, m
atches, a compass, sunscreen … A tin-opener. I’m not making the same mistake twice.

  As I set off I feel like a character in one of Will’s paintings, like I’m walking straight out and into the bewitching wilds of his landscapes. I have become one of his smudges on the horizon.

  Shielding the midday sun from my face, I turn and call, “Hurry up, old man!”

  Shadow mutters something about thinking the trip was meant to bring quiet. He has a different kind of pack on his back, one shaped much more awkwardly. It’s the second time someone has carried that cello for me, only this time it was Shadow who refused to leave it behind, instead of me. I have no intention of ever playing it again, but still he carries it.

  He catches up to me and passes me the water bottle. Together we watch Intirri flying out over the long stretch of desert plane.

  “There are trees up ahead. We just have to make it past the hard bit.”

  “Whatever you want, my girl,” he murmurs. “Wherever you wander, I’ll follow.”

  “While we wander can we talk about Mom?”

  “Of course.”

  “Also – question … are we French?”

  He bursts out laughing. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him do so. Which I guess means yes.

  And away we wander.

  Chapter 32

  September 16th, 2068

  Josephine

  The moon has always known my secrets. She’s the one who tells me the truth, in the end.

  *

  It’s difficult to keep track of time when you’re waiting to die. Shadow works in the garden he’s planted and finds ways to feed us. We don’t hunt animals – I will never again kill a living thing, never eat something that once had a heartbeat. He repairs our little abandoned (no longer) hut, keeping it standing and clean. We have no power or water, but we have a stream outside, and the ocean beneath the cliff, and we have as much fire as we can make.

  We don’t talk much. I sleep a lot, waiting for it all to be over. Sometimes I go walking with Intirri, and if I see Furies in the distance I find ways to divert them from where we are. Not for me, but for my father. I think about joining them. I do. I long for it, some nights, remembering Medusa and Astro Boy and Washington. I miss them so much. But there’s another person here with me now, and that’s what matters. It matters not being alone, even at the end.