Timepiece: An Hourglass Novel

by Myra Mcentire

  “That’s … not … right,” Lily choked out from behind me.

  One end of a long rope circled the man’s neck in a makeshift noose, and the other end draped over the highest branch of a black walnut tree. None of it had been there two minutes ago. His hands were tied behind his back, his feet tucked into stirrups. A shotgun came into view behind the horse he sat on, aimed at the sky.

  The man attached to the gun came into view next.

  “We don’t take to thieves here.” He leaned the gun against the trunk of the tree as he took the rope and tied it tightly, working it into the grooves of the bark. “Not of our livestock or our women.”

  “I didn’t touch your wife.”

  The sound of the shotgun pump echoed across the empty landscape. Lily’s shoulders jerked at the sound.

  “I didn’t, and I’m not a thief. I thought it was my horse, I thought …” Desperation tainted the excuse. Sweat beaded on the thief’s forehead.

  “I caught you red-handed with both. I took care of the woman, but you’re welcome to another turn on the horse.” The man holding the gun curled his index finger around the trigger.

  “You’ll be sorry,” the thief said. “My men will make you sorry.”

  “They’ll have to find me first. Enjoy the ride.”

  I jumped forward, grabbing Lily’s arm. She made a sound of protest as I spun her around and pulled her into my chest.

  A shot echoed through the twilight air.

  The horse reared and took off at full speed, and the man jerked backward with a loud snap. His feet twitched as his face turned red, and then blue.

  Lily struggled to free herself from my arms. I held her tighter. “Don’t look. Please don’t look.”

  The man who shot the gun had disappeared.

  “Kaleb? Lily?” A voice broke in, faint, sounding far away. I looked toward where the house was supposed to be. Em.

  The three of us stood in the middle of a field, empty, except for a dead man hanging from a tree.

  Em watched the man swing from side to side, not looking at his face. Her voice remained calm, but she kept swallowing as if she was trying not to throw up. “Lily?”

  Lily pushed her way out of my arms before I could stop her. Her focus shifted from Em to the man hanging to the tree and back again. “What the hell …”

  “You can see him?” Em whispered.

  “Where are we?” Lily asked, spinning around in a complete circle. “What happened to the house?”

  Em and I exchanged a look that asked a singular question. If Lily could see the full-blown rip, did that mean the rips were changing? Or did it mean Lily had the time gene?

  Em turned toward the hanging man and walked the twenty feet to the trunk of the walnut tree. She tried touching it first, but nothing happened. Squeezing her eyes shut, she gingerly reached out in the direction of the man’s foot.

  When she made contact, the scene in front of us melted from top to bottom.

  To reveal Thomas and Dru standing on the back porch, staring at us.

  Em gazed back in horror. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking to see what was keeping the three of you,” Thomas said. “What are you doing?”

  “Did you … did you just see that?” Em waved her hand in the direction of the place the rip had disappeared seconds before.

  Thomas and Dru replied in unison.

  “See what?”

  Chapter 11

  I

  was pretty sure I was awake, but if so, why was Lily Garcia sitting at my kitchen table on a Sunday morning? I rubbed my eyes with my fists. “Did you forget your shirt?” she asked.

  I blinked. Still there. I was glad I’d pulled on basketball shorts instead of coming downstairs in my boxer briefs. “No. I wasn’t expecting to see … anyone.”

  “Surprise.” She waggled her fingers. Jazz hands.

  I grabbed some pineapple-orange juice from the fridge. Screwing the plastic lid off, I started to drink out of the carton before I caught myself. I extended it to Lily. “Thirsty?”

  “No,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Not to be rude, but why are you in my kitchen?”

  “I’m here to see your dad. He ran over to the college to get supplies from the science department. I guess he didn’t expect me to come for testing so soon.”

  Anxiety.

  “For the gene,” I said.

  “Yay you for keeping up. Are you going to tell me Ivy Springs isn’t a freak magnet now?”

  Avoiding the question, I chugged what was left of the juice and tossed the empty container in the trash. “Did you sleep?”

  “My grandmother said I called out a couple of times.” There was a hint of dark circles under her eyes.

  I hadn’t slept at all. In my mind, the man swung from the tree all night. “You live with your grandmother instead of your parents?”

  “We escaped from Cuba when I was little. My parents are still there.” Pain. It so often led to avoidance. “Have you always lived in Ivy Springs?”

  “No. We moved here when Dad took a job at Cameron College.” I shut the refrigerator door. “But this house has been in my dad’s family for generations.”

  “Nice.”

  There were a couple of awkward seconds of staring—neither one of us knew where to look—but I could sense Lily trying really hard not to look at my bare chest or tattoos.

  Instead of going upstairs for a shirt like a normal person, I reached for the hook magnet on the side of the fridge, grabbed my kiss the cook apron, and slid it over my head.

  “Are you kidding me?” Lily’s eyebrows almost met her hairline.

  “No. I’m … hungry.” Suddenly desperate to make the apron look somewhat normal, I took a coated cast-iron pan down from the rack over the kitchen island. “As for the apron, I like cooking. I like kissing. I like giving orders. About both.”

  I stared at her until she blushed.

  “You okay with garlic?” I snagged a bulb from the counter and held it up. A piece of papery-thin skin fluttered to the floor.

  “On your breath or in my food?”

  Solid comeback.

  I grinned. “In case I have enough leftovers for a doggie bag.”

  “If ‘doggie bag’ is meant to be an insult, up yours.”

  I clicked on the burner under the pan, squeezed a clove of garlic through a press, and then added chopped onions and red peppers from my stash in the fridge. After dropping in a couple of tablespoons of butter, I set the flame to medium.

  “Why are you being … well, not nice, but not completely hateful?” Her cheeks were still flushed.

  “I’m not good with mornings. I need a full belly to crank up to bad-boy mode.” I looked at her from the corner of my eye. “I wouldn’t stick around for lunch.”

  “Not in a million years.” She leaned forward in her seat, tapping her fingers on the table. Working up to something. “Em said that your parents are travelers, just like Michael and her.”

  “That’s true.”

  “That made me wonder …”

  “Wonder what?” I asked.

  “I want to know what your ability is.”

  “Wow.” I grabbed a spatula and shifted the vegetables in the pan. “Such subtlety. Never would’ve expected it from you.”

  “You found out about me by eavesdropping.” She shrugged. “I thought I’d keep it classy and ask.”

  I rested my elbows against the kitchen island, ducking my head to avoid the pot rack. “Empathy. Sensing people’s emotions. Mostly of people I know, but even those I don’t—if I touch them.”

  “Is that why you grabbed me at the masquerade? To feel my ‘emotions’?”

  “No.” I grinned. “Not at all.”

  Lily rolled her eyes. “How did you find out that’s what your ability is?”

  “My mom is an actress.” I turned back to the stove to pour in beaten eggs. To give the pain a chance to leave my eyes before I faced her again. “She quit the busine
ss to stay home with me, but she still does the occasional gig.”

  “No way! Your mom is Grace Walker,” Lily said. “You look exactly like her.”

  That’s what everyone always said.

  “Lucky for me.”

  That’s what I always said back.

  “I’m not following. What does your mom being an actress have to do with empathy?”

  “Mom started work on a remake of Cleopatra, lots of emotional scenes. I was about three.” I wiggled the pan to make sure the eggs weren’t sticking. “A couple of days after she left home to go on location, I started having irrational reactions to things. Dad called her to talk about it. They tracked it. I was reacting to her scenes as she filmed them.”

  “That’s not so strange, right? I mean, she’s your mom.”

  “She was filming in Egypt.”

  “Oh.” Lily chewed on her thumbnail. “How does empathy relate to time?”

  “Everyone has an emotional time line.” I sprinkled a handful of cheese over the omelet, eyed it, and then added more. “I can travel yours, in the right situation.”

  “Backward or forward?”

  “I don’t mess with the future.” Anymore.

  “How do you use it?”

  “Something smells good.” Dad popped his head into the kitchen and I jumped. “Thanks for waiting, Lily.”

  Saved.

  “No worries.” She smiled at him before looking back at me, straight-faced. “Thanks for fighting off your inner bad boy for so long. Looks like breakfast is all yours.”

  Dad extended his hand to show her out of the kitchen. Before he followed, he took in my chest and apron. “Son?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you should locate a shirt.”

  Chapter 12

  A

  fter Lily and her questions, I couldn’t stop thinking about my mom. I drove to the gym for some peace in the indoor pool.

  I discovered the difference water makes when I was little. My mom had taken me swimming every day, rain or shine, hot or cold. When we’d moved to the house in Ivy Springs, she’d insisted we put a pool on the property.

  Since Jack had put her in a coma, I couldn’t bear to swim there anymore.

  Because of my ribs, I walked into the water instead of diving. Sinking to the bottom of the pool, bubbles rising as I slowly released my breath, I allowed myself to think about her. Nobody else’s emotions nudged in to confuse me, convolute the sorrow.

  She gave up everything for me. A lucrative career, a place in the spotlight, any chance at normalcy. She didn’t even know she was a traveler until she was pregnant with me. When she started seeing ripples, my dad was there to guide her through it.

  Then I was born, and she became the mother of a little boy who was constantly bombarded by every emotion around him.

  Once she and dad figured me out, what my needs were, she walked away from her life to keep me safe. Protected. She did her job so well that, until it was time for me to start school, the only emotion I ever felt was love.

  She surrounded me with it.

  I let myself float to the surface. The cool air was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the water. I took another deep breath.

  This time, I pushed off the side of the pool and swam freestyle. My arms and legs pumped, churning up water but smoothing out my emotions.

  We still didn’t know exactly what Jack Landers had done to my mother. He told Emerson that he’d taken enough of her memories to render her suicidal. I didn’t know if he’d taken her memories of me.

  My mom wouldn’t have lived her life for me the way she had only to throw it all away. I never once felt her desire to be anywhere but with us.

  The fact that she was still breathing confirmed it, even though she’d been unconscious for almost eight months.

  I’d been serious about taking Jack out with that sword when I’d rushed him.

  How could killing him be a mistake?

  Now my emotions and purpose were as linear as the blue line on the bottom of the pool. I pushed off to swim the length of it one last time, and then came up to the surface for air.

  Sunday night football.

  The converted pool house was all latte-colored paint, dark brown leather, and huge windows. Tonight, it smelled like nachos and chili. I didn’t want to think about what it would smell like later.

  “Boom!” Nate cackled and threw the television remote down so hard it bounced off the couch pillows. “I told you he’d score three touchdowns. You’ve got to take my garbage duty for a week.”

  “Oh yeah?” Dune looked down at least half a foot at Nate’s triumphant face and flexed. “Make me.”

  Nate groaned.

  Neither one of them noticed me.

  I went straight back to Michael’s room, but stopped with my hand on the doorknob when the TV went dead and the lights flickered off and on in the hall.

  My parents had the same abilities as Michael and Em, and the same electrical connection. For as long as I could remember, the electricity was settled, and the love between them was so constant that it became emotional background noise. I barely noticed it until they were both gone.

  Michael and Em’s love created the kind of electricity people noticed.

  I’d let go of the knob and was backing away when Em abruptly opened Michael’s door. “Kaleb! Hey. Were you looking for us?”

  Michael was stretched out on his bed in jeans and a T-shirt, and he was smiling. The covers were wrinkled, and a small hooded sweat jacket lay on the ground, along with Em’s black Converse. My stomach twisted into a tiny ball of regret.

  At least I hadn’t interrupted anything too serious. Michael still had on his socks.

  “I can come back.”

  “Stay.” Em’s feet were bare, her cheeks pink, her hair a rumpled mess. “I was going to grab some water, anyway.” She nudged past me, and I heard the television in the living room switch back on.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled to Michael when I stepped into his room. “Maybe next time hang a sock over the doorknob?”

  “I’ll remember that.” The smile disappeared, and he sat up. “Just taking advantage of our time together.”

  His words were casual, but the ache coming from Michael echoed the one my dad lived with every day. I took it in, let it roll around in my chest, spread out, and settle.

  “We’ll find Jack. He won’t hurt her, or anyone else, again,” I promised. I meant it.

  “Em told me what happened, how you tried to take her pain.”

  My heart skipped a sudden, painful beat. “I thought she might.”

  Michael stared at the floor, feeling as unsure about how to proceed with the conversation as I did, but determined to have it. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “It’s not something I talk about.”

  “Do your parents know?”

  “Mom does. Dad? He has an idea. I don’t do it for just anyone.” But Em had been so small in my arms. Tried so hard not to cry. I’d rocked her back and forth when she broke, wishing she’d let me take it all away.

  She’d handled it on her own.

  “I guess what I don’t understand is”—Michael paused, searching for the right words—“after all those years of keeping it to yourself, why did you do it for her?”

  Michael’s guitar leaned against his dresser. He’d tried to teach me chords for years, but I only ever managed to remember three. I picked it up and played each one twice before slapping my hand down on the strings to silence the sound.

  “The morning I met her, I was hungover. Remember?”

  He nodded, curious, but willing to wait for my answer.

  “My emotions were wide open, and … she climbed right in.” I touched my hand to my heart, expecting an ache that didn’t come. “She listened.”

  Before Em, no one had listened to me in a long time.

  “She was completely devastated when she lost you,” I said, remembering just how broken she’d been. “Like a repeat of Mom, after
Dad and the lab. You know how terrible it was.”

  “I remember.”

  Mom was larger than life, but so much of her life had revolved around Dad. I’d watched her close in on herself after the accident, convinced that her love for me was the only thing keeping her breathing.

  I discovered that I’d failed her the morning I found her unconscious on her bathroom floor. She’d been that way ever since.

  “I knew I could change it for Em. Make it better.” I stopped and stared up at the ceiling for a second. “I didn’t with Mom. I let her carry around all that grief instead of stepping in to take it. I didn’t try until she was already in the coma. There was nothing there. Too late. I didn’t do one thing that made a difference.”

  “Em said it hurt you, physically.”

  “That didn’t matter.” Emotional pain was layered. Taking it to ease one situation opened the doors to the past, where every emotion leaned against the one beside it. Pull out one, all the others fell. It was hard to know where to cut it off, if you got it all or if pain still remained to destroy, like cancer.

  “Did your mom know? Would she have let you take her grief?”

  “I would’ve insisted.” And she’d be here now.

  “No one knew what Jack was doing. I should have paid attention, done more to help you both,” Michael said.

  “You did enough. You took action. That’s why my dad is at my mom’s bedside right now. If anyone can bring her back, he can.”

  “Thank you,” he said, meeting my eyes. There was absolutely no pride in him. Everything he felt was for Em, about Em, about her best interest. “For taking care of her. If … anything ever happened, I hope you’d do it again.”

  Sorrow. Way too much for an offhand comment. I started to ask what he meant, when Em walked in, glass in hand.

  “Are y’all done?” Em hopped up onto the edge of Michael’s desk. She smoothed down her hair and then smiled, as if she was remembering how it got that way.

  “Yes.” I put the guitar back in the corner. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  “No, sit. I wanted to talk to both of you. About Jack.”

  I warily lowered myself into a chair shaped like a giant baseball mitt. Cheerful Em made me nervous.