Liv, Forever

by Amy Talkington

  I asked what he was doing. I begged to know what I’d done, as a mother, to bring about this behavior toward me. Elijah told me I’d sullied the Wickham bloodline. I’d ruined his chances for aristocracy, his chances for success in this world. I assured him the world was changing rapidly, that he had every opportunity available. He silenced me and told me he intended to change things at Wickham Hall. He planned to ensure primacy and success to every student of Wickham Hall in a way I never could. When I asked what exactly that meant, he would not reply.

  When I realized what Elijah was aiming to do, I assured him I loved him and forgave him for what he’d said. But he simply continued to chant, and finally, he set the fire and left the room, locking me—alone—within it.

  So, there you have the truth, children. I was murdered by my own son. I did not found the Victors. Rather, I was their first sacrifice to Wickham Hall, on October 29, 1875.

  After Elijah locked the door, trapping me in a chamber of fire, I watched the flames surround me and I died—not of burning, not of suffocation, but of a heart attack. A broken heart. No mother should ever have to know what it means to be killed by her own child.

  Elijah never told a soul. He knew even the Victors wouldn’t accept matricide. So my murder remained clandestine. Until now. Now you know how truly gruesome my own son was.

  And I did commune with Wallace after my death. But I could never tell him what Elijah had done, or he’d have died of a broken heart as well. As horrid and incomprehensible as it may sound, I never wanted Elijah to be discovered. He was my son, after all. No matter what he’d done to me, I still loved him.

  As the school changed, I saw he’d created something extraordinary. I loathed and mourned every single sacrifice, but I couldn’t stop them. So I kept the ghosts apart—weak and divided. Until you came, Olivia.

  But what you don’t know, my child, is—just as I told you—we were lucky to be here at Wickham Hall. There is another place where every student of Wickham Hall goes sooner or later. Eventually. It’s no use to attempt to avoid it. Every student who ever attended Wickham Hall is bound to this place—this future, this eternity—by blood. You three are no exception. It is a world where they pay for their prosperity in this world. And where Elijah rules.

  I have seen it, and I fear it. But I must go.

  It is now one year later. We’ve had time to absorb the horrors of Wickham Hall, but we didn’t run from them.

  The tabloids were all over the Fall Festival incident, of course. The school was quickly labeled “Wicked Hall” and “Wickham Hell.” The involved luminaries were exposed and hung out to dry. We will never know if their successes came from the sacrifices, but one thing’s for certain: their lives are now in ruins.

  Much of the student body dropped out immediately. All the Victors retreated to their wealthy enclaves—probably enrolling in new private schools, insisting they’d had nothing to do with Elijah’s plan. And in truth, many didn’t. But both Malcolm and Gabe remained. And a fresh set of students entered the school this fall—they’re robust, diverse, interesting. In fact, it feels like a completely different place.

  There is a new headmaster—a woman, no less. She’s humble and straightforward. You might even call her granola. Now the Art Center, once nearly abandoned, is teeming with students.

  As the Victors were investigated, it was discovered numerous faculty members had been on their payroll. No wonder they all made straight A’s. But now there is a new set of teachers—ones who don’t bow down to the rich and popular. They’re inspiring and inspired, and they seek to fulfill the original Wickham vision of the school: “a sanctuary where ideas can be explored and minds opened.”

  Old Homestead and the Headmaster’s Quarters were demolished. I watched as the bulldozers effortlessly crushed each building. It’s extraordinary how easy it is to raze a building, to just erase it from the picture. Of course, the atrocities can never be erased, but it’s nice not to have the daily visual reminder.

  At the moment, I’m in the Art Center watching Malcolm paint. He’s finishing a large canvas—an oil painting of a smoky angel. The angel emerges from the darkness almost imperceptibly. It’s stunning.

  Now that he’s focusing on his art, it’s clear Malcolm is talented, more so than I knew, and more than he ever allowed himself to believe. And that’s not just love-goggles. Even Ms. Benson would agree. She’s his mentor. But I will take some credit for inspiring him. Come on, he’s painting smoke angels and all with titles like Liv Free, Liv Apart, and of course, Liv, Forever.

  I watch him clean his hands with turpentine—oh, how I wish I could smell the turpentine. I can see the cracks in his fingers from painting so furiously and frequently. I know how the turpentine burns, but he doesn’t even cringe (I can relate). He won’t let anything spoil this day, our last day together.

  Before leaving the studio, Malcolm grabs a small velvet pouch off his worktable. He smiles as he slips it into his pocket. It’s my locket. I made certain he got it when the investigations concluded. And I finally told him about it—that it was my birth mother’s. It’s the only thing I had from her—the only clue I ever had as to who she was. He told me he’d always keep it close. And he does.

  I follow Malcolm to his mailbox in the Student Activity Center, where he goes about every fifteen minutes these days. He applied early to the Rhode Island School of Design and is desperately waiting to hear. When he opens the small metal door, the envelope is there. And it’s big.

  He refrains from jumping up and down until he rips it open and reads the first word, “Congratulations.” He holds it up for me to see, but he’s jumping up and down too much for me to read it. I don’t need to. I knew he was going to get in. Of course he was going to get in. He’s the next Banksy. Or better. I love seeing this joy on his face and knowing I had something to do with it.

  “Thank you,” he says to me.

  A passing girl is taken aback and utters, “Um, you’re welcome?” He smiles and rushes up the stairs to the Tuck Shop to find Gabe. In the empty stairway, he turns to me and says, “I’m so glad I found out before you had to go.”

  “Me, too,” I say. I always respond to him, even though he can’t hear me.

  Gabe’s in the Tuck Shop sharing a milkshake with a girl and playfully arguing about some conspiracy theory. His hair is longish again and his face is scruffy, the way he likes it—but he doesn’t carry fear around anymore. No more fidgeting or hiding. He’s happy, truly, for the first time since his brother died.

  When he sees Malcolm, he says, “Hey, guys.” He knows I’m with Malcolm. I’m always with Malcolm, especially today. Today is the day. Gabe gets up from the table with the girl. While Malcolm and I sit down at another table, he heads to the counter to get something.

  From behind I hear him singing, “Happy deathday to you, happy deathday to you, happy deathday, dear Liv, happy deathday to you!” And he sits down, unveiling a chocolate cupcake with one candle. It’s lit and everything.

  “Blow it out,” he says.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “I’ll do it for you,” Malcolm volunteers.

  “Make a wish,” Gabe says.

  Malcolm pauses, kind of serious, then blows out the candle.

  IT’S MY DEATHDAY. AND I’ve decided it’s my last day here. In this realm.

  “I’m going to miss her,” Malcolm says to Gabe. “Just knowing she’s here.”

  “She’ll always be here—here, there, and everywhere.” Gabe gestures his arm out dramatically. Malcolm smiles, trying to believe it.

  And I get that feeling in my stomach. Same feeling I got those first few times I saw Malcolm: fear. But this is not excited fear or infatuation fear—this is true fear. I am afraid of where I might be going, but I know I have to go. It’s time.

  I don’t know if what Minerva said was true. She ascended just as she finished her story, dissolved right in front of us. But, if what she said is true, I need to help my friends. I need to help Ruth, Flore
nce, Mary, Brit, Clara, Lydia, and Dawn. If they are there—in that horrible place—it means that I sent them. And if I sent them there, then perhaps I can help get them out. If they aren’t there, well, then we’ll all be feasting on nectar and ambrosia, or whatever it is they feed you up there in that better place.

  I just have one final thing to do.

  IT’S 11:49 P.M. AND I’m waiting at the old well. Malcolm is here, too. Neither of us know exactly what time I died, so we’re just waiting for the moment. I can see Malcolm is growing impatient. It’s been a long year of waiting, and now we’re just moments away.

  In an instant, I feel it. I feel alive. Complete. “Malcolm!”

  He looks up and sees me.

  “It’s you.” He reaches out and takes my hand, as terrified as he is excited. He feels me. I can see it on his face. And I feel him. He immediately notices his drawing on my forearm—looking just as it did the night he drew it there—and smiles.

  “Forever,” I say, smiling back. “It’ll be there forever.”

  We lock eyes, and I feel as if we’re dancing the waltz again—alive, unharmed, excited to meet each other for the first time. But this time I say what I feel.

  “I love you!” I say it five or ten or maybe a thousand times. He says it back again and again.

  And I grab him and hold him like there’s no tomorrow. Because there isn’t. There’s not even five minutes from now. I hold him and kiss his face again and again. I taste salty tears in the kisses—they’re mine!—tears of joy and tremendous grief all at once. Tears of love and love lost. But mostly love. I just keep kissing him and feeling him in my grasp—until … I am gone.

  This book would not exist without two key people—Matt Smith and Daniel Ehrenhaft.

  Matt and I had developed several teen screenplays together. He knew I was looking to write something different and suggested I think about the supernatural world, something I’d long been interested in. We had many conversations about the story before I realized it should first be a book. I owe him many thanks for guiding me into this territory and helping me find the story it should be.

  Next, my editor (and old friend from boarding school), Daniel Ehrenhaft. I’m so grateful that he—and publisher Bronwen Hruska—had faith in my ability to write a book. They had a lot more faith than I did initially. Beyond that, Dan helped me define Liv’s voice, helped me find layers in the story, and saved me from countless rookie mistakes. Thanks, schtoon.

  And, to the entire Soho Teen team—specifically Meredith Barnes, Janine Agro, and Rachel Kowal—as well as the Random House sales team, thanks for bearing with me.

  I also want to thank my manager, Richard Arlook, for fearlessly and joyously guiding me through this entire process (among many others). And I’m so grateful my agents at United Talent Agency—Blair Kohan, Larry Salz, and Lauren Meltzner—supported this writing detour and, at the same time, kept me busy with screenwriting work.

  Speaking of, we don’t have to use proper grammar in screenplays, so I’m very lucky I had Aleida Rodríguez (a copy editor and accomplished poet) to help me clean up the text. I had several interns who contributed invaluable research and feedback, including Jacey Heldrich, Caitlyn McGinn, and Margaret Boykin. Most of all, Victoria Bata provided insightful feedback and boundless enthusiasm. Thank you.

  I also want to recognize photographer Tereza Vlčková. Many images inspired me as I wrote the book but none more than hers. I’m so honored and thrilled that she shared her art with us for the cover.

  Thanks to my friends and colleagues, to whom I’ve turned for favors (and with stupid questions): Abby Weintraub, Lisa Zeitz, Crickett Rumley, Gretchen Crary, Lex Hrabe, Jandy Nelson, Janet Hagan, and Katrina Dickson, who graciously took my portrait and somehow made me look a thousand times less tired than I was. And, of course, I must acknowledge the loving people who played with my children while I worked: Lorena Escobar, Nancy Gell, and all of the incredible caretakers at Oak Glen Nursery School.

  Thankfully, neither of the high schools I attended—the Hockaday School in Dallas and Choate Rosemary Hall in Connecticut—bear any resemblance to Wickham Hall. I have many teachers to thank from both. From Choate: Reginald Bradford, William Cobbett, and Melinda Talkington (no relation, believe it or not), the latter of whom was the first to encourage me to write. And at Hockaday: Janet Bucher-Long; Ed Long; Dr. Dona Gower, who first introduced me to Romantic poetry; and Ruth Harrison, who was the first to encourage me to paint.

  Finally, I must thank all the published and produced writers in my family, each of whom has been an inspiration to me: Wallace “The Commander” Savage; my mother, Virginia Savage McAlester; Lee McAlester; Carty Talkington; Keven McAlester; Eve Epstein; and Leonora Epstein. (Yes, I know, that’s a lot of published and produced writers for one immediate family. My family happens to rock.) To that list, I must add my father, C. M. Talkington, MD, who is published only in medical journals but whose riveting storytelling has inspired me since childhood. Had you all not blazed the trail, I may never have thought of making movies or writing books or painting pictures. Thank you.

  And I must thank my two young daughters—Clementine and Virginia—for almost never complaining as I disappear to write each day. I’m so grateful you already understand why it’s so important to me.

  And finally, Robbie, thank you for burying your head under the pillow while I typed this thing at 4 A.M. and—even more—for believing I can do anything (even make a pie).